“I know,” Margaret’s mouth softened. “But what have you done for yourself?”
Emmeline looked away. “That is not always possible.”
“Perhaps the Duke of Ironford could change that,” Margaret said, too lightly to be innocent.
Emmeline’s pulse did something unpleasant. “What of him?”
Margaret gave her a flat look. “You know perfectly well what of him.”
Emmeline tried to laugh and failed. “I know very little of him, except that his household ruined my wedding.”
“And that he offered to marry you himself.”
Heat rose with humiliating speed beneath Emmeline’s skin. “That was duty.”
Margaret was quiet for a moment. “And what did it feel like?”
It had felt like being seized by something she had not prepared for, something too large and too forceful to meet with polite emotional distance.
“My lady—Miss Godwin—pardon me.”
A figure came hurrying along the path from the direction of the house, coat tails flapping, boots muddied from speed. One of the footmen.
He bowed a little too quickly when he reached them, breath still uneven. “His lordship asks that you return at once.”
Emmeline’s pulse quickened. “Why?”
The footman straightened as much as his breathlessness allowed. “The Duke of Ironford has arrived, my lady. He seeks to speak with you.”
Margaret’s head turned so quickly that Emmeline almost heard the thought in it.
Emmeline felt the blood drain from her face and then rush back all at once.
He had done what he said. Which meant he had returned with an answer, and she knew what it was. If Foxdale had relented, the Duke of Ironford would not have come himself. He would have sent word.
A small, hard knot formed low in her stomach.
“Thank you,” she said to the footman.
He bowed again and stepped back.
Margaret said nothing until he had gone. Then, softly, “Do you wish me to come?”
Emmeline looked at her. “No. Yes. I do not know.”
Margaret’s mouth curved. “Then I shall come only as far as the parlor, and if you need me to fly at a duke’s face with my bare hands, you need only cough twice.”
Despite everything, the laugh escaped Emmeline this time. “You are absurd.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “But useful.”
They walked back quickly, neither speaking much.
Emmeline felt every step in her body, the drag of her skirts against her ankles, the quick pulse beating at her throat, the wind cooler now against the damp heat in her palms.
By the time the house came properly into view, she had drawn herself back into composure by sheer force, though the effort of it made her feel brittle.
The butler let them in at once and led them to the parlor.
