“I went everywhere you instructed, Your Grace. Every stationer on the list and three beyond it. They all said the paper was of fine quality, but none would swear it was theirs. I could not find the exact seller.”
Emmeline’s fingers tightened on the doorframe.
What paper? Is this about Juliet?
The Duke’s shoulders had gone hard. “Did anyone see the contents?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Good. Keep asking. Quietly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The footman bowed and hurried away.
Emmeline stayed where she was only another second before stepping back into the breakfast room, her mind already racing.
By the time the Duke returned, his expression had been smoothed again, though not fully enough to hide from her.
Guests began approaching in little waves after that.
Frederick was the warmest, of course, all effortless irreverence and perfectly timed relief. He bowed over Emmeline’s hand with exaggerated elegance.
“My warmest congratulations, Your Grace. I see marriage has not extinguished you entirely.”
“Give it an hour,” the Duke said dryly.
Frederick grinned. “You see? Still alive.”
That loosened something in her. He had a way of making the room feel safer simply by refusing to take it with full seriousness, and after the weeks she had had, Emmeline found herself grateful for every moment in which someone else carried the strain lightly.
Margaret, by contrast, approached with the expression of a woman who had every intention of loving the bride and distrusting the groom simultaneously.
“I am very happy for you,” she told Emmeline first, embracing her tightly.
Then she turned to the Duke.
“And if you hurt her,” she said pleasantly, “I shall make it my life’s work to ruin your peace.”
Aaron, who was close enough to hear, let out an involuntary giggle.
Lord Weston made a pained sound. “Margaret.”
“What?” she asked innocently. “Surely it is your job to threaten the husband, but someone must do it if you are overcome with emotion.”
That earned a real laugh from Frederick and, to Emmeline’s surprise, the slightest shift at the corner of the Duke’s mouth again, though it was gone almost before she could be sure she had seen it.
Lord Weston shook his head, then turned to the Duke in earnest. He held out his hand.
“Whatever her friend may threaten,” he said, his voice rougher now, “I wish you both every good thing.”
The Duke took the hand firmly. “She will be cared for.”
The words were simple. They still reached Emmeline more deeply than perhaps they ought.
Then her father turned to her, and whatever composure he had been holding broke at once.
He drew her into his arms with a sound she had not heard from him since her mother died, half-breath, half-sob, and held her so tightly that she felt six years old again.
