Page 9 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Four

Minute attention to propriety stops the growth of virtue.

— MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, ENGLISH FEMINIST WRITER, A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN

Emily shivered and gathered her fur-edged pelisse more tightly about her.

Beyond the frosted window of the Nesfield carriage, London’s streets glimmered beneath their dose of spring fog.

As a child, she’d visited the city only once with her parents, leaving her with vague memories of pinnacled towers and jam tarts.

This week, however, London had left a more distinct impression.

Hesitant young ladies and their preening mamas in a long succession of millinery and seamstress’s shops.

Endless trips in the carriage through muddy, people-choked streets.

And everywhere, the task of pretending she was Lady Dundee’s daughter newly come from Scotland.

Why had she ever thought Willow Crossing dull and uninspiring? How she missed the pale yellow wash of morning sun on their little garden, the patchwork of open fields, the neat lanes and walks. What she wouldn’t give for a glimpse of home.

Idly she rubbed a circle in the frost on the window so she could peer at the grand houses lining the streets. This was what she was—an onlooker, an outsider. No matter how Lady Dundee presented her, she’d never be part of this world.

Tonight the kind and forgiving moon was absent. There was only the feeble glow of oil lamps that transformed everyday objects into hulking shadows, serving to further lower her spirits. A long sigh escaped her.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Lady Dundee said at her side.

“A little.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, child. After last night, the worst is over. You weathered the presentation at court with the proper amount of modesty. I couldn’t have been more pleased if you’d truly been my daughter.”

The praise warmed Emily. At first, she’d wanted to hate Lady Dundee, but that had soon proved impossible. Though the countess did say outrageous things, she was also friendly and engaging—the ideal companion. She was as different from her brother as sweet cherries from lemons.

Thankfully, Lord Nesfield rarely joined them. He and his sister had decided it would be better if he kept out of sight most of the time, especially since he and “Lady Emma” were supposedly at odds.

“Last night was easy,” Emily said. “You told me when to walk, when to hand my card to the lord-in-waiting, when to curtsy, and when to withdraw. Even a mere rector’s daughter can manage such things. But tonight won’t be so orderly. There will be more chance for error.”

Lady Dundee drew up her long gloves. “Pish-posh. I’ve been watching you, my dear.

You have the natural grace and confidence that comes from good breeding, unlike some of these chits pretending to gentility because their merchant fathers have the wherewithal to keep two carriages.

You were raised with the moral precepts that underlie all civilized behavior. ”

“Oh, yes, the moral precepts,” she said bitterly. “Like deceiving good people into thinking I’m someone I’m not.”

“Why did you agree to help us if you find it so distasteful?”

Emily cursed her quick tongue as she averted her gaze from her companion. “I’m doing it for Sophie, of course. What else?”

“What else indeed?”

“Don’t mind me. I’m merely anxious about this evening. There are conventions of behavior peculiar to your station that I fear I’ll omit in my ignorance.”

There’d been so much to learn—a thousand little nonsensical rules.

Don’t say “my lady” and “my lord” too much, or you’ll sound like a servant.

Never put your knife in your mouth. Apparently, although country manners allowed it, people of high society thought it gauche.

Never overimbibe, for liquor’s effects lead to a woman’s ruin.

She and Lady Dundee had repeated the order of precedence in rank so many times that she had nightmares about some great bishop recoiling from her in disgust because she gave a mere viscount precedence over him.

And who could have ever guessed that learning the newly touted waltz would be so difficult?

“Don’t concern yourself overmuch with the rules,” Lady Dundee told her.

“I can always gloss over some error by explaining that you’re nervous.

It’s only true vulgarity that I can’t hide, and I needn’t worry about that with you.

” She patted Emily’s leg. “Indeed, I may have to prod you to be less refined. Remember your role: you’re my rebellious child.

Otherwise, no man will believe you’d go against your mother and uncle to aid your cousin. ”

Emily fidgeted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the tight corset she’d been forced to wear, the one that pushed her breasts up so shamefully. She’d never worn a corset at home, nor gowns of such rich elegance. Right now, she’d trade them all for her sprigged muslin.

And discomfort made her cranky. “I’m still uncertain what you want me to do. Should I be forward? Flirtatious? Such things are not in my nature.”

“You can’t know what’s in your nature until it’s been tried, can you? If I understand Randolph correctly, you haven’t been much in society. You may find you enjoy flirting with men. I certainly enjoyed it in my day.”

“But you’re more flamboyant than I. And Papa always says—”

“Forget your father and his strictures. Do what you want, Emily. Enjoy yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“You might be surprised.” When Emily shot her a skeptical glance, she grinned.

“It’s more common than you think for people to enjoy pretending to be what they aren’t.

You attended Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire.

Didn’t you notice how people become different creatures when they don costumes? How they’re emboldened to be wild?”

She thought of her wanton response to Lord Blackmore. “I did.”

Lady Dundee covered Emily’s hand with her plump one.

“It’s a common response, and this is no different.

Half the members of good society live a pretense every day.

One more young woman acting a part won’t bother a soul, and it might save Sophie from a disastrous future.

” She smiled. “Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild. And it hurts no one.”

“I-I shall try. Although if someone engages me in a battle of wits, I’m not sure I’ll be convincing.”

“Speak the first thing that comes into your head, and you’ll be fine. That’s what I do. Everyone’s so busy trying to impress one another that honesty generally takes them by surprise.”

“Be honest in my dishonesty?”

“Something like that.” Lady Dundee squeezed her hand, then released it.

Emily straightened her long gloves. Well, at least she needn’t worry about seeing Lord Blackmore tonight. Lady Dundee had made it quite clear was that this was a marriage mart, and if ever a man was set on avoiding marriage, it was him.

Ever since they’d arrived in London, she’d dreaded the day she would cross his path. It was foolish, of course. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. But still, she worried.

Well, he wouldn’t be around tonight, thank heavens.

The carriage slowed, and Emily glanced out the window. Goodness gracious, there was an ocean of coaches out there. This must be what was called “a crush.”

Wonderful. Nothing like having a huge audience to witness one’s humiliation.

Now they were approaching the front of the mansion, where liveried footmen awaited each guest’s arrival. Crippling fear overtook her.

Reaching up to fluff the corkscrew curls surrounding Emily’s face, Lady Dundee said reassuringly, “You’ll do fine.

Don’t worry, I’ll be at your side as much as I can, so don’t hesitate to ask questions if you’re confused about anything.

” Lady Dundee lowered her voice as the carriage halted.

“Remember, you’re in masquerade. You’re Lady Emma Campbell, daughter of a respectable Scottish laird from a venerable old family. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Lady Emma Campbell. It still sounded strange to her ears.

They’d considered letting Emily use her Christian name, but hadn’t wanted anyone closely acquainted with Lord Nesfield to wonder at the coincidence that his niece and the daughter of his rector had the same one.

“Emma” was at least similar enough to “Emily” to prevent her from growing confused.

So now she was Lady Emma, miraculously transformed overnight from a common nobody to a lady of the realm.

But it was all fruitless, she thought as she and Lady Dundee descended from the carriage.

She would fool no one. They could dress her in the rarest satin and put pearls in her hair.

They could teach her the waltz and the language of the fan.

But they couldn’t make her into an earl’s daughter no matter how hard they tried.

One day she’d be found out—she had no doubt.

Pray heaven she finished her task before it happened.

With casual unconcern for the sleeves of his cashmere tailcoat, Jordan leaned out the window of his carriage and called up to his coachman, “What the devil is taking so long?”

“Sorry, milord, but there’s a cart o’erturned in the lane. It’ll take ten minutes at least for them to clear it.”

Jordan jerked out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

“I suppose we’re very late,” his friend George Pollock remarked from across the carriage.

“Yes. Thanks to you and your vanity.” He tucked his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “I should have left you to hire a hack instead of waiting while you dithered over which waistcoat to wear. And how many cravats did you ruin before you could tie one to your satisfaction? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Probably twenty,” Pollock said blithely. Wetting one finger, he used it to smooth a wayward lock of his blond hair into place. “What good is having money if you can’t spend it on cravats?”