Page 63 of Three Scandals for the Wild Duke

His hand moved up and down her back, soothing. He was different tonight—unlike the man she left in Wiltshire. This George was the one she dreamed of… The one her heart was telling her to hold on to for the rest of her existence.

He pulled back and looked down at her, and when he cupped her face and brushed her cheeks with his thumbs, Emma realized she was crying. Very slowly, he leaned forward and kissed both her cheeks, then lips. A light inside her flickered—the one that had dimmed since her return to Town.

“Come,” George whispered as he released her from their embrace, guiding her to a nearby bench. Once seated, the cool night air seemed less chilling with his presence beside her.

When he settled next to her, Emma began tentatively, her gaze fixed on the ground, “I am sorry you had to witness that…”

“Do not apologize. Your father’s actions are not yours. You were only a victim.” He shook his head firmly, dismissing her apologies with a kind severity. Reaching for her hand, he turned her palm upwards and tenderly dropped a kiss into it, an act that felt like a seal over what she felt for him.

“Why are you marrying the Marquess of Neads, Emma?” George’s voice was gentle, yet the weight of the question was grave. She found it difficult to focus, her mind muddled by the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes. “The Marquess is not the best choice for a husband,” he added before Emma could muster her thoughts into words.

“Does it appear as though I have much of a choice in the matter, George?” Emma returned miserably, her voice a soft echo of defeat. She had resigned herself to her fate, too weary to entertain thoughts of resistance. The battle, it seemed, had been drained from her.

“There is always a choice, Emma,” George insisted vehemently, his tone sharpening. A fire ignited in the depths of his gaze—a fierce, determined flame that Emma had never seen before. His eyes locked onto hers, searching, almost imploring as he added, “Youhave a choice, Emma.”

His words stirred a flicker of curiosity beneath her resignation. Emma found herself wondering, perhaps for the first time with a glint of hope, what he meant by suggesting she still had a choice. His assertion beckoned her to unravel his intent, to find the kernel of possibility he seemed to see.

George wrapped his arms around her again, and she buried her face in his chest, inhaling his scent. If she could remain here forever, she would. “George.”

“Yes, Emma?”

“What do you mean by?—”

Her words were abruptly cut off by a sudden shriek and a collective gasp that ripped through the calm of the night.

“He has done it again. He has ruined another lady,” a woman’s voice exclaimed somewhere behind them. Emma’s head snapped up, her eyes wide as they met the sight of several matrons staring at them, their expressions a blend of scandalized and disapproving. The small crowd around them swelled rapidly, whispers buzzing and swirling through the night air like a gathering storm, each syllable heavy with judgment and censure.

George pulled away from her and rose, while she was unable to even move from the bench. Cold dread settled over her as the guests’ whispers encroached like specters poised to devour her remaining dignity.

At the fore of their spectators stood none other than Emma’s father, his presence marked by a wickedly triumphant grin that spread across his face like a stain. The sight of him sent a cold shiver down Emma’s spine.

He summoned the crowd to find us. To trap me.

CHAPTER 26

George blinked, hoping the throng of matrons and ladies encircling them would dissolve into the ether. The scene was disturbingly familiar, dredging up memories he had long since buried. He pinched the bridge of his nose, praying with desperation that this was but a nightmare that would dissipate upon waking.

Yet, when he glanced down at Emma, seated on the bench, her face pale and stricken, he knew this was no mere figment of his imagination. The woman before him was not a ghost from his past but an unforgiving reality.

Murmurs buzzed through the crowd, growing louder and more insistent. At the forefront stood Baron Dewsbury, his lips curved into a smug, almost feline grin. The sight of the man made George’s stomach churn.By God! This is no coincidence!The Baron had orchestrated this debacle, inviting witnesses to revel in George’s disgrace with no care for his daughter’s reputation.

George’s hands clenched at his sides. Never had he encountered a more contemptible man.

"Where is she? What’s happened?" A voice cut through the whispers. The crowd parted as the Marquess of Neads pushed his way forward. He halted before George and Emma, his eyes darting between them. The air grew heavy, the spectators seemingly holding their breath.

The Marquess’ gaze finally settled on George. "Damnation!" he muttered under his breath.

George’s heart hammered in his chest. He had to find a way out of this wretched trap, not just for his own sake, but for Emma’s as well. The crowd's judgment bore down on him, but he refused to crumble. Not now, not ever.

“How dare you, Seymore!” Neads yelled, his face reddening and contorting with fury. “Do you realize what I spent to obtain her?” His words were sharp, and the guests gasped.

George winced. The words were dehumanizing, reducing a person to a mere commodity. “Choose your words carefully, Neads,” he warned, his voice surprising even himself with its steadiness, but he scarcely recognized the cold edge it contained.

“This is a hoax!” Neads continued, now directing his ire at the Baron. “I have been cheated. The entire English aristocracy is a hoax! Explain yourself, Dewsbury,” he demanded, his voice trembling with righteous indignation.

Dewsbury's eyes flickered nervously, his earlier confidence waning under the Marquess' scrutiny. He let out a small, self-conscious whimper, his gaze darting around the crowd as if seeking an escape.

“Why did you not tell me Miss Lovell’s affections are otherwise engaged?”

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