Page 29 of The Viscount's Promise
Willbridge grasped his hand, shaking it heartily. Malcolm felt as if he had signed a deal with the devil himself.
“I owe you,” Willbridge said. “Damn it, but I’ll owe you for a lifetime after this.” He grinned, looking to the door. “I’d best get back,” he murmured. “I’ve a wife to collect, after all.”
Malcolm watched his friend leave. It was ironic, really. He had come into this room hoping for release from his promise. And had somehow managed to embroil himself in another.
He was an idiot, in every sense of the word.
Chapter 11
After emerging from the music room, Emily was more determined than ever to find a way—any way—to make sure the coming trip to London never happened.
The question was, how? Her mind in a fog from the encounter with Lord Morley, she lacked the energy to work it out properly. Through the long evening after Caleb and Imogen’s departure, she huddled in her corner, watching the gaiety about her with a confused sorrow. A new desire had begun to stir in her breast, to live a normal life, to attract the love of a man, to become a wife and mother. Pointless, she knew, though that knowledge could not eradicate it.
Perhaps it was this awakened yearning, and her certainty that she would never see it realized herself, that made her so achingly aware of the young couples making eyes at one another, so full of naïve hope for the future. They were all no doubt affected by the romance that a wedding brought. Especially this particular wedding, with a couple who loved each other to distraction. There would be more than one engagement announced at the end of the fortnight.
It had been as she’d watched a young man escort a blushing lady for a stroll in the gardens that her mind cleared enough for realization to strike. If these other young women could find their future husbands in such a setting, why couldn’t Daphne? After all, wasn’t the whole point of the London trip to find a husband for her? And if Daphne were to become engaged in the next two weeks, there would be no London trip. And Emily would be able to stay here at Willowhaven and away from men like Lord Morley and his ilk.
Lord Morley. She shuddered just thinking his name. Never had she felt such burning shame as when she thought of the scene with him in the music room. His disgust for her could not have been more obvious. The horror in his eyes had been clear, his violent recoil from her saying more than words what he thought of her disfigurement.
And, to make her humiliation complete, she found she still wished for him to kiss her.
Stupid, stupid girl. Her cheeks burned in shame. She had thought perhaps they had begun to be friends. Her heart, apparently, had hoped for even more. Well, she refused to be duped liked that again, to be made to feel a fool. Her heart had been broken enough for a thousand lifetimes.
The breakfast room was still empty save for a lone footman by the time she emerged from the music room later the next morning. She had hoped that Daphne and some of the young, unattached men of the party would be present. She did not have much time to find out who her sister might have developed an interest in, after all. But it seemed everyone was still sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s drinking and dancing. No doubt the great majority of them wouldn’t peel their eyes open before noon. Tamping down her impatience, she determined to eat heartily. Best to prepare for the coming course of action.
She had settled into a seat at one end of the long mahogany table, her back to the door, when she heard someone enter. Her heart stuttered in her chest, a tingling awareness breezing over her skin. It could not possibly be Lord Morley, she thought in desperation. Fate could not be so cruel. She knew deep down, however, it could be no one else.
He stopped inside the doorway. For a moment she thought he would turn right around and head back out. She prayed he would. The last thing she wanted on this earth was to come face-to-face with him.
His guilt must be a small burden indeed, if not nonexistent, for he came into the room and moved past her. When he was within view, he dipped his head in a sober manner.
“Lady Emily.”
For the first time in her life, Emily had the urge to give the cut direct. But her good breeding would not allow it, no matter how desperately she wished. Despicably polite creature that she was, she lifted her chin a fraction and gritted, “My lord.”
He looked surprised at the acknowledgement. Something like gratitude or relief flared briefly in his eyes. Before she could understand it, he turned from her and began to fill his plate at the sideboard.
Emily attempted to return her attention to her meal. But the toast suddenly seemed dry as sawdust, the eggs bland, the chocolate too sweet. Disgusted, she pushed the plate aside and reached for theTimes. Yet after scanning over the freshly ironed pages, she could find nothing to hold her interest. In desperation she began an article on the completion of some canal in Newport Pagnall but was in the middle before she even knew she had started. Just then, Lord Morley sat directly across from her, and there was no hope for it after that. Truly, the table held a dozen people or better. Must he choose the one seat where she could not help but meet his eyes? Carefully folding the paper, knowing a losing battle when she saw one, she made a move to rise.
“Please don’t.”
Lord Morley’s voice, softer and gentler than she had ever heard it, stopped her halfway out of her seat. She should not acknowledge him, just turn and leave without a word. Looking his way had never done her any good. But her traitorous eyes would not heed a direct order and shot a glance at him anyway.
That he appeared completely miserable should have had her gloating in triumph. Instead she felt a lowering sadness. Without meaning to, she sank back into her chair. The footman, who had rushed forward to assist her, stepped back and took up his post at the sideboard once again.
When Lord Morley stayed silent, she quirked her eyebrow at him in question. He flushed—actually flushed—and swallowed hard. “I would not have you leave on my account,” he said.
“I see no reason to stay, my lord. I think we said everything we had to say to one another yesterday.”
“I would apologize again for my part in hurting you. Though I expect it will not make a bit of difference.”
She merely stared at him, refusing to be baited into offering forgiveness. So he felt sorry for himself, did he? Well, good. Let him regret what he had done. Let him wallow in his guilt, positively drown in it.
The silence between them stretched and grew. Lord Morley seemed to be at a loss in the face of her stubborn silence. When it appeared no more was forthcoming, she planted her hands on the table and began to rise, the footman rushing forward again to help.
“You never told your brother about what you overheard.”
Again she dropped into her seat. The footman once again scurried back to his spot. “No.”
