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“How do you feel about the Earl?” Antoinetta asked as she brushed Emma’s hair.

Emma thought for a moment, although she had no need to. “He is a good gentleman, but I can only regard him as a friend.” She saw Antoinetta frown through the mirror.

“You have no romantic inclinations toward him?”

Emma shook her head. “No, I do not. I fear that does not bode well for me if I marry him.” George was the one she thought of night and day. “I do not want to do what my parents ask.”

“And you shan’t, Emma.” Antoinetta gave her an encouraging smile. Her eyes then took on a mischievous gleam. “What about the Duke?”

The question immediately sent a flutter through her. “What about him?” she asked, avoiding Antoinetta’s gaze through themirror. To occupy herself, she picked up the earrings she’d earlier removed and placed them in the jewelry box in front of her.

“Oh, do not be coy with me!” Antoinetta laughed and nudged her shoulder.

“The Duke is insufferable,” Emma sighed.

“That is not what the servants are saying.” She set down the hairbrush and gathered Emma’s hair to braid.

“What are they saying?” Emma asked a little too quickly, but she sucked in her breath to keep a composed demeanor.

Antoinetta raised a brow. “I thought you are entirely uninterested in the Duke.”

“A lady is born curious, Antoinetta. Now, will you tell me what the servants are saying?”

“Only that he is one of the kindest and most generous gentlemen in England.” When Emma rolled her eyes, Antoinetta asked. “What? Did you expect the servants to have the same opinion of him as you do?”

“He is out to make my stay unbearable.” Emma’s mind chose that moment to remind her of the life their conversations had. There had never been a dull moment with George.

“Yes,” Antoinetta drew out the word, “and that is why everyone thinks you make a splendid pair.”

“Everyone?” Emma felt her eyes widen.

“With the exception of your parents, of course.” Antoinette finished braiding Emma’s hair and retrieved her robe.

Emma sighed and rose. The day had been most eventful, but she was ready to forget her parents' demands at this moment. She had just settled into the soft embrace of her bed when the door to her bedchamber burst open with a force that made her heart jump. No gentle knock preceded the intrusion; it was her father, his face contorted in anger, who stormed in.

“You think you have a right to close your eyes and slumber in peace when I stay awake worrying about your prospects, girl?” Her father’s voice boomed through the room, thick with fury.

Her mother, appearing at the doorway behind him, looked nervous and beleaguered. She wrung her hands as she spoke, her voice a stark contrast to her husband’s thunderous tones. “You had the Earl for a good part of the evening, Emma. Why did you give him up to Miss Clorette?”

Tristan, her brother, followed suit, his own expression sour. “She left the Earl to flirt with that confounded Duke whose only motive is to ruin our family name, I’m certain,” he accused sharply.

Emma understood then; it was never about her happiness or her reputation. To her father and brother, these were mere shadows compared to the looming specter of the ‘family name’ and how it might be perceived. She felt a bitter taste rise in her mouth as she contemplated their words.

“I did no such thing, Father,” Emma defended herself, her voice steady despite the growing turmoil within her.

“Are you calling me blind now?” His voice rose even louder. “Did I not see you with him the entire evening?” he added, his eyes narrowing.

“It was the second half of the evening, Tristan dear,” her mother, Caroline, interjected tentatively, attempting to soften the accusation with a gentle correction.

“Hush it, woman!” The Baron rounded on his wife, who flinched and shrank back in palpable fear, her eyes darting nervously between her husband and daughter.

“Now listen here, girl,” his ire redirected back toward Emma, his tone sharp as a whip.

“The Marquess of Neads is running out of patience. And I am aboutthisclose to giving up on you too,” he declared, pinching his thumb and index fingers together for emphasis, his eyes narrowing to slits.

Emma swallowed convulsively, her anxiety morphing rapidly into fear. She felt her face pale, her expression likely mirroring her mother’s—a blend of dread and resignation.

“As a matter of fact, his last missive stated his desire to meet you,” her father continued, his voice taking on a smug tone as he turned back to his wife with an expectant stretch of his hand.