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“Come,” she said, extending her hand to Tristan. “Let us face the evening with courage.”

And she was speaking as much to herself as she was to her son.

* * *

“Ah, the guests of honor arrive at last.” Sidney himself materialized before them in evening attire, which seemed calculated to compensate for his diminutive stature.

His gaze lingered appreciatively on Emma’s décolletage before sliding dismissively over Tristan to rest with visible disapproval on Martha, her lady’s maid.

“I was not aware we were extending invitations to the staff,” he sneered.

“Martha accompanies us as Tristan’s chaperone,” Emma replied smoothly, laying a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder, as the boy bristled visibly at his uncle’s tone. “A sensible precaution, as I expect to be much in demand as a dance partner this evening.”

Something unpleasant flickered across her brother-in-law’s features before his practiced smile reasserted itself.

“Indeed. I have claimed the first set for myself, naturally.” He extended his arm with a flourish that struck her as faintly ridiculous. “Shall we join the assembly? I have arranged a most advantageous introduction for young Tristan—the Marchioness of Langley’s grandson is in attendance, a boy of similar age and excellent connections.”

Tristan’s expression suggested he would rather be introduced to a den of vipers, but he maintained a stiff civility as they proceeded into the ballroom. Emma could not help but feel a surge of pride in her son’s composure, even as anxiety churned within her.

The ballroom was already in full swing, the room a kaleidoscope of silk and jewels as couples moved through the intricate patterns of a country dance.

Emma noted with resigned familiarity the subtle shift in the atmosphere as she entered on Sidney’s arm—the momentary pause in conversations, the speculative glances, the barely concealed curiosity.

High society had long regarded her with a mixture of pity and prurient interest, first as the widow of the dissolute Earl. Now, it seemed, they had cast her in a new role: the presumed mistress of her brother-in-law.

“Lady Cuthbert, how delightful to see you this evening,” Lady Milton simpered, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she assessed Emma’s gown with calculating precision. “And in such…fetchingattire. One would almost think you were once again on the marriage mart, were it not for the…complexitiesof your situation.”

“Lady Milton,” Emma acknowledged, ignoring the barb with practiced ease.

Then, Sidney’s hand tightened possessively on her arm. “You must excuse us, Lady Milton. I believe the musicians are striking a tune.”

As he led her toward the center of the ballroom and they moved through the steps of the quadrille, his hand lingered on her waist with a familiarity that made her skin crawl.

“You dance divinely,” he commented, executing a twirl that brought them momentarily closer than propriety strictly demanded. “One wonders if your… other physical endeavors are executed with similar grace.”

Emma’s smile did not falter, though her eyes flashed a warning. “You forget yourself, My Lord.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, his voice honeyed with false concern, “I am merely anticipating our more private entertainment later this evening. The blue silk becomes you admirably. Though I confess I look forward to seeing youwithoutit.”

Emma missed a step, earning a disapproving glance from Lady Everett, partnered with Lord Henry Bowles to her left. Sidney’s grip tightened painfully on her fingers, forcing her back into the pattern of the dance.

“Careful, my dear,” he cautioned, the solicitude in his tone a grotesque parody of concern. “We wouldn’t want the guests to suspect any… discord between us, would we?”

His words slithered over her skin like the slime of a snail—so disgusting that she wanted to take off the clothes he’d made her wear but not for the inappropriate reasons he anticipated.

The remainder of the dance passed in a blur of mechanical movements, Emma’s mind racing as she sought some escape from the trap that had closed so inexorably around her.

When the music finally concluded, she bobbed a curtsy with rigid formality before withdrawing her hand from his grasp.

“I must check on Tristan,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic threatening to overwhelm her composure. “Excuse me.”

Sidney’s eyes narrowed fractionally before his social mask of slimy charm reasserted itself. “Of course. Though do not dilly-dally for too long—I have promised Lady Harrington that you would join her circle for refreshments.”

As though she were a trinket to be passed around!

But Emma merely inclined her head in acknowledgment before turning away, scanning the crowded ballroom for her son.

She located him in an alcove near the terrace doors, engaged in what appeared to be a decidedly unenthusiastic conversation with Lady Langley’s grandson, a pallid youth whose expression suggested he found Tristan equally uninteresting.