Emmeline shoved that distressing thought aside, and tried to reason herself out of her panic. It might not even be Lord Melrose at all. She may have mistaken the crest, or perhaps he’d lent his carriage to a friend, or—
The carriage door opened. An elegant, dark-haired gentleman leapt down onto the drive, and after him a gentleman with impossibly golden hair, and impossibly broad shoulders.
Lord Cross, and Lord Melrose. There was no mistaking them.
Lord Cross was as solemn and unsmiling as Lady Fosberry had said he was, but Johnathan Parrish, the Earl of Melrose was simply impeccable, with his fair hair, elegant figure and exquisitely tailored clothing. Why, she could see the shine on his boots from here!
He didn’t look pleased. Indeed, he looked rather grim, his fair brows lowered, his mouth turned down at the corners. Emmeline couldn’t imagine what a man of so many perfections had to be discontented about, or why she was unable to tear her gaze from his face, even when he wore such a sullen expression—
For pity’s sake, haven’t I caused enough trouble already?
She wrapped her fingers around the wrought iron bars of the gate, her heart crowding into her throat as Watkins, Lady Fosberry’s butler, responded to their summons, and ushered them inside.
Emmeline had expected Lord Melrose would be handsome—every lady in England knew that—but the reality of Lord Melrose was even more impressive than she’d imagined he would be, than she’d imagined any man ever could be. He was everything rumor claimed he was, only more so. His legs were longer, his figure more muscular, his hair as bright as a golden guinea under the sun.
It seemed impossible she could have been kissing him mere hours earlier.
Emmeline released her grip on the gate, retreated to the other end of the garden and pressed her back against the stone fence. She wasn’t hiding, not really. It might feel as if she was, but she only wanted a bit of shade, and anyway, it wasn’t necessary for her to hover beside the gate, where anyone could see her, particularly as there was every chance Lady Fosberry wouldn’t call her in, after all.
If she wasn’t called, then she needn’t go.
No, she’d remain right where she was until they—
“Emmeline? Emmeline, are you here?” Juliet appeared on the pathway, a frown creasing her forehead when she saw Emmeline. “Oh, there you are. Didn’t you hear me call? Lady Fosberry wants you to come to the drawing room.”
Emmeline took an involuntary step backwards, but her back collided with the unyielding stone wall behind her.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run—
“Emmeline? What’s wrong? You look as if you’re going to be ill.”
“I…er, nothing, only I’m not fit for a call.” Emmeline gestured to her dirt-soiled pinafore and the dark strands of hair straggling from the sides of her battered straw bonnet. “I can’t possibly—”
“I’m sorry, dearest, but Lady Fosberry says you must come at once.”
Emmeline gulped, but there was nothing for it but to follow Juliet from the garden into the house. All too soon, her horrified gaze landed on the open door to the drawing room, her stomach twisting into a mass of writhing knots as deep, male voices reached them in the hallway.
“Ah, here are the young ladies.” Lady Fosberry waved them into the room with a bright smile. “You must allow me to introduce my friends. This is Miss Emmeline Templeton, and her sister, Miss Juliet Templeton.”
The blood rushed from Emmeline’s head as both gentlemen rose politely to their feet. Would Lord Melrose recognize her as the lady he’d kissed? If so, what would he do when he saw her? What would he say?
Even more to the point, what would she say?
“How do you do?” Lord Cross offered them each a somber bow, his curious gaze lingering on Juliet’s face.
“Miss Templeton, and Miss Juliet,” Lord Melrose murmured.
Those blue, blue eyes that had coaxed a thousand yearning sighs from the lips of every young lady in London passed over Emmeline’s face. He took in her features one by one—chin, mouth, nose, cheekbones—until at last his gaze found hers.
A shiver darted up Emmeline’s spine, very like the one she’d felt when he’d kissed her neck last night. Every one of her nerves pulled tight, her heart crawling from her chest to lodge in her throat, but before she had a chance to think, or say a single word in reply to his greeting, his gaze passed over her without a flicker of recognition.
Emmeline stood in the middle of the drawing room, dumbfounded, as Lord Melrose turned away from her to exchange pleasantries with Lady Fosberry.
He’d just looked right at her, and then in the next breath, right through her, without having the least inkling she was the lady he’d held in his arms last night.
Of all the things Emmeline had imagined might happen, of all the things she’d thought Lord Melrose might do or say when he saw her again, it had never occurred to her he’d fail to recognize her. She’d never been the sort of lady who craved a gentleman’s attention—or anyone’s attention, really—but she’d never felt so thoroughly overlooked in her life.
But then what had she expected would happen? That he’d recognize her the moment he entered? That he’d whisper to her in the same soft, mesmerizing voice as he had last night? That he’d snatch her into his arms, or fall to his knees and declare his undying love for her?
