Page 30 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)
Chapter Fifteen
Emily was exhausted. She had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, her restless mind replaying every moment of her confrontation with the Duke. How she had, at first, avoided him, then barged into him like a battleship, outing his charade as coachman George, right there in front of everyone, in the middle of the drawing room. What was she thinking? It was sheer madness.
Amends, the Duke of Wolferton had said. He wanted her to stay on because he wanted to make amends. There had been a time when she’d assumed it’d be far easier for the Highlands to shift and relocate themselves to Cornwall rather than to hear Wolferton utter the word ‘amends’.
It was shocking. It was unheard of. It was almost an apology. Probably the closest she’d ever get from him.
Of course, it was clear to her what must have transpired. He’d had them thrown out in the dead of winter, that was a fact. And, when she still thought he was coachman George, she'd as good as told him her story, and that she considered him responsible for her father's death. And now he realised the error of his ways and wanted to make amends.
Emily sat up straight in her bed and stared into the void.
But things were not that simple! She couldn't just let him make amends. She needed her revenge. She needed to stay the course. She couldn’t afford to lose focus. What had become of her cold-hearted resolve to orchestrate a match between him and Cissy? She mustn’t give up so easily.
Ah, how cynical she had grown over time.
Cynical enough to arrange a loveless marriage between her beloved sister and the man she despised most—all in the name of revenge.
But she would also secure them a home, she reminded herself. Stability. Security. Was that really so terrible?
And did she truly hate him?
She certainly didn’t hate George.
Quite the opposite, in fact. She felt that telltale flush creep up her neck again. What was this feeling that came over her every time she met his gaze? It was as if she were drunk, even though she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol.
Her mind replayed his words, his gestures, the moments when he’d surprised her by being unexpectedly kind.
Wolferton and kind! It was outrageous to even admit it.
“Emily White, you are a fool.” She dropped her face into her hands with a loud groan. “You don’t hate him at all.”
There it was. She’d finally said it. The earth didn’t shake, and the heavens didn’t fall. She merely felt a pang of guilt gnaw at her. But she didn’t hate him. She didn’t even dislike him, not really. Oh, he was arrogant, obnoxious and far too used to getting his own way, but... there was something else.
Something that made her stomach turn when he met her gaze. Something that warmed her when his lips curved into one of those rare, fleeting smiles.
Something... something maddeningly, bewitchingly charming.
She fell back onto her bed, buried her face in the pillow and pounded it with her fists.
When she finally calmed down, exhausted from the physical effort of punishing the pillow, she drifted into a restless sleep. She dreamed of the Duke, his face twisted into a cruel grin as he threatened to drag her off to Newgate Prison. When she asked him why he was doing this, he replied: “Because you have the audacity to like me, Lady Poppy. Or should I say Meggie Blythe? Liar and fraud. Admit it!” He continued to drag her towards the prison, laughing maniacally all the while, a sound that lingered long after she awoke.
The next morning, Emily sat in the breakfast room, shuddering as she remembered the dream. She took another sip of her tea, burning her tongue.
She coughed and spluttered.
“Ah. Lady Poppy. Here you are.” The three aunts sailed into the room and sat down beside her. Araminta to her right, Jane to her left, and Mabel across from her. Emily had a vague feeling that since last night she had somehow, inexplicably, acquired a special status. Was it because of her singing? Or because she’d added salt to the Duke’s tea? Surely they couldn’t have known? Or was it really, as Cissy had said, because of the strange look in the Duke’s eyes? Had everyone really seen that? How humiliating! What had Cissy said? ‘Golden and melting.’ Emily shuddered again.
“You’re not catching a cold, are you, Lady Poppy?” Jane put a hand to her brow. “You look rather pale, and you’ve shivered twice in the space of a minute.”
Emily forced a smile. “I’m quite well, thank you. I’m not a morning person and just need some time to wake up, that’s all.”
“Just like Wolferton,” Araminta observed with a nod, as if completely satisfied that the two of them had at least that in common. “He sleeps like the dead before noon, and nothing will wake him.”
“Unless he goes hunting,” Jane chimed in as she helped herself to a cheese crumpet. “Then he sleeps with his clothes on so he can get up before dawn.”
Emily squirmed in her chair. She would rather not have known about Wolferton’s sleeping habits. Now she couldn’t get the image of the Duke out of her mind, sleeping in his big bed. With or without his clothes.
She fanned herself as the temperature in the room seemed to have risen inexplicably.
“You must make sure you get enough rest during the day, child,” Araminta said now, patting her hand. “The next few days are likely to be exhausting. Tonight will be another evening of games, cards and the like. Then there is the ball. Ashbourne House will shine in all its splendour as never before. We have invited the whole neighbourhood, and I dare say people will come from as far away as London. The guest rooms are ready. It will be a most enjoyable affair.”
“Indeed,” Emily said, not knowing what else to say.
Jane put down her teacup. “We’re expecting an announcement,” she said with an air of satisfaction.
“Are you, now?” Emily said, distracted. “About what?”
The three aunts looked at each other, then back at her, pointedly.
Araminta kept patting her hand.
Mabel took her other hand. Emily looked from one to the other, completely mystified.
“Everything will be well,” Mabel said in her soft voice. “You’ll see.” She kept patting her hand.
She didn’t quite know why, but she felt comforted, and the feeling of nervousness that had covered her like an oilcloth fell away. Her eyes itched, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, but that might just have been a remnant of dry toast that had lodged itself there.
“Thank you,” she whispered.