Page 256 of Once an Angel
of Foxworth Seminary and the bane of Emily's existence— Cecille du Pardieu.
Chapter 22
Too soon, the day will come when you take your
heart away from your daddy and give
it to another. . . .
Emily slunk to her chair beneath the curious stares of Harvey and Herbert. Harold was too busy slurping his chowder to notice her. As she sank down, she stole a look at her old nemesis. Cecille looked as prim and elegant as a Dresden statuette in a froth of silver-gray silk trimmed in tiny blue roses. Her hair was knotted in a stark chignon. Loose tendrils softened the heart-shaped angles of her face.
Emily smoothed the stiff ruffles of her bodice, wondering if anyone would notice if she sawed them off with her knife. Compared to Cecille's polished sophistication, she felt like an overgrown six-year-old.
As Cecille draped her graceful fingers over Justin's arm, Emily's hand tightened around the ivory hilt of her spoon.
A test. She must simply think of this as her trial by fire. She had practically bitten off her tongue in the past week to maintain the image of the perfect young lady. If she survived tonight, Justin would be
forced to see her as a woman, not a child.
"So nice of you to join us, Emily," the duchess brayed. "I should like to introduce you to the Comtesse Guermond and her charming daughter—"
"We've met," Emily mumbled into her chowder.
"I'm sure I don't remember," the countess said. She was a tiny creature swathed in lace who chirped rather than talked.
"Mama," Cecille drawled in the French fashion, "Miss Scarborough is that poor dear creature they were discussing at Baroness Gutwild's last week. The one who spent all of those dreary years working at Foxworth's."
Justin laid down his spoon and pushed back his chowder bowl.
Even Harold stopped slurping as she continued, her blue eyes sparkling with malice. "Quite an
industrious little thing, too. You used to give my boots a good polish, didn't you, darling?"
Emily swallowed, remembering Cecille's shrieks at finding a dead mouse stuffed in the patent leather
toe of her brand new jemimas.
She grinned sweetly. "Every chance I got."
Cecille's eyes narrowed, but she recovered by fixing Justin with an adoring gaze. Emily's stomach churned.
"You must realize, Your Grace, that you are the gossip of every salon in London. It was so benevolent
of you to open your heart and home to an unfortunate orphan in this Christmas season. There's even
talk of organizing a society in your name to help rescue other"—she cast Emily a sly glance—'' urchins."
Justin met Emily's gaze, his eyes somber beneath the muted glow of the gasoliers. "It was the least I
could do."
"Yes, it was," Emily replied, tilting her goblet to her lips. "The very least."
She almost choked as the rich, sweet liquid flowed down her throat. Milk, she realized. Crystalline droplets of wine sparkled on Cecille's pink lips. Emily wiped her upper lip with her napkin, praying she didn't have a foamy mustache to rival Herbert's.
Justin had given her milk just like some babe. She set down the goblet with a deceptively mild thump
and fixed Cecille with her most innocent gaze. "My guardian has been the very soul of benevolence."
