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And what compounded his shock further—she was on the arm of the Marquess of Neads. George’s brow furrowed in confusion and a hint of anger. What in the world was she doing with such a man? He knew of the Marquess, of course, and none of what he knew was flattering. The man had a despicable reputation, known around the ton for his decrepit morals and vile personality.

As George watched Emma move through the crowd, a mere ghost of her usual self, tethered to a man unworthy of her, his heart clenched with an unexpected surge of protectiveness. What had transpired to lead her to this moment? And how could he— should he—intervene?

As he watched the Marquess draw Emma slightly closer to him—as if to proclaim his possession of her to the entire assembly—George’s head began to pound with a mix of anger and helplessness. Neads had no right to parade her around like some trophy. The urge to challenge the man bubbled fiercely within him. He wanted to do something, anything, to extricate Emma from the Marquess’s loathsome grip.

George longed to rush forward, to seize her hand and whisk her away from Neads, to shake her back into the spirited and defiant woman he knew her to be. He yearned to witness her fiery spiritdirected at him once more, even if it was laced with annoyance or scorn.

Alas, trapped in the confines of a crowded ballroom, all George could manage was to watch from afar and seethe silently. That was until a sliver of opportunity presented itself.

He noticed Emma murmur something to Neads and then excuse herself, her movements graceful yet tinged with a certain urgency as she slipped into the hallway. Seizing the moment, George discreetly followed her, his footsteps quiet against the plush carpets.

Emma navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the grand house with a familiarity that spoke of her distress, seeking solace away from the crowded ballroom. Suddenly, she veered off her path and slipped through some French doors into a secluded part of the gardens.

Grateful for the privacy the gardens offered, George quickened his pace, hoping to catch up to her and perhaps find a moment to speak freely. However, fate seemed to conspire against him, for just as he was about to reach her, Baron Dewsbury emerged from a nearby terrace, his presence an unwelcome interruption.

“What are you doing out here, girl?” the Baron nearly snapped, his voice sharp in the quiet of the night.

“I needed some air, Father,” Emma replied, her voice composed yet carrying an undercurrent of weariness.

George halted, concealed by the shadows, his heart pounding with frustration and concern as he watched the scene unfold before him. “Are you trying to run away, girl?” The Baron’s tone was filled with suspicion, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her every expression.

“Where could I possibly run off to?” Emma retorted, her voice carrying a hint of the spirit George knew well, yet it was dulled, as if weighed down by a heavy burden.

“You need to fix this demeanor of yours, girl. One would think you’re going to a funeral,” the Baron remarked sharply, his words cutting through the quiet of the evening.

Emma remained silent, offering no response to her father’s harsh criticism.

“Your future is bright and waiting for you. You should be happy and grateful you finally got a man to look at you. One who is willing to make you his,” he continued, his voice implying that she should consider herself fortunate for such an arrangement.

Something cold and unnerving gripped George as he listened. The Baron’s words sent a chill down his spine, and a deep, unsettling feeling settled over him. What exactly did the Baron mean by those words?

“No one would wish to acquire a husband the way I did, father,” Emma said, her voice small and resigned, a stark contrast to her usual vibrant self.

“What did you say?” The Baron bristled, his face turning red with either anger or embarrassment, perhaps both.

“That I have nothing to celebrate,” she responded calmly, yet her words were heavy with unspoken sorrow.

There was no defiance in her tone, no spark of the fiery Emma he remembered. Only pure resignation. It was as though she had accepted a fate she felt powerless to change, and it pained George to hear such hopelessness in her voice.

Confusion swirled within him more fiercely than ever. The pieces of the puzzle were not fitting together. Was Emma truly getting married? And to the Marquess she had just entered with? God help him, he thought, a sense of desperation creeping into his thoughts. It cannot be to anyone. The very idea of her belonging to another man, especially under such dismal circumstances, was more than he could bear.

“Well, I do. I have everything to celebrate,” Dewsbury declared with a sneer. “I am finally giving away a useless daughter and getting the compensation I deserve too,” he added, his words dripping with disdain.

Fresh ire coursed through George at the man’s disrespectful and hurtful words. He felt himself instinctively take a step forward, his hands curling into angry fists at his sides, his restraint teetering on the brink of collapse.

“Hardly useless if she’s the reason you are getting that compensation then, don’t you agree, Father?” Emma retorted,her voice sharp and clear. She finally met her father’s gaze with a bit of that defiance George knew her for—the defiance he had grown to love, though he was only now beginning to acknowledge this love without even fully realizing it.

George halted his advance, struck by Emma’s response. Perhaps he had underestimated her resilience. He paused and continued to observe from his concealed vantage point.

“You will watch your tongue, girl,” the Baron warned, his voice growing dangerously low as he took an imposing step toward his daughter.

Emma instinctively took a step back, maintaining her composure despite the clear threat in her father’s tone.

“Now, I want you to return to that ballroom and stand by your future husband like the Marchioness you are going to be. You will hold yourself with pride, and smile and be happy,” the Baron instructed.

“I shall return after getting some air,” Emma declared, her voice strained with the effort to maintain composure. Her words were abruptly cut off by a sudden horrified gasp that cut through the quiet of the garden.

George’s instincts immediately sharpened, his entire focus narrowing as dread coiled tightly within him. And that was when he saw the reason for her alarm. The Baron, his face contorted in fury, had seized his daughter’s arm with a vice-like grip, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You aremine, you insolent child!And I will do with you as I see fit. Do you understand?” he hissed, his eyes bulging with rage.