Page 57 of Three Scandals for the Wild Duke

She might as well savor these delightful little moments while she could.

“Oh, he’s always eating, believe me,” his mother gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.

“Of course he is. He’s a man, Frannie,” Emma chuckled, glancing at the baby with an amused sparkle in her eye. “That species are legendary for their appetites,” she added, her tone playful.

“BOTH appetites,” Agnes chimed in, winking at Frances, who nodded in agreement.

Emma felt a warm blush spread across her cheeks at the realization of what her married friends alluded to. Memories of George’s kiss, his touch on the balcony, suddenly flashed through her mind, sending a thrilling pulse through her. If she could relive that moment with him again, she would, she admitted to herself with a start.

“When you get married, you’ll understand what we mean, Emma,” her friends teased, their giggles filling the air.

Emma couldn’t help but join in the laughter, despite the gentle teasing at her expense. The baby’s babbles added to the joyous cacophony, as if he too thought the noise a perfect opportunity to contribute to the conversation. They all watched his animated excitement and laughed even more.

“You are going to grow up to be quite the charmer, aren’t you?” Agnes cooed affectionately, dropping a gentle kiss on his tiny nose.

The afternoon tea was indeed rejuvenating. The lively banter and the baby’s delightful company provided Emma with a much-needed distraction.

But as with all good things, her time with her friends eventually came to an end, and Emma found herself facing the unwelcome prospect of returning home. She dreaded what awaited her there.

“Quickly now. Hurry, hurry,” her mother, Caroline, chided the moment Emma stepped into the foyer. “I was just about to sendword for you to return home at once,” Caroline added, pulling on Emma’s sleeve and hastily ushering her toward the staircase.

“What is going on, mother?” Emma asked, her voice tinged with both confusion and a rising sense of alarm.

“The Marquess of Neads is coming to meet you at last,” her mother announced, the words striking Emma like a physical blow.

A wave of nausea threatened as her stomach twisted in dread. “We must get you changed and ready to receive him at once,” Caroline insisted, her tone brooking no argument as she practically dragged Emma toward her bedchamber.

This sudden flurry of attention from her mother was both unprecedented and unwanted since their return from London. It was the sort of attention that Emma found oppressive and suffocating, not the loving, nurturing kind she longed for.

Half an hour later, Emma was dressed in a gown that felt like a costume of compliance. She stood stiffly in her father’s study, the room feeling smaller by the moment as the Marquess of Neads circled her. The Marquess, a withered old man with a drooping bad eye and even worse breath, examined her as though she were livestock rather than a lady, making her skin crawl under his gaze.

Neads was here not so much to meet her but to inspect her, Emma realized with a sinking heart. He hardly spoke directly to her, directing all his queries and observations to her fatherinstead. When he did address her, it was only to issue commands that made her feel more like an object on display than a person. “Turn around, girl… Raise your chin higher… Let’s have a look at your teeth…” Each command chipped away at her dignity, and Emma fought the urge to retch.

“Yes, yes. Those hips look wide enough to bear my sons,” the Marquess squinted through his one good eye, examining her as though she were a mare at market. Emma’s revulsion deepened, a visceral response to being appraised in such a manner.

The Marquess even went so far as to lean closer and sniff her hair, an act that breached all decorum and personal space. Emma instinctively recoiled, the proximity far too close for comfort and utterly disturbing.

As she pulled back, her gaze darted to her mother, searching for some semblance of support or intervention. Instead, she met Caroline’s eyes, which held a stern warning against any form of protest.

“Not bad… Not bad…” Neads muttered to himself, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort he inflicted. Emma felt a cold dread settle over her.

“How old did you say she was again, Dewsbury?” The Marquess addressed her father, his gaze remaining unsettlingly fixed on Emma.

“One and twenty,” her father replied promptly.

“Still young and fruitful. She would do, Dewsbury,” he concluded, finally turning back to address the Baron directly. The words, so casually uttered, made Emma’s skin crawl, a deep sense of objectification washing over her.

By the time the Marquess departed, Emma was left feeling diminished and dehumanized. Her father, sensing her distress yet seemingly indifferent to it, added insult to injury. He glared at her with a harshness that bordered on cruelty. “You will live a very happy life with the Marquess,” he declared, his tone challenging, almost daring her to contradict him.

Emma had barely stepped out of her father’s study, her emotions a whirl, when she encountered the butler, who promptly announced a visitor.

“Lady Olivia Winger is waiting in the drawing room,” he informed her.

Surprised yet relieved to have a friendly face to see, Emma hurried to the drawing room. Olivia’s presence was a welcome reprieve from the turmoil that had just unfolded. She returned Olivia’s warm hug with equal fervor, grateful for the comfort it offered.

After ordering some tea for them, Emma took her seat opposite her friend. “I trust you had a pleasant journey back?” Olivia inquired, her voice carrying a light, conversational tone.

“Exhausting, but otherwise uneventful,” Emma replied, choosing her words carefully to mask the true nature of her discomfort during the journey with her parents.

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