Page 30 of The Marquess’s Forbidden Bride

In a stroke of good fortune, they walked back in to hear the orchestra turning up for a waltz. Richland turned to her, smiling. ‘My lady?’

She’d barely given a nod of assent when he swept her onto the floor. And then she was in his arms, the disgruntled face of Lord Aldersby forgotten as Richland whirled her past him, the laughter, chatter, even the music fading to a distant murmur until there was only her in his arms, the pressure of his hand at her waist, his smiling gaze fixed on her face, their bodies brushing together at every turn of the dance.

Her eyes locked with his, she barely noticed when they stopped moving, his hand still at her waist. Her spirits effervescent as the sparkle of fireworks, she didn’t care that they were doubtless becoming the focus of attention as the other dancers halted nearby and the groups lingering at the edge of the ballroom gazed at them, too. Any anxiety that scrutiny might have sparked was fully diffused by the thrill of his closeness and the warmth of his gaze.

After a few seconds, he started, seeming to notice the other dancers departing. ‘I shall have to give you up—and wait for later. I’ll settle for no other dance than another waltz.’

‘I’ll happily save one.’

Still buoyant with fizzling happiness, she was letting him escort her back to Sarah when he stopped abruptly. Emma looked up to see an older woman staring at them, a younger woman beside her whose close resemblance suggested she must be the daughter.

‘Lady Richland, I see you’ve returned from the country. Lady Routham,’ Richland said, bowing.

‘Lord Richland,’ the marchioness acknowledged with a nod. Looking over at Emma assessingly, she said, ‘You must present me to the young lady with whom you were waltzing so…devotedly,’ she said, belatedly adding the adverb, faint disapproval in her tone.

In the next moment of silence, Emma took a deep breath. Obviously realising there was no way to avoid the introductions, Richland said, ‘That would be my pleasure. Lady Richland, Lady Routham, may I present Miss Emma Wellingford. Miss Wellingford, the Marchioness of Richland and her daughter, Lady Routham.’

At mention of Sarah’s surname, Lady Richland gasped. ‘Miss Emma Wellingford?’ she repeated. ‘Your father was the late Richard Wellingford?’

‘Yes, my lady,’ Emma replied, bracing herself for the inevitable reaction.

The marchioness paled, then turned on her heel and walked away.

Her daughter, however, stood her ground. After looking Emma up and down with cold disdain, she turned an angry glare on Richland.

‘Dancing with a Wellingford chit? How dare you? Bad enough that the offspring of a low-bred governess is usurping my brother’s place—but to compound that indignity by associating with a female whose family destroyed my uncle? Despicable! And you—’ She turned her venomous gaze back on Emma. ‘Another conniving female trying to snag a rich husband, just like your aunt! Well, I won’t have it.’

By now, a hush had fallen over those closest to them, heads turning in their direction, faces wearing expressions of surprise, curiosity and avid interest. Like a pebble dropped in a pond, a succeeding wave of people farther and farther away halted their conversations and turned toward the scene being enacted before them.

Richland stepped forward. ‘If one is to speak of being ill-bred,’ he said, pitching his voice to a low murmur to reach as few of the bystanders as possible, ‘it is you who are creating a spectacle. I suggest you go see to your lady mother.’

Outraged, her heart grieving for him and the cruel words hurled at him, Emma pulled her hand from his arm. ‘I must return and assist my sister,’ she said, proud that she kept her voice even, despite the rapid heartbeat thudding in her ears and the sick feeling in her belly. ‘Lady Routham,’ she said with ironic emphasis on the title and offered the briefest of curtsies.

‘I will escort you,’ Richland said, reaching out to capture her hand and return it to his arm. ‘My respects, Lady Routham,’ he said, sweeping her an exaggerated bow. Giving Emma a tense smile, he continued, ‘Shall we proceed, Miss Wellingford?’

‘If you wish, my lord,’ she replied, relaxing her hand on his arm.

‘I most certainly do.’

Acutely conscious they were focus of a legion of curious, amused, interested or shocked stares, head held high, Emma walked with Richland across the now-deserted centre of the ballroom towards Sarah, who stood at its edge, her hand on Englemere’s arm, both expressionless.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Emma murmured to Richland, heartsick over the ugly episode.

‘It’s not you who needs to apologise,’ Richland said tersely. ‘Despicable behaviour.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I’m supremely glad I decided early on not to reside at Stratton House. I doubt I could meet that virago again tonight and be civil. I must think on how I mean to deal with them.’

As they reached her sister and her brother-in-law, Englemere extended his arm to her, which she took, grateful for his support. ‘Thank you for returning my sister-in-law, Lord Richland,’ he said with a nod. Emma wondered if Richland detected the controlled fury beneath Nicky’s even tones. ‘I mean to dance with her next before I pass her hand over to several of my friends.’

Richland managed a smile. ‘Bringing up reinforcements?’

Englemere softened, smiling back. ‘The heavy artillery. Another marquess, an earl, and finishing off with a duke.’

Richland laughed. ‘That ought to set Lady Routham in her place! I don’t know what sort of social contacts she claims, but she’d be hard-pressed to trump the influence of a marquess, an earl and a duke.’ Sobering, he continued, ‘I do apologise to all of you. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive and entirely undeserving of the embarrassment heaped upon you tonight.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my lord. Our position in Society is quite secure. It’s more likely that Lady Routham has harmed her position by that diatribe. To publicly insult a kinsman, one who has just been elevated to a marquisate, no less!’ She shook her head. ‘Not only was it poorly done, it wasn’t very intelligent. Even those who might sympathise with her brother’s loss of title are unlikely to set themselves against the influence of’—she smiled at her husband—‘two marquesses, an earl and a duke.’

‘She certainly doesn’t seem to be reconciling herself to that fact,’ Emma said, worry colouring her tone. ‘It would be better if we were not seen together for the rest of the evening.’

‘While you are supported by the heavy artillery,’ Richland summarised with a wry smile.