Page 6 of A Duke Reformed
Emma forced a smile, partially relieved that the commotion had died down. Lately, she had noticed that Cecilia had formed a habit of questioning their father's every move. Although Emma wanted nothing more but for peace to reign, she couldunderstand why Cecilia was being so cautious. Their father had made one too many mistakes.
In the midst of their brief tranquility that had settled over them, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. The butler, Mr. Harris, appeared in the doorway. "You have a guest, my lord," he answered, bowing slightly. "The Duke of Montclaire, has arrived."
"Did you say the Duke of Montclaire?" Emma asked almost immediately, hoping that she had heard wrongly.
Emma glanced at Cecilia just in time to see her face drain of color as she took a step back. "The duke?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is he doing here?"
Emma's jaw tightened, her earlier softness replaced by a steely resolve."Perhaps Papa had business with him," she said, turning to Howard.
Howard in response, shrugged his shoulders. "I've never met the duke. Before yesterday, I didn't even know His Grace had a son."
"Emma, that man scares me," Cecilia whispered, catching Emma off guard. "He is so intimidating and... brutish. What do you think he wants?"
"I don't know," Emma answered.
"Do you think someone saw us last night?" Cecilia asked, clasping her hands together. "Has he come here to demand my hand in marriage to... salvage his reputation?"
"I don't think that's what it is, Cecilia."
"Because I've had time to think and I do not want to be entangled with that man," she continued speaking in a hurried tone. "It's like you said. I was foolish to do that, and I regret it. The last thing I want is to marry a man that makes it somewhat impossible to breathe in his presence."
Emma turned to Cecilia. "I need you to breathe, sister."
"Has he come here to claim recompense?" she asked again. "Or–"
"Cecilia, enough," Emma said, shooting her a stern glance. "You will compose yourself. We have a guest."
Cecilia drew in a shuddery breath and nodded. "I'm sorry. I just... Emma, you have to help me fix it."
Emma turned back around just as the duke walked into the room, his presence immediately commanding the space. His tall frame seemed to fill the doorway, his dark coat impeccably tailored and his expression unreadable. Those piercing emerald eyes swept over the room, lingering briefly on Cecilia, who instinctively took a step closer to Emma, before settling on Emma herself. There was a sharpness in his gaze, a calculatingedge that made her spine stiffen, but she refused to show any sign of unease. She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting slightly as she met his gaze head-on.
Whatever he was here for, she had to be ready for it. Emma made a mistake, but that was all it was. There was no reason to punish her any further.
CHAPTER THREE
Hours before...
Solomon had grown tired of the London season.
Officially, it had barely begun, but already he felt suffocated by the endless rounds of balls, soirées, and garden parties, each one more stifling than the last. He could swear that people were watching him, whispering amongst themselves and it was entirely exhausting having to pretend that he didn't see or hear them.
He had come to London with the intention of finding his place in society, but now he wondered if the price of belonging was worth the toll it was taking on his sanity. Thetonwas a game he was not familiar with, and the more he spent time in London, the more he realized that he had no interest in playing their game. Yet here he was, trapped in yet another garden party, watching the clock and waiting for it to be over.
"You seem like you're having a lot of fun," Andrew, Solomon's friend remarked, stopping by his side.
Solomon glanced at him and sighed. "Andrew, what are we doing here?"
"Socializing," he answered. "Lord Bolton is a dear friend, and potential business partner. He invites us to a party... we attend. It's how these things work."
Solomon frowned, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. The garden was a sea of pastel gowns and tailored coats, the air thick with the scent of roses and the sound of polite laughter. "Socializing..." he mumbled. "Is that what this is? Because it feels more like a performance. One where I don't know my lines."
Andrew shook his head. "It's your first season, cut yourself some slack. Soon, you'll get the hang of it. In the meantime, it would help tremendously if you do not stand like you're judging everyone. At least wear a smile."
"There's nothing to smile about," he answered.
"Then wear a fake one," he said. "It's all about appearances, my friend. Smile, nod, and for heaven's sake, stop looking like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I would rather be anywhere else," he said stubbornly. "The other day, I used asaladfork for dessert, and LadyFeatherington gave me such ascandalizedlook, you would think I'd insulted her entire lineage. I half-expected her to faint on the spot. I knew I was supposed to use the smaller fork, I just didn't think it mattered that much. Everyone is so bothered about the little things. I have discovered that it is much easier to just stand and do nothing."
