“I do not believe it is easy,” she said. “But it is necessary.”
Margaret reached for her then, taking her hands firmly in hers, the warmth of her grip fully pulling her back to herself.
“You once told me,” Margaret said, her voice lowering, “that you would never marry without love. That you wanted what your parents had. Do you remember?”
Emmeline remembered. Love and affection had filled their home so completely that it had once seemed impossible to imagine anything less. But now, she knew how fragile that love was. How it destroyed a person when they lost it.
Her throat tightened. “That was a dream,” she said, forcing the words past the ache. “And dreams are… indulgences we cannot always afford.”
“No.” Margaret shook her head, her grip tightening. “Do not pretend you have grown beyond wanting something simply because it has become difficult to reach.”
Emmeline’s lips curved faintly, though she felt a knot in her chest.
“I have not grown beyond it,” she admitted. “I have merely learned it belongs behind everything else.”
Margaret opened her mouth to argue?—
But the door opened before she could.
“Emmeline?” Her father’s trembling voice broke through the tension.
Emmeline turned at once, her gaze finding Lord Weston in the doorway, his tall frame straight, though the years had softened it. His graying hair was brushed back with care, and the lines around his eyes were deeper than she had ever seen them.
His gaze settled on her, and he went still, his breath catching just slightly. Emmeline saw his eyes soften and something in her chest clenched sharply, as though it had been cut open.
“My dear…” he said, his voice breaking just enough to make her chest tighten painfully. “You look… you look just like your mother.”
Emmeline forced a small smile. “Do I?”
He nodded, his composure slipping in a way that made something twist inside her.
Margaret stepped back quietly and moved toward the door.
“I shall wait outside,” she murmured before she slipped past Lord Weston and left them alone.
The door closed once more.
“I am proud of you,” her father said, his voice low, thick with emotion. “So very proud. You will make a wonderful duchess, my dear. A wonderful wife.”
Emmeline inclined her head, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts as she held his gaze.
“I hope so,” she said, smiling softly.
He smiled, though it was not steady. “I know so.”
Then, softer, almost to himself, “Your mother would have… she would have been so pleased to see you today.”
The ache pressed against her ribs again, threatening to rise. Emmeline drew in a slow breath, forcing it down.
“I wish she were here,” she said, the truth slipping through before she could stop it.
Her father’s expression faltered. For a moment, she feared she had said too much, that she had burdened him further, but then he reached for her hand. His grip was warm, his fingers closing around hers with a pressure that was almost bruising.
“So do I.”
She couldn’t speak. A single word would shatter the stillness between them.
At last, he cleared his throat and straightened, the mask sliding back into place. “The carriage is ready. The guests will already be gathering.”
