Emma’s own food tasted like ash. A molten fury built in her gut, a protective instinct so fierce it was a physical pain. Every time Armand spoke, Emma felt the urge to leap across the table and claw the smug, handsome mask from his face.
“You look unwell, Amélie,” Armand observed, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “This sea air does not agree with you. You have grown thin. Paris misses you, you know. Your friends ask after you constantly.”
“My friends know how to write,” Amélie managed, her voice barely audible over the clinking of silver.
“Ah, but letters are so impersonal,” he countered smoothly. “They cannot convey the true depth of one’s…concern.” His gaze flickered to Emma, lingered for a fraction of a second too long, then returned to his stepmother. “It would be such a shame if rumors of your…particular friendships…were to reach certain circles in Paris, ma chère belle-mère. A woman in your precarious position must be so very careful of her reputation.”
The threat, veiled and vicious, landed with the force of a physical blow. Emma saw Amélie flinch as if struck. The blood drained from her own face, a cold terror gripping her. He knew. Or he suspected. It was enough.
“The hunting has been excellent this season, wouldn’t you agree, Bainbridge?” Emmett cut in, his voice a little too loud, a little too hearty. “The pheasants on the downs are particularly sporting.”
Lord Bainbridge, who had been studying Armand with a quiet, unnerving intensity, turned his attention to Emmett. “Indeed, Cresthaven. Though I find they lack the strategic thinking of a good game of chess.” His eyes met Emma’s across the table, a silent exchange of support and alarm. He saw it, too. He understood the game being played.
Armand waved a dismissive hand. “Such rustic pursuits. No, I find my time is better spent securing the future. Which brings me to the true purpose of my visit, Amélie.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that seemed to draw all the air from the room. “I have been working tirelessly on your behalf, of course. Your financial affairs are…tangled. But I believe I have found the perfect solution.”
He paused, savoring the rapt attention of his audience.
“One of my dearest associates, the Comte de Valois, has long been an admirer of yours. He is a man of considerable influence and even more considerable appetites.” Armand’s cold smile widened. “He has been looking for a wife to lend his establishment some…class. An arrangement has been proposed. A most advantageous arrangement, for all of us. He is willing to overlook any…past indiscretions…in exchange for the Beauchamp name and connections. Your future, and your fortune, will be secured.”
He sat back, his pale eyes glittering with triumph, leaving his words to hang in the horrified silence. He was not just threatening Amélie with exposure. He was announcing her sale.
Chapter 11
Emma barely waited for the house to settle that night before slipping from her bed.
She pulled on a wrapper, her movements silent in the sleeping house. The corridor was a cavern of shadows, the moonlight through the tall windows striping the floor like the bars of a cage. She moved with a purpose that defied the fear coiling in her belly, her bare feet making no sound on the cool, polished wood.
A thread of light seeped from beneath Amélie’s door. Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs. She heard a muffled sound from within—a sob, quickly stifled. Forgetting all propriety, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The room was a maelstrom of silks and velvets. Open trunks lay like vanquished beasts on the floor, their contents spilling out in a riot of color. Gowns had been ripped from their hooks, lingerie and slippers tossed aside. In the center of the chaos stood Amélie, her hair falling from its pins, her face pale and tear-streaked. She was stuffing a scarlet ballgown—the one she had worn on the balcony—into a valise with frantic, shaking hands.
She looked up as Emma entered, a startled gasp escaping her lips. Her first instinct was to compose herself, to rearrange her features into a mask of detached calm. But the mask crumbled at the sight of Emma’s face, at the naked concern in her eyes.
“He will not have me,” Amélie whispered, the words fractured, broken. “I will not go back. I will not let him sell me to that…that pig.” She gestured wildly at the trunks. “I have money sewn into the linings. I have jewels. I will go to America, to Brazil…anywhere he cannot find me.”
Emma crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into her arms. Amélie resisted for a moment, then collapsed against her, her body wracked with deep, silent sobs. Emma held her, her one good arm a fierce, protective band around Amélie’s trembling shoulders, her face buried in the duchesse’s unbound hair. It smelled of jasmine and tears.
“He will not take you,” Emma murmured into her hair, the words a vow. “I will not let him.”
Amélie pulled back, her hands framing Emma’s face, her dark eyes searching, desperate. “You cannot stop him. You do not know him. He is a monster.”
“Then I will become a monster to fight him,” Emma said, her voice raw with a conviction that came from a place deeper than thought. In that moment, holding this brilliant, terrified woman in her arms, she understood with a terrifying clarity that her life had been leading to this. All her stubbornness, all her defiance, all her refusal to fit into the world as it was, had been forging her for this fight.
“I love you,” Amélie whispered, the confession torn from her, a sound of both surrender and despair. “Dieu, I love you, and I have ruined you.”
“No,” Emma said, her thumb stroking Amélie’s tear-stained cheek. “You have found me.” She leaned in and kissed her, a kiss of salt and desperation and fierce, unwavering promise. “I love you, Amélie. And I won’t let him take you. We’ll find a way to be together.”
Amélie clung to her. “His ‘associate’ is not just an admirer,” she choked out, the sordid details spilling forth. “The Comte de Valois holds Armand’s gambling debts. This marriage is not for my security—it is to pay what Armand owes, and to secure a business alliance built on my title and my fortune.”
The click of the lock was so soft, Emma almost didn’t hear it. But she felt it—a sudden chill in the air, a shifting of shadows in the doorway. The door swung inward with a faint groan.
Armand stood on the threshold, his silver-headed cane held loosely in one hand. He took in the scene with an expression of cold amusement—the open trunks, the two women locked in a desperate embrace.
“How touching,” he said, his voice a silken purr that made the hairs on Emma’s arms stand on end. “Your English lover thinks she can protect you.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The space, which had felt like a sanctuary moments before, was suddenly a cage, and he was the keeper. He advanced on them, his movements filled with a predatory grace.
“Let her be, Armand,” Amélie said, her voice shaking but defiant as she pushed Emma slightly behind her.
