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“Where were you?” Caroline demanded, her tone curt and focused, not bothering to look up as her daughter entered.

“I was out for some air,” Emma responded.

“Dinner isn’t going to wait for you. You must get ready. We cannot have you late for the first event,” her mother said, still sifting through Emma’s belongings.

“I have picked out your clothes.” She finally looked up, her expression one of steely determination.

“Oh, but we’ve already decided on my attire for the evening, Mother,” Emma countered, hoping to assert some control over at least this aspect of her life.

“That won’t do!” Caroline dismissed without a second thought. “It is too…proper. We need you in something more…alluring,” she added, her choice of words sending a shiver down Emma’s spine.

“But Mother?—”

“Those are your father’s instructions. To have you dressed accordingly, Emma. I will not countenance any further protests,” Caroline said with an air of finality Emma had never observed about her before. She met Antoinetta’s apologetic gaze, which offered a silent commiseration before returning her attention to her mother, who was now choosing matching jewelry with a decisive hand.

So, her father wanted her dressed like a wanton. What was the word her mother used? ‘Alluring’, Emma recalled, the realization making her stomach turn. Nevertheless, she heard herself ask, “Why do you do it, Mother?”

“Do what?” Caroline was confused, her brow furrowing.

“Why do you always dance, without question, to his merciless tunes?” Emma caught Antoinetta excusing herself.

Her mother sputtered for a moment, clearly taken aback by her frustrated outburst before replying, “What is so merciless about wanting to marry off our only child?”

“Wanting to marry her off in therightway,” Emma countered sharply. “And do not make this sound as though he is doing it with my best interest at heart, Mother. You and I both know that that is far from his reason.”

“In time, you will grow to appreciate what efforts we are making for you, Emma,” her mother said instead, her eyes bearing a look of tired resignation. In the end, her mother would always protect him, Emma thought bitterly, even if it was at her own expense.

“Efforts I never asked for. Not in this manner,” Emma returned.

“Must you always be defiant? Your father?—”

“Isn’t always right, Mother!” Emma cried desperately. “Why can’t you open your eyes for once and see what he’s doing to you? To both of us?”

“Do not make me out to be his puppet!” Caroline’s posture stiffened as she faced her daughter.

“But is that not what we are to him?” Emma shot back, her frustration boiling over.

What you have allowed him to make of us, Emma thought to herself, her heart sinking with the weight of her unsaid words.

Her mother appeared wounded and at a loss for words. She did not reply. Instead, she took a step back to admire what she had laid out on the bed, changing the subject to hide her discomfort. “There. This should do for an opening dinner. You will look splendid in it,” she said with a smile that Emma found irritatingly superficial.

“Now get dressed and be on time!” She turned on her heels. “You cannot expect to catch the eye of any gentleman, much less the Earl, dressed like a pigeon in mourning,” she added over her shoulder, her words sharp and dismissive.

“I didn’t realize pigeons mourned,” Emma returned defiantly, her tone matching her mother’s in its sharpness.

Her mother paused at the door and turned, sending a displeased look her direction before finally exiting the room. Emma was left standing there, a mix of anger and sadness swirling within her. She had no choice in this. She never had any to begin with. She found herself all but dreading dinner now.

My parents’ ability to snuff out every positive emotion within me ought to be a talent, truly, she thought bitterly just as Antoinetta walked back into the room. Her lady’s maid did not say a word as she began preparing her for the evening in what the Baroness had selected.

Emma was grateful for the silence, for she was in no mood for conversation. Least of all optimism.

CHAPTER 3

“That apology seemed rather painful to her, don’t you agree?” George chuckled as he poured some brandy into a tumbler for Alexander.

The memory of his encounter with Miss Lovell lingered in his mind, intensified by her fiery green eyes. “I never saw a woman with such fire,” he added, his amusement touched with a genuine intrigue. There was an indefinable quality about Miss Lovell, magnetic yet elusive, that piqued his curiosity further.

“She does seem most interesting,” Alex agreed, accepting the drink with a nod.