Page 41 of Lady Like
Outside the tent flap, Emily hears each of Alexander’s words like the fall of an ax.
Yes, I’ll marry you.
All this while, Harry wanted to marry the man Emily had set her sights upon, and let Emily chase him like an idiotic puppy, for what?
Her own amusement? It may have taken the duke time to accept Harry’s proposal, but clearly they had been enjoying each other and clearly Harry had known it was leading toward this and yet she had still —still!
— pretended to offer assistance in Emily’s matrimonial designs on Alexander Bolton.
Every goddamn thing Harry had told Emily has been a trick meant to sabotage her, from the whiskey to this stupid yellow dress.
She feels suddenly foolish and ungainly in it.
How could she fall for all that fearless dandelion bunk, and Harry’s cruel tricks, and have a scandalous outing, men find it thrilling twaddle?
At her side, Violet says, “What are they saying?” effectively drowning out Harry’s response to the duke, though Emily is certain she can guess it. Emily shakes her head, hoping Violet will understand and fall silent, but instead her cousin says, “What is it? Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“They’re getting married,” Emily whispers.
“Who is?”
“Harry.”
“Harry? Your Harry? To whom?”
“She’s not my Harry,” Emily says. She feels small and lost as a bead dropped on a dirty floor.
She should have known. She’d suspected from the start that Harry’s attack upon her at the Majorbanks’s ball was fueled by jealousy.
How silly she had been not to listen to her own instincts.
Instead, she had let this woman get her drunk on fine wine and theater and bloody Sappho and now she was full of regret with no one to blame but herself.
“Miss Sergeant,” someone says behind her.
Collin Lockhart is standing at her shoulder, one hand extended like he had been about to touch her.
She jumps in surprise at his nearness, and he startles too, spilling the cup of punch he had been carrying down a shirt already spotted with blood.
“Apologies, I thought you heard me. I did call your name.”
Emily can think of nothing to say. Her head is spinning. Her heart is throbbing in her chest. She finally manages to squeak, “Harry…”
“She should recover fully,” Collin says, misinterpreting her anxiety. “A separated shoulder and a crack on the head that we’ll watch closely. She’ll be glad you’re here—she was asking after you.”
Emily feels as though she might faint. All she can think to say is, “Your sister and Rochester are paramours.”
Collin stares down into the empty punch glass. “Of a sort.”
“He wants to marry her.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely—”
Violet interrupts. “He’s just proposed.”
“Has he?” Collin pales, then clears his throat and says stiffly, “Well then. Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
“How long have they been coupled?” Emily asks.
“Since March, I think,” Collin replies. “Harry made a play for him at the Majorbanks’s ball, though they’ve known each other for years. Please, come in. Harry is keen to see you.”
And before Emily can tell him that she’d rather sink into the earth and die a maid than have to face Harriet Lockhart and the Duke of Rochester gazing adoringly at each other, Collin has pushed back the flap of the tent and ushered them inside.