Page 18 of The Forbidden Lord
“I won’t.”
“You might be surprised.” When Emily shot her a skeptical glance, she grinned. “It’s more common than you think for people to enjoy pretending to be what they aren’t. You attended Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire. Didn’t you notice how people become different creatures when they don costumes? How they’re emboldened to be wild?”
She thought of her wanton response to Lord Blackmore. “I did.”
Lady Dundee covered Emily’s hand with her plump one. “It’s a common response, and this is no different. Half the members of good society live a pretense every day. One more young woman acting a part won’t bother a soul, and it might save Sophie from a disastrous future.” She smiled. “Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild. And it hurts no one.”
“I-I shall try. Although if someone engages me in a battle of wits, I’m not sure I’ll be convincing.”
“Speak the first thing that comes into your head, and you’ll be fine. That’s what I do. Everyone’s so busy trying to impress one another that honesty generally takes them by surprise.”
“Be honest in my dishonesty?”
“Something like that.” Lady Dundee squeezed her hand, then released it.
Emily straightened her long gloves. Well, at least she needn’t worry about seeing Lord Blackmore tonight. Lady Dundee had made it quite clear was that this was a marriage mart, and if ever a man was set on avoiding marriage, it was him.
Ever since they’d arrived in London, she’d dreaded the day she would cross his path. It was foolish, of course. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. But still, she worried.
Well, he wouldn’t be around tonight, thank heavens.
The carriage slowed, and Emily glanced out the window. Goodness gracious, there was an ocean of coaches out there. This must be what was called “a crush.”
Wonderful. Nothing like having a huge audience to witness one’s humiliation.
Now they were approaching the front of the mansion, where liveried footmen awaited each guest’s arrival. Crippling fear overtook her.
Reaching up to fluff the corkscrew curls surrounding Emily’s face, Lady Dundee said reassuringly, “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be at your side as much as I can, so don’t hesitate to ask questions if you’re confused about anything.” Lady Dundee lowered her voice as the carriage halted. “Remember, you’re in masquerade. You’re Lady Emma Campbell, daughter of a respectable Scottish laird from a venerable old family. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
Lady Emma Campbell. It still sounded strange to her ears. They’d considered letting Emily use her Christian name, but hadn’t wanted anyone closely acquainted with Lord Nesfield to wonder at the coincidence that his niece and the daughter of his rector had the same one. “Emma” was at least similar enough to “Emily” to prevent her from growing confused.
So now she was Lady Emma, miraculously transformed overnight from a common nobody to a lady of the realm. But it was all fruitless, she thought as she and Lady Dundee descended from the carriage. She would fool no one. They could dress her in the rarest satin and put pearls in her hair. They could teach her the waltz and the language of the fan. But they couldn’t make her into an earl’s daughter no matter how hard they tried. One day she’d be found out—she had no doubt.
Pray heaven she finished her task before it happened.
With casual unconcern for the sleeves of his cashmere tailcoat, Jordan leaned out the window of his carriage and called up to his coachman, “What the devil is taking so long?”
“Sorry, milord, but there’s a cart o’erturned in the lane. It’ll take ten minutes at least for them to clear it.”
Jordan jerked out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
“I suppose we’re very late,” his friend George Pollock remarked from across the carriage.
“Yes. Thanks to you and your vanity.” He tucked his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “I should have left you to hire a hack instead of waiting while you dithered over which waistcoat to wear. And how many cravats did you ruin before you could tie one to your satisfaction? Ten? Fifteen?”
“Probably twenty,” Pollock said blithely. Wetting one finger, he used it to smooth a wayward lock of his blond hair into place. “What good is having money if you can’t spend it on cravats?”
“You should have spent it getting your deuced carriage repaired, so I didn’t have to wait for you.”
“Relax, old chap. Since when do you care if we’re late to a marriage mart? You’re not looking for a wife.”
“No, but Ian is. God knows why he has this urge to marry, but I promised to help him. I was supposed to reach Merrington’s before Lord Nesfield and his daughter Sophie leave, and since it’s nearly eleven already, that’s unlikely, isn’t it?”
Ian Lennard, the Viscount St. Clair, was Jordan’s closest friend, and rarely asked favors of anyone. It galled Jordan to fail him now because of Pollock’s ridiculous vanity.
“St. Clair won’t mind if you’re late,” Pollock said. “He’s not that desperate. If you don’t arrive in time, he’ll merely try his scheme on her at the next ball.”
“It doesn’t matter. I said I’d be there, and I will. I keep my promises.”
