Page 26 of The Viscount's Promise
Cruel fate, however, was not quite done with her. As she turned, with every intention of racing back for the ballroom, one more bit reached her ears.
“So you have to play nursemaid to the girl?”
“Yes.”
She could not move away fast enough.Please, she begged,please don’t let them see me.Please let me escape with a small bit of my shredded pride intact.
Blessedly, it seemed that her prayers were heard. But though she made it back to the ballroom, she found she could not stand to be there. She needed solitude to calm her mind and, more importantly, to heal her heart. She would not let her foolish, traitorous emotions for the man break her.
For Lord Morley did not deserve her tears. Not even one.
Chapter 10
Malcolm parted ways with Tristan at the ballroom doors, glad to be done with their disturbing conversation. More than that, though, he was looking forward to seeing Lady Emily again. Their conversation on the way from the church had been eye-opening. He had seen a side to her that he hadn’t expected, and she had brought him down, however unknowingly, from the ledge he had been on.
He had not even realized such latent panic had been within him, but when faced with Willbridge’s marriage that morning it had reared up, overwhelming him. Would it have cropped up sooner had his attentions and energy not been so focused on Lady Emily these past days? Perhaps. All he knew was she calmed him.
He wanted more of that, more of her.
His steps became more hurried, anticipation to see her again starting up like an itch under his skin. It had nothing to do with his promise to Willbridge. No, he simply wanted to be withher.
He pushed through the crowd, searching for that telltale shock of bright copper hair. To his consternation she was nowhere to be found. The room was quite empty of her presence, almost glaringly so.
Frowning, he moved toward the door that led into the hall. Guests were pouring into the room now, and he felt like a fish swimming upriver as he pushed against them. All the while frustration mounted, liberally laced with concern. Where in the devil was she? Despite her deep dislike of crowds, she would never miss celebrating Caleb and Imogen.
He made it into the hall and glanced down each side, determined to pick a direction and search, when he saw it, the flash of copper hair ducking inside the music room door. Relief filled him. Striding down the quickly emptying hall, he made the room and, without knocking, pushed the door wide and slipped inside.
It was dark here, this part of the house not having been opened to guests. By the shaft of light coming in from the hallway, he saw her at the pianoforte bench. She sat still, her head bowed, an air of despondency hovering around her like a dense fog. Alarmed, he closed the door quietly behind him and hurried forward. Had she been injured? Had anyone—that bastard Lord Randall, perhaps—given her any kind of grief?
He stopped beside her, but if she was aware of his presence she made no indication of it. Dropping down on his haunches, he peered at her through the gloom. “Lady Emily? Are you well?”
She turned her face from him. “Leave me alone,” she whispered brokenly.
Something had definitely occurred to put her in such a state. His mind swam with all manner of things. “Please tell me, has anyone hurt you?”
She cut a glance to him. The expression in her eyes sent a chill straight through his bones. “You could say that,” she said. Her voice, normally so quiet and sweet, was tight with some unnamed emotion.
A surge of protectiveness for this girl washed away all instinct to keep his emotions out of the equation. Whoever it was that had hurt her, he would see to it that they wished they had never been born. “Tell me who,” he urged gruffly, “and I swear, I will make them pay.”
“You will have to look in the mirror, then,” she bit out.
He blinked in incomprehension. “What are you talking about?” He hadn’t seen her since their return from the church. How in blazes could he have been the one to hurt her?
But as he looked at the condemnation that clouded her eyes, he knew. She had heard his conversation with Tristan.
He felt the blood drain from his face. Light-headed, he sat back on his heels. “Oh,” was all he could think to say.
Her lips twisted, pulling her scar tight. “I see you comprehend me now.”
“You must understand—” he began, but she cut a hand through the air. He closed his mouth with a snap.
She rose abruptly. Heart pounding in his ears, a cold sweat filming his skin, he scrambled to his feet. Pushing past him, she strode across the room. He had the sick feeling that it was more to put distance between them than anything else. “I see it now,” she rasped, “the reason you followed me about. Poor, pathetic Lady Emily, who cannot manage herself in a crowd, who must be coddled and protected. How you must have laughed about it.”
“I never laughed, I swear it,” he said. He stepped closer to her. “Yes, your brother asked me to look after you. He is worried for you. But after I came to know you better, it became more than that.”
She spun to face him, and even in the shadows he could see the furious light in her eyes. “Oh, how you compliment me. Do you mean to tell me that had you not been forced into my presence, you would have sought me out? That you would have wanted to stay by my side, to make conversation with me?”
He knew he should lie, to tell her that he would have. But the words could not pass his lips. He had hurt this girl enough; she did not need his dishonesty. He had enough sin on his soul.
