She ran from the sunrise, from the sea, from the terrifying, magnificent woman who had seen the secret she had sworn no one would ever know.
Through the drawing room marched an army of decorators, florists, and footmen waging a determined war against simplicity, armed with bolts of silk, cascades of flowers, and the unshakeable conviction that more was always more.
The air, already heavy with the scent of beeswax and lemon oil, was now thick with the funereal perfume of lilies and the cloying sweetness of a thousand roses. It was the scent of her brother’s gilded cage being constructed around him.
Emma was a reluctant soldier in this campaign.
In a futile attempt to be useful, to be less, she had been assigned the task of arranging flowers for the smaller tables. She stood before a regiment of buckets filled with blooms, her hands—more accustomed to the sturdy leather of reins—feeling oafish and clumsy among the delicate stems.
She worked in a fugue, arranging sprays of greenery with the mechanical precision of someone not truly present. Her attention was only caught when a pair of maids, arms laden with sheaves of lilies, ducked into the room and set about filling the vases that lined the great marble mantelpiece.
“…said she once dined at the Russian court, and the tsar himself sent her a diamond brooch,” whispered one, her accent suggesting a kitchen in Cornwall and a lifelong diet of stories. “For what, do you suppose?”
“Don’t be thick,” hissed the other, eyes wide with the deliciousness of gossip. “For what the duchesse did to his son at the winter masquerade. They say she left him weeping in a corridor, and it took three men to pry her off.”
Both girls fell to a flurry of giggles and mock scandalized faces as they noticed Emma watching them.
She offered a wan smile, uncertain whether to encourage or scold. “Oh don’t mind me,” she said, by way of gentle encouragement. “I’m just trying not to crush the roses.”
The first maid curtsied, her face reddening. “Beg pardon, miss. Only, it’s just—well, that French lady, the Duchesse. She’s famous for it, isn’t she?”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “For crushing roses?”
This won a surprised snort from the second girl. “No, miss. For breaking ’earts and stirring up trouble. My cousin worked for her, once, in Paris. Swears she keeps a diary with every conquest, and that some of them…are not men.”
The thought of such a book sent a jolt through Emma’s belly, an involuntary tightening low and sharp. She imagined the duchesse’s careful, beautiful hands turning the pages, inscribing the names of lovers in a language of secrets.
The maids, emboldened, pressed on.
“They say she once challenged a bishop to a duel. With fencing foils.”
“And that she burned her wedding dress in the Place Vendôme, right after her husband died.”
“Do you think it’s true, miss? That she’s not partial to men at all?”
Emma’s hands trembled. She stabbed the stem of a rose into the arrangement with more force than was necessary. “I think it is none of our concern,” she said, her tone sharper than intended.
The maids sobered and scurried away, but the stories lingered in the air like a cloying smoke.
Emma forced herself to focus on her task, but the words circled in her mind, refusing to be dismissed. She pictured the duchesse as a young bride, as a duelist, as a woman who might burn her own wedding gown simply for the pleasure of scandal. She imagined Amélie’s smile—small, private, meant only for her—and felt a dangerous thrill run through her.
Women lovers.
She should have been horrified by the rumors, appalled by the implication that a woman might claim for herself what only men were permitted to desire.
Instead, she wanted more. She wanted every sordid detail, every whispered secret, every forbidden truth.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she failed to notice Prudence’s entrance until her sister’s voice cut through the haze.
“Emma. You’re bleeding.”
Emma blinked. The world snapped back into focus. She looked down and saw a bead of crimson welling from the pad of her thumb, a perfect jewel against the white of the rose petals.
She pressed her thumb to her lips, tasting iron and shame.
Prudence watched her, a flicker of concern in her sharp hazel eyes. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her tone pointedly casual.
Emma nodded, unwilling to meet her most perceptive sister’s gaze. “Just careless,” she said. “The thorns are sharper than they look.”
