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“I’m fine, Miriam. I promise.” Clare set her half-drained cup of tea onto the vanity table. Nothing about the reflection staring back at her from the mirror hinted at the torrent of shock and emotion still swirling inside her. Her copper-red hair, styled on top of her head, had remained in place despite her being sick. Her cheeks were no longer pale either, nor did her green eyes look as panicked.
Her maid didn’t seem convinced, though. “Are you sure, my lady? Should I have a tray brought up?”
“No, that isn’t necessary. I’ll eat downstairs.” With my husband.
Miriam nodded and left the room to inform Signora Russo that Clare would be eating lunch in the dining room after all. Swallowing her apprehension at Emmett’s sudden appearance and what they would talk about, Clare finished her tea and rose to her feet. She could endure one meal, one conversation, in order to find out why Emmett was here. After that, she would decide how best to proceed.
Thankfully she had an excuse for leaving the house right after lunch. Going to Helena’s and attending the party tomorrow would allow her to keep her pregnancy a secret, at least for the next few days. But what about after that?
I don’t know what to do, Lord, she prayed as she descended the stairs. If Emmett intended to remain for some time in Sicily, her plans would be complicated. And if she miscarried while he was still here . . . Clare shuddered at the thought. Hopefully her prayers for this baby would be answered, even if those she’d voiced regarding her marriage hadn’t been so far.
Signora Russo was setting a tempting plate of food on the table for her when Clare entered the dining room. Upon seeing her, Emmett stood. He appeared to have eaten half of his lunch in the time Clare had been upstairs, mastering her queasiness and her courage.
“I wasn’t certain you would join me, or I would have waited.”
She acknowledged his remark with a nod. “You were fine to go ahead.”
He helped her with her chair, since there were no footmen at the villa, then returned to his seat. “Is everything all right?”
Clare didn’t answer right away. Instead she took a moment to arrange her napkin across her lap and pick up her fork. Emmett was probably wondering why she’d bolted at the sight of him. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t expect you.”
“I would have sent a telegram, but . . .” His gaze briefly met hers before dropping to his food. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
Guilt pricked at Clare as she took a bite. Honestly, she didn’t welcome his presence here, but not because she didn’t want to see him again. Just not now, when she needed more time to see what would happen with this pregnancy.
“This is your home too, Emmett.”
A flicker of something she couldn’t interpret entered his eyes, then disappeared. “How was your Christmas?”
“It was rather unconventional by society’s standards.” She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. “I didn’t want to eat alone on Christmas Eve, so I joined Miriam and the Russos and their married children in the kitchen. The meal was loud and boisterous and simply wonderful.” It had reminded her of holiday celebrations back home.
Emmett chuckled. “Unconventional was the order of the day then. Rushford and I spent a rather quiet Christmas aboard the steamer. Several of us did share a holiday toast with the captain.”
The reminder he’d come to Taormina, unannounced, and had been traveling instead of spending Christmas in England eroded some of her mirth. “I imagine your family wasn’t too pleased to have you leave right before the holiday.” Every one of Emmett’s sisters and their families came to Hadwell House to celebrate Christmas.
“Actually it was my father’s idea that I come.”
Clare’s surprise at his answer quickly gave way to wariness—and a thread of hurt. Her husband wasn’t here because he wanted to see her but because his father wanted him here.
The marquess was a shrewd man with uncompromising expectations, ones Emmett had clearly been trying to meet for years. Why would Lord Hadwell want Emmett to come to Sicily now? Especially when Clare had already defied the family’s expectations by coming to stay at the villa alone?
“What business does your father have for you here?”
Emmett began twisting his goblet in a slow circle. He seemed unusually nervous, which only increased her suspicions. “My father would like me to become an MP,” he said at last.
“To run for Parliament? Why?”
He glanced at her as he answered. “Because he sees the need for more like-minded men in the House of Commons.” Emmett pushed his plate forward as if he was done, though there was still food there. “As for myself, I like the idea of influencing changes for the betterment of the nation and its people. Overseeing the work at Barksley Hall has taught me that.”
The mention of the country estate they’d purchased called to Clare’s mind a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant memories. At first, she’d naïvely believed this project would be something they would oversee together. After all, though she’d been an heiress when she’d married Emmett, she wasn’t a stranger to hard work or business organization.
She still recalled her early childhood, when her family had struggled to make ends meet on their apple farm in Vermont. And she had witnessed—and joined in—the labors along the way as her father had worked to perfect the right recipe, which eventually led to the creation of his famous hair pomade. Building the business, gaining customers, overseeing production, growing distribution . . . her father had discussed all the details openly with his wife and child, giving Clare a business education that she doubted a grand university could surpass. She hadn’t yet told Emmett about that part of her life, afraid of what he might think of her humble origins, but she’d been excited at the prospect of showing him the skills she’d learned from her father.
However, like many situations since her wedding, the estate project hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped or imagined. She and Emmett had spent two full weeks at Barksley Hall, discussing ideas and plans for the inside of the house. But when it came time for the actual interior work to begin, he’d insisted she would be more comfortable living back at Hadwell House. Four weeks later, she’d learned she was pregnant for the third time and that leaving England might help her remain that way. Clare hadn’t been brave enough to tell Emmett her travel plans in person, so she’d shared them in a letter. A part of her had hoped he would come see her before her departure, but he hadn’t.
“If being an MP is what you want to do,” she said, willing her thoughts to stay in the present and not the past, “I think you should. But I still don’t understand how that relates to you being in Sicily.”
Emmett took a sip of his drink. “It does when my wife is here.”
“What are you saying?” The roiling in her stomach had nothing to do with her usual nausea this time. Clare instinctively knew they were finally getting to the real reason her husband had shown up with no warning.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, drawing her attention to its strong outline. She’d thought him handsome from the moment she’d first seen him, and that hadn’t changed.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Clare.” As she waited for him to continue, she set down her fork and grasped her hands in her lap. “If I’m to become an MP, my father believes it’s vital for me to present a . . . a more positive image to the public.”
“Which means?”
Emmett blew out his breath. “He feels it’s best for my campaign if you and I are seen together and looking as a happy couple should.”
His expression conveyed his own discomfort at repeating his father’s edict, but that didn’t stop a seed of anger from germinating inside Clare. She’d already experienced enough decrees and opinions from the marquess within the past year to last her two lifetimes. Worst of all, even when Emmett seemed to disagree, he never failed to comply with his father’s edicts.
“I see.” She kept her voice calm. “Then you’ll be staying in Italy as long as I am?”
Sweet relief flooded her when he shook his head. But his next words renewed her frustration—and her fear. “I’ve come to ask you to return to England with me, Clare, as soon as we can make the arrangements. Once there, we’ll begin laying the groundwork for my campaign.”
His unexpected appearance made perfect sense now. He was here to collect her as one did a piece of luggage that had gone missing. She herself wasn’t even needed in this political scheme of his and Lord Hadwell’s—not in any way that truly mattered. She was only necessary as the other half of a smiling couple and, of course, as the one supplying the money to fund the campaign.
A dreadful memory, one Clare had attempted to squash time and time again, returned to her mind now. Lady Melinda had once commented on how Clare’s marriage seemed happy, even though it was based solely on money. She hadn’t believed the widow’s audacious assumption at first, instead chalking it up to Lady Melinda’s resentment over Emmett not marrying her. And yet Clare had been left with a niggling doubt when the woman went on to claim she’d heard the marquess congratulating his son for following his instructions to find a wealthy wife.
The pain Clare had felt that day gripped her anew and merged with her anger. Dropping her napkin on the table, she pushed her chair back and stood. “I can’t go back to England with you, Emmett. Not right now. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t or won’t?” His own irritation revealed itself in his tight tone and creased brow.
“I can’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare to catch the train to Messina.”
He climbed to his feet as well, his frown deepening. “What’s in Messina?”
“Helena is hosting a party for Lord Vickley tomorrow, and I agreed to help.” She walked to the doorway, more than ready to be done with their conversation. “I’ll be staying at their home tonight and tomorrow, so you’ll have the villa all to yourself for the next few days.”
*
Emmett swallowed a frustrated growl as Clare exited the dining room. His first attempt at convincing her to return to England hadn’t exactly gone well.
Was her reason for not agreeing to come back with him as he feared? Had she truly left because she no longer cared about him and was eager to start a new life separate from his? He pushed the fear aside with the consolation that she hadn’t treated him unkindly. So perhaps he wouldn’t count their conversation as a total failure. However, being at the villa while Clare was in Messina wasn’t going to help matters either.
Thinking fast about what to do next, he followed after Clare. She’d nearly reached the staircase landing, her steps nothing to her rapid ones earlier. The way the color had drained from her face right before she’d hurried upstairs had been unnerving. Had it only been shock at seeing him, or was something else wrong?
“Clare?” he called from where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. “May I come to Messina with you?”
She turned to face him, her hand on the banister, her eyebrows lifted. “You just came from there. Why would you want to go back?”
He didn’t want to, but repeating the two-hour train ride would afford him more time—both to spend with Clare and to come up with a plan for how he was going to convince her to leave Sicily sooner than she apparently wanted. Besides, he preferred the idea of attending a party than staying here alone.
Talking with Clare just now had served as a powerful reminder of how much Emmett had missed their conversations. Until today, he hadn’t seen or spoken to his wife in weeks, and he wasn’t keen on their brief time together ending so soon. And while he couldn’t forget that he had a job to do, he was also hoping that if he and Clare could reconnect, even tentatively, the transition to public life might go more smoothly once they were back in England.
“Vickley and I are friends,” he said, choosing to only give voice to the more logical reasons for accompanying Clare to Messina. “And I’d like to attend the party, if that is amenable to the viscount and to you. The train ride there would also give us time to talk.”
Her lips turned down at the corners. “If you want to talk more about returning to England, then no, I don’t want you to come.” She flinched as she spoke, as if she didn’t enjoy saying such a refusal out loud.
It was a small thing, but it gave Emmett hope—and another idea. He would get nowhere in convincing her if she felt backed into a corner. They did need to talk about his campaigning at some point, but he could be patient. Especially if it meant talking about the future without one or both of them getting frustrated. In the meantime, they could converse about other things.
“I promise, if I come with you, I will not speak of politics, campaigning, or returning to England.”
Clare eyed him silently for a moment. “All right.” The line of her shoulders relaxed slightly. “You may come, and I’ll speak with Helena tonight about you attending the party.” He opened his mouth to express his gratitude, but she wasn’t finished. “You and Rushford will have to stay in one of the hotels in Messina. It wouldn’t be polite to arrive after giving no notice and insist you stay at the viscount’s villa with me.”
Emmett nodded. “Agreed. Rushford and I will be quite comfortable in a hotel for two nights.” He offered her a grateful smile, which she didn’t reciprocate. But she didn’t look as upset or horrified as she had upon his arrival.
“I’ll be ready shortly,” Clare said, “then we can head to the train station.”
As she continued upstairs, he went in search of his valet to let Rushford know the change in plans. Emmett found him eating his own lunch in the kitchen. With typical patience, Rushford took the news of a return trip to Messina in stride and promised to gather the luggage from Emmett’s room, where it had been stowed earlier.
Signor Russo drove the four of them to the station. Emmett selected a seat beside the window in one of the train cars, and Rushford sat next to him. He half expected Clare to sit in a different car, but she surprised him. She and Miriam joined them in their car, settling themselves on the bench across from the two men. Clare even chose the spot nearest the window, which put her directly opposite Emmett. He hoped that meant she might be willing to converse some more with him.
As the train rolled away from the station, quiet settled over their car. Rushford leaned his head against the back of the seat and was soon dozing. Having removed a book from her satchel, Miriam began to read. Other society women likely wouldn’t condone their maid reading while in their presence, but Clare didn’t mind. In fact, Emmett had overheard her encouraging the girl to read whenever she could. It was another way his wife differed from the type of women he’d known all his life.
Clare had told him that her parents had always treated their servants more like members of the family than hired help. That way of interacting with the staff had been difficult for her to change when she’d needed to hire servants for their London townhouse. She’d adjusted somewhat to meet his family’s expectations of what was right and proper, but she still treated everyone, servant or gentry, with the same grace, poise, and kindness. It was a quality Emmett had come to secretly admire about his wife; it had even influenced his own interactions this last year with the servants at Hadwell House and the tenants at Barksley Hall.
“How is Bran?” Clare asked, once the train was steadily moving.
“Doing well. I would have brought him, but he would have hated the steamer.” Emmett cast a glance at her. “He misses you.”
A shadow of a smile appeared at her mouth. “I miss him too.”
And me? he nearly asked. Do you miss me, Clare?
He swallowed the words before they could spill out and turned to look at the Sicilian countryside rolling past. What if she hadn’t missed him? He wasn’t sure he could bear hearing her say it aloud.
“How is your family?” she inquired next.
He welcomed the change in topic and the fact that she was even talking to him at all. “They’re well. The house was full to the eaves with nieces and nephews the night before I left. Mother was enjoying every minute of it.”
Turning to face the window, Clare appeared to focus on the scenery outside the car. But Emmett hadn’t missed the mixture of sorrow, wistfulness, and what looked like resolve shining in her green eyes before she turned away. He felt a twist of guilt; he shouldn’t have mentioned his sisters’ children. Not when they hadn’t yet been able to have children of their own.
Hoping to redeem himself, he asked, “Have you done some painting while you’ve been here? I noticed your box of paints when you came in.” The same box that had tumbled from her hands when they’d first seen each other through the drawing-room doorway at the villa.
“I’ve finished three, actually, and I’m almost done with a fourth.”
Emmett raised his eyebrows in amazement. “That’s impressive, Clare.”
“Thank you. Apparently my muse just needed sun like I did.”
Or time away from her husband, a pessimistic thought argued.
Emmett cringed inwardly, then countered the accusation with the reminder that Clare had painted a portrait of him when they’d last been here, on their honeymoon. Before leaving for Sicily, he’d gone to view the painting one more time. But a different picture had been in its place. Neither his mother nor any of the servants knew where the portrait had gone. He’d felt a physical sense of loss at the thought of never again seeing Clare’s painting of him. It was almost as if the memory of that happy time was fading and would eventually disappear too.
Clare glanced at him again. “How goes the work at Barksley Hall?”
This was a subject he could happily talk about for hours. Not so long ago, he and Clare had done just that. “It’s going well,” he answered with a smile. “At least it was when I left for Hadwell House before Christmas. The bedrooms and kitchen are finished, and the bathrooms have likely been completed by now.”
Having a bathroom adjoining each of their bedrooms, complete with indoor plumbing and flush toilets similar to those in her home in New York, had been Clare’s idea. She’d also suggested putting in electricity and radiators, which Emmett had agreed would be nice. He’d liked the idea of modernizing the four-hundred-year-old house while preserving its history too.
“Will you be able to oversee the changes if you are campaigning for Parliament?”
Emmett nearly replied with his potential schedule of plans, then thought better of it. After all, he’d made a promise not to speak of politics or his campaign. In truth, he wasn’t sure how much time he would be able to devote to Barksley Hall. Hopefully all of the updates and renovations would be finished sooner than later.
“Very clever, my dear,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “However, I won’t be so easily tricked into breaking my promise.”
“Breaking your promise . . .” Clare echoed, her tone full of confusion.
He was happy to hear she hadn’t purposely been baiting him with the way she’d phrased her question. And with her sharp mind, he knew she’d quickly realize what he was referring to. Sure enough, a moment later, she smiled. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was still aimed his way.
“Evading tricky questions is surely the first test of a true politician, my lord.”
Her witty reply made him laugh out loud. Rushford stirred in his sleep, and Miriam glanced up from her book to smile at them. Right then, Emmett could almost believe things hadn’t changed so much between him and his wife. Only in the next moment, Clare faced the window, and the connection between them faded.
Desperate to bring it back, Emmett searched for something else to say. “Are you feeling queasy at all?”
“What?” The horrified expression on Clare’s face when she turned to look at him made no sense. “Why would you ask that?”
Emmett frowned. “Because you sometimes feel queasy when you ride on trains or steamers.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She laughed, but the sound held little merriment. If Emmett didn’t know better, he would say she was nervous. “I have some peppermints with me if I feel sick.”
He nodded, still puzzled at her odd reaction but willing to let the matter drop since it seemed to upset her. “Have you enjoyed being here in Sicily again?”
“I have.” Her gaze returned to the countryside beyond the train. “I think I understand why your grandfather loved it so much. It’s beautiful and peaceful and still so green, even in winter.”
“He did love it here,” Emmett murmured.
Thoughts of his grandfather still invoked the painful memory of the man’s death. But the wonderful memories were there too. Like the long walks they’d taken around the estate, talking about everything from school, to the family, to Emmett’s current collection of rocks or bugs or glass bottles. With Grandfather, Emmett had been allowed to simply be a child—not just the future Marquess of Hadwell.
There had been plenty of conversations about God as well—about the world He’d created for them, about how He watched over and loved each person, old and young, and about how He heard every prayer. In this way, Grandfather had shared his deep, quiet faith, and in doing so, had awakened and solidified a similar faith in Emmett.
He’d once asked his grandfather if God loved the marquess. “He certainly does,” Grandfather had said without a moment’s hesitation. “Your father is as much God’s child as you or I, Emmett.”
“I don’t know that Father cares much for God in return.”
His grandfather had chuckled, then grown serious again. “Be that as it may, God still loves him. And because God can and does love your father, He’s asked us to do the same.”
Emmett looked at Clare. Her eyes were now closed, her hat slightly crushed as she rested her head against the section of wall next to the window. She looked tired. Was his presence the reason for her exhaustion? He hoped not, though things weren’t likely to be any less wearying for a long time to come, not with a political career potentially ahead of them.
What would his grandfather think of Emmett wanting to become an MP? He wasn’t sure, though he suspected Grandfather would have been supportive if this was what Emmett wanted to do. And he did, didn’t he? If he could be a force for good, for change, in England, then surely he would be the sort of man a father could be proud of.
But first he needed the help of another Father, One whom Emmett had forgotten to petition before coming to Sicily. It was time to change that. In the silence of the train car, he shut his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. Instead he silently asked God to give him the strength to do what he needed to here, to soften his wife’s heart, if possible, and to make more of Emmett’s future than he could on his own.
*
There was a carriage waiting in Messina to convey Clare and Miriam to the viscount’s villa. It was large enough to accommodate Emmett and his valet too, but since the recommended hotel where they’d be staying wasn’t far, they opted to walk.
“I’ll ask Helena about a party invitation for you,” she told Emmett, “and send word to the hotel in the morning.”
He nodded. “I hope to see you tomorrow then.”
Did she hope to see him as well? A large part of her did. After all, talking with him on the train hadn’t proved to be as unpleasant as she’d feared. And it was nice to see his face again and hear his voice.
She was still frustrated with him over his sudden arrival in Sicily and his plan to return her to England, but some of her ire had cooled in the past two hours. Especially since Emmett had kept his word to her. He hadn’t brought up his newest plan to run for Parliament, nor had he pressed her for why she wouldn’t go back to England with him straightaway. He’d even refrained from answering her innocent question about Barksley Hall because it would have meant talking, indirectly, about politics.
“Until tomorrow.” Clare stepped toward the carriage, but before the driver could help her, Emmett held out his hand.
“May I?”
She stared down at his hand, her pulse flitting faster. As her hesitation stretched longer, her cheeks began to heat. She must look silly debating something so simple as accepting her husband’s offer of help. Finally, she placed her gloved hand against his palm. A zing of feeling swept her head to toe. She shot a glance at Emmett’s face and found him watching her. Had he felt the same charge of sensation that she had? Or was the spark between them only on her side?
The warmth she’d felt at his touch wasn’t manufactured, though. And the growing look of surprise in his eyes told her she wasn’t the only one to experience a rush of emotion at their joined hands.
Confused, she lowered her gaze as Emmett assisted her into the open carriage. He helped Miriam in next, then shut the door. The vehicle rolled forward. Clare couldn’t help peering at her husband, who watched her as well until the carriage turned a corner. With a heavy sigh, she sat back against the seat.
“Are you well, my lady?”
Was she? Despite sleeping a little on the train, she felt fatigued—and hungry. But it was more than just physical tiredness. Right now she felt weary in heart too.
“I’ll be all right, thank you, especially once I have some dinner.”
Eating might help assuage her pregnancy sickness, but it wouldn’t cure everything. Clare still didn’t know what to do about Emmett’s request to return to England. She’d found little happiness living there, and she couldn’t go with him anyway, not if she wanted to prevent another miscarriage. Yet the longer he stayed in Sicily, attempting to convince her, the harder it would be to keep her pregnancy a secret.
She’d been terrified on the train when he’d asked if she was queasy, certain he’d somehow guessed her condition. Her relief that he hadn’t had been profound, but it also made Clare aware of how careful she had to be. Over the next few days, she would need to keep eating regularly to stay her nausea. Tomorrow night, she’d also be sure to drink some tea before the party, since Emmett would likely be in attendance.
The viscount’s villa rose before her a few minutes later. The driver helped her and Miriam alight from the carriage, and Clare led the way to the front door. Squaring her shoulders against her worries and exhaustion, she put on a smile and knocked firmly on the door. “I believe we have a party to help with.”
Miriam smiled back. “We do indeed, my lady.”
As they were ushered inside and Clare was greeted with an enthusiastic embrace from Helena, she held tightly to her resolve. She’d weathered difficult things before, especially in the last fourteen months since she’d been married. One party and a few days in Messina with Emmett would surely prove to be an easy thing to manage.
London, May 1907: Nineteen months earlier
Up until a few weeks ago, Emmett hadn’t realized how his interactions with other young ladies were lacking. He had been tasked by his father to find and marry a suitable—meaning rich—woman before the year was out, and he’d decided the best way to do so was to meet as many of the young women in London as he could. Hopefully one of them would fit his father’s requirements but also his own. Emmett wanted a marriage with more laughter, affection, and closeness than he’d observed over the years in his parents’ relationship.
Lord Hadwell had let it be known around town that his son was looking for a bride, and Emmett had experienced no shortage of interested young ladies. But he’d begun to despair of finding one who saw him as more than his title. None of them seemed sincerely interested in coming to know him—and there wasn’t one who inspired a true interest in Emmett to know her.
Then he’d met Miss Clare Herschel. Her lovely laugh and clever banter had captivated him from the moment Emmett had turned and found her watching him with those bemused green eyes and an attractive blush on her cheeks.
Emmett nearly told his father later that night about the meeting but thought better of it. The immediate connection he’d felt with Miss Herschel still seemed too private to share with anyone. Besides, he wasn’t entirely certain what the marquess would think of his interest in an heiress from America. She had a fortune, to be sure, but she’d still been raised in a world of customs and obligations that differed from his.
Rather than risk his father asking him to find someone else, Emmett kept his growing admiration for Miss Herschel to himself. But he sought her out at every event of which they were both in attendance. He especially enjoyed dancing with her—that, and inspiring her laughter.
Tonight he’d had the good fortune of securing two waltzes with her. However, since this was their second dance of the evening, he would now have to be content with partners who were far less witty, genuine, and interesting.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Linwood.” Miss Herschel’s smile never held any pretense, only gentleness and honesty.
Emmett smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Herschel.” He led her toward the edge of the dance floor, happy for an excuse to keep her elbow in his gloved hand a little longer. “You waltz beautifully.”
“I think that’s a compliment meant as much for you as for me, my lord. Since you are, in fact, the one leading the waltz.”
He feigned a thoughtful expression. “I concede your point. May I say then how beautifully you waltz with me?”
“Only with you?” It was clear she was trying not to laugh.
“Miss Herschel,” he began again, “how beautifully you waltz with every gentleman lucky enough to partner with you. How’s that?”
Her lips twitched with hidden delight. “I’ll allow it. However . . .” A small laugh escaped her mouth before she pretended to be serious once more. “To be truly sincere in the compliment, you would have to observe me waltzing with others before making such an observation.”
“And who is to say I haven’t?” he countered, no longer teasing.
She blushed, but there was also a look of pleasure in her eyes. Could she be as fascinated with him as he was with her? As if in answer to his unspoken question, she asked, “Will you be attending the theater tomorrow night, my lord?”
The hopeful note in her voice nearly had him leading her back onto the floor for another dance, the possible ruin of both their reputations notwithstanding. “I was considering it. Will you be in attendance?”
“Yes.”
Then he would attend too.
Miss Herschel had entered his life less than a month ago, but there were times when Emmett felt as if he’d known her for years. He’d been to visit her and her mother twice at the townhouse where they were staying and had covertly learned which social events they would be attending. He had even begun to entertain the hope of courting Miss Herschel.
Emmett released her arm as propriety dictated, but he didn’t step away. Instead he studied her open, graceful countenance. She didn’t break his earnest gaze either. In that moment, the music, the crowds, the overly warm room ceased to exist, leaving only them. A desire to kiss her tugged him forward a step.
“Miss Herschel.” The marquess’s voice sounded as loud as symbols in Emmett’s ears. He fell back a step as his father placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
She nodded politely. “Lord Hadwell.”
“If you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my son.”
“Of course.”
Emmett offered her an apologetic smile. “Thank you again for the waltz.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.”
He lost sight of her as his father steered him toward the opposite side of the ballroom. Would Lord Hadwell demand that Emmett stop interacting with her? His heart thudded with consternation at the thought. He didn’t wish to choose between his growing feelings for Miss Herschel and his father’s displeasure, but he couldn’t imagine never seeing her again either.
“Is she the one whom you’ve set your sights on?” his father asked after he stopped them beside a pillar.
Should he speak the truth of what he felt? Emmett glanced around to buy himself another moment before answering. Nearby Lady Melinda, a longtime family friend, was conversing with another young lady. They didn’t seem to be paying Emmett and his father any attention though.
Summoning his courage, Emmett pushed out a deep breath. “I admire her very much,” he said, steeling himself against his father’s reaction.
“Excellent. I believe she’ll do quite nicely for you and—”
Emmett reared back. “Wait. You’re saying . . . you approve of my choice?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” His father actually looked offended.
“Well, for one she’s American.”
The marquess waved his hand dismissively. “A very wealthy American. Have you heard the size of her inheritance?”
“I have,” Emmett answered, somewhat warily. Despite his efforts to conceal his attentions toward Miss Herschel, had his father noticed anyway and gone digging for information about her?
Lord Hadwell smiled as he gazed at the gathered crowd. “You know how much Hadwell House needs someone like her. Her cash will ensure the estate is kept solvent and in good repair for several more generations.”
His father talked as if an understanding was already in place. Not that Emmett would mind. He wanted to proceed naturally, though, rather than feel rushed by the marquess’s expectations.
“I haven’t even started courting her.”
Turning to face him, the marquess frowned. “Why ever not? You need to hurry, or some duke’s son is liable to come along and snatch her millions right out from under you. That’s what these American heiresses want, after all—a title.”
Miss Herschel had never given any indication that she cared whether Emmett had a title or not. “I’m not interested . . .” He lowered his voice to avoid being heard. “That is to say, I don’t wish to court her for her millions, Father.”
“There’s no shame in it,” his father remarked in a patronizing tone. “However, if it eases that conscience of yours to believe you admire her for her charm and beauty, then go ahead.”
Emmett’s jaw tightened with irritation. “Miss Herschel has far more qualities to recommend her than simply being a beautiful heiress.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The marquess studied something in the distance, then clapped a hand to Emmett’s shoulder again. “No need to be glum, my boy. Congratulations are certainly in order. You’ve done as I asked in finding a wealthy wife. You should feel proud of yourself.”
The compliment felt hollow. “I’m grateful I met her.”
“As am I. Now, I need to go speak with Lord Huffing.”
As his father walked away, Emmett took a moment to calm his frustration. He ought to be elated that his choice had met with the marquess’s approval. The victory had been robbed of some of its sweetness, though, now that he knew his father believed Emmett’s interest was based on monetary reasons. Still, he was relieved that he no longer had to hide his interest in Miss Herschel. And with that newfound freedom, Emmett knew the first thing he wished to do.
He headed back toward the spot where he’d left Miss Herschel. Only she wasn’t there. He studied the faces of those dancing but didn’t see her. Growing desperate in his search, he asked Winfield if he’d seen Miss Herschel. Emmett’s best friend had always been adept at observation, though lately, Winfield’s gift seemed even more honed. As expected, the man reported having seen Miss Herschel and her mother leaving the ballroom.
Emmett found them as they were collecting their coats. “Miss Herschel? Might I have a word?”
“Of course, Lord Linwood.” She exchanged a curious glance with her mother, though she didn’t look displeased that he’d detained them.
That knowledge had him standing straighter. “I’d be honored if you would allow me to accompany you and your mother to the theater tomorrow night. We would have the use of my box.” He looked at Mrs. Herschel as he added, “If, of course, that is agreeable to the both of you.”
Mrs. Herschel offered him a kind smile. “Thank you for the invitation, Lord Linwood. Clare and I would be happy to accept.”
“Wonderful,” he said, glancing at Miss Herschel again. Would she recognize his intention to have this invitation be the start of courting her? “I shall send a note tomorrow morning with the details.”
Her answering smile struck him straight through the chest. “I look forward to the evening, my lord.”
“As do I,” he murmured.
He bid them goodnight and returned to the ballroom. But he was hardly aware of anyone or anything after that. In his mind’s eye, Emmett was already at the theater, seated beside Miss Herschel, for the first of what he hoped would prove to be many more outings in her unequaled company.