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"And do not even think about lying to us," Frannie added, her tone firm yet affectionate.

"We know that look only too well," Aggie supported, her brow furrowed with worry.

With a heavy sigh, Emma felt the weight of her apprehension and longing press upon her. She knew she could not hide from them, nor did she want to. These were her dearest friends, her confidantes. They deserved the truth, just as she deserved their comfort.

Emma clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her voice tinged with frustration as she finally spoke. "I haven’t heard from Seymore in two days. And I just found out from Olivia that he is out of town," she confessed, her worry palpable.

Agnes leaned forward, her expression soothing. "Oh, I am sure he’s probably traveled to take care of some last-minute business before the wedding," she reassured, her voice gentle and confident.

Emma shook her head, her unease deepening. "I cannot help but feel there is more to his absence, though," she murmured. "He didn’t even send a note before leaving."

Frannie reached out, her hand warm and comforting on Emma's arm. "You are thinking excessively, Emma," she said firmly. "It’s all right. You have nothing to worry about now."

"Do I not?" Emma retorted with a snort. "I cannot shake this unease I feel. After everything that happened, I find it hard to believe the dust could settle so easily. So...simply and calmly."

Frannie’s eyes softened with understanding. "Oh, you need to believe that this happiness you’ve found is well deserved, Emma," she encouraged.

"I do, but—" Emma began, only to be interrupted by Frannie.

"Then don’t be a pessimist," Frannie said, her tone a mix of admonition and affection.

Agnes laughed, her light, musical tone filling the room. "It must be the bride’s nerves," she concluded with a knowing nod.

"Already?" Frances quirked a brow, her curiosity piqued by her friend’s new observation.

"Never too early, Frannie. Never too early for bride’s nerves," Aggie nodded sagely.

Emma couldn’t help but join in their mirth. After her friends’ departure, she returned to the empty drawing room and sat. A dark presence came upon her and she looked up to see her father in the doorway. He seemed to drain the room of its previous light-heartedness. His gaze, cold and contemptuous, was fixed upon her.

"So, you think have won now, hmm?" he sneered, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the tea service still on the table. "Hosting tea parties in celebration and all.”

Emma felt a knot of trepidation tighten in her stomach. She straightened her spine, meeting his gaze with as much calm as she could muster. "Do I not have a right to have tea with my friends?" she replied coolly.

"Enjoy it while it lasts. As you should your time with that excuse for a Duke of yours," he retorted, a sudden, inscrutable glint in his eyes intensifying her apprehension.

Emma's heart raced. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"I see all the time you’ve been spending with your mother lately has sapped you of your wits too," he spat, his words like venom. "Or perhaps you never had them to begin with." Not giving her a chance to respond, he spun on his heel and exited the drawing room, leaving Emma reeling from the cryptic and cutting exchange.

Emma sat frozen, his words ringing in her ears. Desperation clawed at her heart as she tried to reason his behavior, to convince herself that her friends' reassurances were true. But the sinister edge to her father's words, the sheer hatred in his eyes, left a lingering dread she could not shake.

Something was deeply amiss, and despite her will to see brightness in everything, Emma's instincts screamed that this was more than just bridal nerves.

CHAPTER 32

“Oh, I think you will look quite splendid in pale green lace,” Lady Amberton suggested as they perused catalogues and color swatches at the modiste’s, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.

As promised, Lady Amberton had called on Emma the next day, and her mother had suggested they go shopping together, an invitation the Countess was all too glad to accept.

“Do you not agree, Lady Dewsbury?” Jane turned to Caroline, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Oh, do call me Caroline, dear,” her mother encouraged warmly. “And I most certainly agree. She will look exquisite in pale green lace,” she affirmed, deftly thumbing through the catalogue. “I admire how you select such unique and refined palettes, Lady Amberton. You have quite the eye,” she commended.

“And call me Jane,” she responded with a pleased smile, clearly delighted by the compliment.

“Pardon our manners, Emma,” Jane suddenly turned to her with a look of contrition. “We are making choices as though it were our own wedding. What do you think of the pale green lace?” she asked, her eyes searching Emma’s face for approval.

Emma, who had been quietly taking in the scene, felt a warmth spread through her at their attentiveness. “I was actually considering it even before you spoke,” she confessed.