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T he hard settee in her mother’s drawing room was not made for relaxing, but then guests were not here to unwind. Instead they were here to learn the latest on-dit or to triumph in being the one to pass on the newest piece of gossip. Almost every sitting room Emily had been in was the same.

But not the Dashworth brothers’ house. Even Glanmore House’s more formal rooms were more comfortable than this one.

Emily flushed warm as she remembered how she and Freddie had recently put the Blue Lounge to use; it was almost as if her skin were back there brushing against the soft fabric as her husband praised her.

She pressed her hand to her neck; it was warm to the touch.

Emily caught her mother’s eye and caught sight of anger lurking in the depths.

Perhaps her blush was visible on her cheeks, an unladylike reaction according to her mother.

Or maybe her mother was cross because Emily hadn’t said anything in a long while.

Emily stifled a sigh. There was nothing she could add to her mother’s discussion with Arabella Winstone on Lady Albrighton’s yellow hat.

Having neither seen the hat nor Lady Albrighton in some weeks, it was difficult to comment on the dullest conversation that had ever taken place in the history of the world .

Emily turned away from the hidden message in her mother’s expression and eyed the cakes on the gold-rimmed plate in front of her.

They were there for display only; neither her mother nor Arabella Winstone would be so vulgar as to eat any of them.

Emily’s stomach rumbled so loudly she could hear it as well as feel it against her hands, which rested in her lap.

She had eaten a hearty breakfast, the Dashworth brothers dined like kings at every meal and the first one of the day was no exception, but that had been hours ago and now this food was tantalisingly close.

Her fingers itched to reach over and pick up a cake.

She leaned forward, freezing at an odd angle when Arabella Winstone finally addressed a remark to her. ‘I understand it’s your debut tonight, Emily, darling.’

Emily had no idea why Arabella called her darling; they had never been close. The way she said it almost sounded like an insult. ‘I have been out for many years, Mrs Winstone.’

Arabella tittered. ‘Yes, of course I know how long it is since your very first season all those years ago.’ Emily briefly contemplated launching a swathe of pastries at Arabella’s neatly pinned coiffure, not to hurt but to inconvenience; who knew how long it would take to pick out crumbling pastry from her hair.

However, it would be a waste of perfectly good food, so she managed to restrain herself.

‘It will, however, be your first social event as Countess Blackmore,’ continued Arabella.

‘All eyes will be on you and your husband.’

Arabella’s eyes gleamed as Emily’s stomach turned to water; she hadn’t thought of tonight’s social engagement as anything other than to be endured quickly before returning home.

Being married hadn’t suddenly transformed her into someone who loved large gatherings, but she had been more concerned about how she was going to arrange her features when Freddie was swept away by his many friends.

She had even practised a soft, secretive smile in the mirror and was fairly certain she had perfected it.

She did not want to take any enjoyment away from Freddie, did not want him to feel as if he had lost anything by marrying her.

He would never know that she was anxious and uncomfortable; he would not feel the need to stay by her side because he felt sorry for her.

Now that she knew him, she knew that he would make that sacrifice for her, but she did not want him to have to.

Arabella had added another layer of awfulness to the evening and by the malicious smile playing around the edge of her lips, she knew it.

Emily would not allow her the satisfaction.

‘I am sure there are more interesting things to capture everyone’s attention. I believe the Beaumaris family are to have twelve ice sculptures.’

‘Oh no, indeed. I have heard that the Ton is desperate to see you and Lord Frederick together. It was such a quick engagement.’ Arabella tittered again, glancing pointedly towards Emily’s stomach.

An icy wave spread through Emily’s body as she finally understood Arabella’s insinuation.

There must be a rumour circling in the Ton and everyone thought that Emily and Freddie had married because they had pre-empted their wedding night.

Or if there wasn’t already, there would be once Arabella was out this evening.

Her skin burned again and Arabella’s malevolent smile grew, seeming to take her heated face as an admission of guilt.

‘I hardly think four weeks counts as a rushed engagement,’ her mother interjected, adding fuel to the fire by her interjection.

Arabella made a sound that was neither an agreement nor a disagreement.

Her mother’s lips thinned. It was impossible for either Emily or her mother to refute the allegations any further because Arabella had not voiced them.

Emily could not understand why her mother spent time with the awful woman.

She reached over and snagged a lemon tart.

Its deliciously sour sweetness burst on her tongue and she almost missed the smug look Arabella Winstone shot her.

‘Did you have to eat that cake?’ her mother hissed, after Arabella had finally said her goodbyes.

‘They were there to eat, Mama.’ Her mother’s jaw dropped open and heady-joy shot through Emily. That was the first time she had stood up to her mother. It wasn’t big but the same thrill coursed through her as when one experienced the first burst of speed during a horse ride.

‘Be that as it may, now Arabella thinks you have begun to eat for two.’

Emily’s triumph burst instantly. ‘Surely she did not say such an outrageous thing to you.’

Her mother’s back was ramrod straight, her eyes steely. ‘She did not need to; it was obvious.’

‘How can it be obvious when it is not true?’ The delicious lemon tart was turning sour in her stomach. ‘The first time I lay with my husband was the day we were married.’

‘Emily!’ Her mother’s eyes were wide, her knuckles white as she gripped the arm rest. ‘Do not be so vulgar!’

‘It is not me who is being crude,’ Emily cried.

‘It is Arabella Winstone who is making obscene assumptions.’ Emily’s knees trembled, but she could hold her head high in this.

She had done nothing wrong, aside from trespassing and kissing a nearly naked man, she reminded herself.

But nobody, nobody , knew about that other than a small handful of people who would not tell a single soul.

As far as the world knew, she was blameless.

Four weeks was not that quick. It had seemed like an eternity when she was living through it.

‘Tonight, you must wear that silver dress,’ her mother told her, no hint of softening in her stance .

Emily’s heart sank. ‘But it is dreadfully tight.’

‘Precisely.’ Her mother nodded briskly. ‘No one will be able to accuse you of anticipating your marriage vows if they see you in that. You could not hide a speck of dust in that one.’

Emily would potentially die from asphyxiation, but her mother would be happy in the knowledge that, although her daughter was no more, at least everyone would know she hadn’t been pregnant on her wedding day. ‘Mother, I…’

‘Emily,’ her mother interrupted before she could protest further, ‘I shall be incredibly displeased if you do not wear that dress this evening. It is the least you can do. I shall never forget the horror of finding you in such a disgraceful embrace. It still gives me heart palpitations.’ Her mother pressed a hand to her chest and the fight drained out of Emily.

She may not be with child, but she had behaved badly when she had strayed into Glanmore House’s gardens.

On that she could not argue. Be that as it may, she could not find it in herself to regret it.

‘Very well, Mother, I shall wear the dress you suggest,’ Emily capitulated and immediately wished that she hadn’t. Her mother merely nodded as if she had assumed her daughter to comply all along, which, Emily supposed, was to be expected.