Page 46 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Twenty-Three

The quizzing glass dropped.

“You eloped?” He leaned forward.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I mean, no. I said nearly. We had plans to elope. But it never actually happened.” She narrowed her eyes at the look on his face. “Why, does that surprise you?”

“No, no, not at all, not at all. Who would have thought you would ever consider eloping—but, well, I suppose that is beside the point.” He waved a hand. “Back to the matter at hand. You want to know if I am your lost childhood love? Your soulmate?” His face was unreadable. “In all seriousness?”

She rubbed her damp hands down her sides. “I know it sounds completely ridiculous. What must you think of me? I take it back. Of course, you are not Fenn. How could you be?” She threw up her hands and suddenly it all came out. “You are everything I despise. You are the complete opposite of Fenn. You and I— we have nothing in common. I confess it’s no secret that I hold you in profound dislike, after all you did to us. Not to mention what you stand for, your station, your very existence. I’ve always deplored it.” She could have bitten her tongue off as soon as she’d uttered the words, but it was too late. It was as if a dam had broken and she vomited it all out, all the years and years of bitterness, all her pent-up frustrations, and once the words were out, she could not take them back.

Something flickered in his eyes. “Just to be clear. Not only do you dislike the fact that I am a duke, you dislike me as a person. Correction. You hate and despise me.”

She cleared her throat and looked away. “Well. That sounds a bit harsh, put like that. But all my life you’ve been a symbol of everything I hated, so it’s rather difficult to suddenly change one's mind... ” Her voice trailed off weakly.

It was a miracle that a bolt of lightning didn’t come down from the heavens to strike her dead for her blatant lies. Not a word of what she’d said was true. Quite the opposite. But she’d rather be struck by lightning and buried six feet under than admit that she’d fallen head over heels in love with him before he’d even uttered his fake proposal. Then why on earth was she uttering all this nonsense?

Emily rubbed her forehead in agitation. Wolferton, Fenn... the two names tangled in her mind until she could no longer make sense of anything.

His eyes fell on the letters on the table. “Because you find it impossible to forgive what I have done to your family.” His voice was flat.

She hesitated, the silence stretching taut between them. Fenn would never have cast her out. Fenn would have known. He would have saved them. He would have offered them another home. He would have stopped the corrupt steward from throwing them out in the first place.

It was unforgivable.

Unforgivable that he wasn’t Fenn.

Because, deep down, she loved him.

Wolferton.

And he could never, ever know.

Their relationship wasn’t real. It was a facade, a ruse, a make-believe—a fairytale, just like her relationship with Fenn had been.

“Yes.” The single word echoed through the room.

Maybe it was the shadows flickering across the walls, but he’d never looked as diabolical as he did now. Cold, hard, cynical.

Emily shifted uncomfortably.

“Well. I suppose that was to be expected,” he said in a clipped voice. “But to get back to the matter at hand. To answer your question, Lady Poppy, no, I am not your soulmate. Your—what was his name? Fenn.” He sneered.

It shouldn’t have surprised her in the least, but a pang of bitter disappointment churned like acid in her stomach.

“Yes, I know,” she whispered.

He rose. “Well, if there isn’t anything else, I will be going. Thank you for this entertaining, er, glimpse into your past life. Perhaps your childhood love still lives somewhere. Maybe you’ll find him one day. Who knows? People tend to change over time and he might no longer be the same as you remember. Nor would he want to be, if he had any sense.”

She tilted her head, frowning. What was that supposed to mean?

His face was a mask. “If you insist on pursuing your former love, may I remind you that you have a contract to uphold? It doesn’t look good for you to be pining after someone else while you’re engaged to me. I don’t want to look like a cuckolded fool long before we’re even married. Even if it is all hypothetical.”

“Of course not,” she choked out.

“Play along with my aunts, even if they lead us to the altar. I shall find a suitable way to extricate ourselves from it without anyone receiving any harm.”

“Yes, but how?”

“Just trust me, Emily,” he said wearily.

Then he left.

Emily sat down heavily on the chair and felt like bursting into tears.

“I will not cry,” she growled, rubbing her eyes, angry at herself. No, she wasn’t angry with herself. She was angry at him. Angry at him because he wasn’t Fenn?

Maybe not even that was true.

Angry at life?

Angry at fate?

She heaved a heavy sigh.

She didn’t understand anything anymore, and she certainly didn’t understand him.

The Duke joined them for tea that afternoon.

How had a simple, routine tea become such a highly charged, utterly bewildering ordeal for Emily?

As soon as she entered the room, he beamed at her, took her hand and drew her closer, his every action that of a man deeply in love. He stayed close, touching her at every opportunity, which left her feeling thoroughly confused, because she still had the harsh words they'd exchanged earlier echoing in her ears.

Of course, that was exactly what he was supposed to do. It was all part of the plan. They were pretending to be in love;this behaviour was all a ruse.

But now Emily was faced with a new layer of confusion. Was this the Duke, playing his part to perfection in the role they had agreed upon? Or was this Fenn, hiding behind the guise of a duke, who might—just might—have genuine feelings for her? But then, he’d said he wasn’t Fenn, hadn’t he? And that she was contractually obliged to play the affectionate betrothed in the company of his aunts.

Maybe was it all a figment of her overactive imagination, her mind conjuring up meaning where there was none?

What an awkward situation it was!

The three aunts looked on, their faces full of approval.

“We must discuss the wedding,” Araminta declared firmly. “There is no point in waiting longer. What do you say to Saturday next, Wolferton?”

“I want whatever my bride wants,” was his quixotic reply.

“Poppy? What do you think?” All eyes were on Emily.

Emily barely heard the question. The Duke had leaned closer, his hand tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, leaving a tingling warmth.

She swallowed hard.

“Yes,” she said, the word spilling out without thought.

“Excellent,” Araminta exclaimed. “We’ll speed things up and have the ceremony at St George’s, followed by the wedding breakfast here at Wolferton House.”

Emily’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind still trapped by the trail of heat his fingers had left on her skin. It took her far too long to register that her wedding had been mentioned.

She sat bolt upright. “Saturday next? What exactly do you mean by that? Do you mean this coming Saturday—three days from now—or the Saturday of the following week?” Either option was far too soon, but if they were planning the ceremony in just three days, it would be with an alarming haste that would be almost impossible to escape.

“I meant, of course, whichever Saturday comes next,” Araminta clarified with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t that how we generally understand the phrase?”

Emily stared at her in horror. “But that’s only a few days away!”

“Indeed.” Araminta narrowed her eyes at her. “Isn’t that an advantage? Is there a reason why we shouldn’t speed up things, seeing as you two are so in love?”

Emily picked an invisible crumb from the tabletop. “Oh. No, not at all.” She caught Wolferton’s warning look and cleared her throat. “Everything is well.”

“Good.” Araminta adjusted the spectacles on her nose. “For one moment, you had me worried. Wolferton has already obtained the special license, so there is no reason whatsoever to delay the wedding. It will be a small gathering, limited to the closest family and friends. Let me know if there is anyone else I should add to the guest list. So far, I have only included your sister. It would be nice to have more of your family present, though, considering you and your sister are orphans, of course... ” she trailed off with an air of polite pity.

“We need to talk!” Emily hissed at Wolferton, who kept patting her hand with annoying nonchalance, apparently seeing nothing wrong with their fake engagement being tied up in a very real wedding ceremony.

Wolferton just kept beaming at her as if she were the most beautiful thing under the sun. “Yes, my dear, let us talk.”

“We will leave you then. Come Jane, Mabel.” Araminta nodded to her sisters, and they left the room.

Emily jumped up and paced the room, wringing her hands, while Wolferton leaned back on the sofa and watched her. “What are we to do now? How are we going to get out of this? They are quite infuriatingly bent on this wedding, almost as if they sensed that our union might not be real, and they want to ascertain that it is impossible to dissolve it, hence the haste of it all.” She glared at him when he remained silent. “Have you nothing to add to this conversation?”

A finger traced the curve of his upper lip thoughtfully, and Emily stared at his hand. It was large and strong and his fingers were long and slim. She swallowed and tore her eyes away.

“Well?”

“Trust me.”

“That’s all? Trust you?” She trusted him about as much as a sparrow trusted a hungry cat. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t you think we should stop this before it becomes irreversible?”

“Yes. Of course.” He pulled himself up. “But timing is everything. If the truth comes out too soon, everything will have been for nothing.” He furrowed his brows. “You were protesting too much just now about them advancing the wedding. It made Aunt Araminta suspicious.”

The door to the drawing room was open, and they could hear the aunts continuing the discussion of the wedding date in the corridor.

“Come here,” he said.

Emily stepped up to him, tilting her head questioningly.

He cupped her face in his hands and turned her face towards him.

She could drown in his eyes. There was an unspoken question in them, something like a longing.

“What?” she whispered, lifting her own hands to cradle his face, unable to stop herself. She saw the shadows under his eyes, the hard angles and planes of his chin and cheeks, the long dark lashes, the pupils large in a sea of gold.

He bent his face and kissed her.

This kiss was oh so different! Gentle, almost shy. Like butterfly wings brushing her lips. She rose on tiptoe, pressed closer, melting into him, wanting more. Somehow, her fingers tangled in his hair and time stood still.

After a wonderful eternity, he released her gently.

“I think we’d better stop,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady.

Emily tugged at a loose strand of her hair, her thoughts racing. Of course, this didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself firmly. He’d kissed her for the benefit of his aunts. Only for that.

The conversation in the corridor had fallen utterly silent. She squinted at the door. Were his aunts standing there, gawking?

A male voice sounded from outside. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Is His Grace within?”

“This is hardly a suitable moment,” Araminta’s voice hissed, sharp with urgency.

The Duke’s secretary stepped into the room, ledger in hand. He froze, his eyes widening. “Oh. I beg your pardon, Your Grace. My lady.” His cheeks turned an unmistakable shade of crimson as he bowed hastily.

Emily stepped back instinctively, widening the space between herself and the Duke. Turning to the mantelpiece, she feigned an intense study of the floral arrangement atop it, though her cheeks burned with mortification.

“Olney,” the Duke said, his tone crisp. “This had better be urgent.”

“It is, Your Grace,” Olney replied, straightening his spectacles. “It concerns the irrigation system at Ashbourne Estate.”

The Duke gave a controlled sigh and took a last look at Emily before gesturing towards the door. “Very well. I’ll take care of it. Wait for me in the study, Olney.” Turning to Emily, he said, a note of regret lacing his voice. “I’ll see you later for supper.”

Emily left the study, wobbly and breathless, surprised that she was still able to walk.