Chapter 20
Just after dawn the next day Iris caught the scullery girl whispering to the milkmaid at the kitchen door. Iris realized too late what had happened, but one had to expect that the servants had heard the drama in the entry hall. There was nothing to do for it but smile mysteriously when the rest of the staff begged her for more information. She refused to answer. The rumor spread.
It appeared that an earl would step in where others had been hesitant to tread. Hatherwood would never again view Miss Rowland as an on-the-shelf eccentric. Her behavior, her history, and her bloodlines would be scrutinized as usual.
But one would not be analyzing Emily for amusement. The question in everyone’s mind asked how it was that she, of all girls, had attracted an earl?
And what could one do to emulate her?
? ? ?
Emily’s father met her at the bottom of the stairs early the next afternoon. She averted her gaze and offered no greeting. He took her chin in his hand to force her to look at him. “Emily,” he said, as she braced for another confrontation. “I knew you were unhappy. I knew you were lonely. But I never thought you would sacrifice what little standing we have to behave without a backward glance to propriety.”
She sighed. “It didn’t start out as an impropriety.”
“Scandal rarely does. It is one small misstep after another until you’re up to your neck in a sea of muck.”
“It wasn’t what you think it is.”
“No?”
No. In many ways what had happened was worse. Society might disagree, but Emily valued her life above her reputation. The failed debutante she had once been would have to die if Emily was given a chance to live. But she couldn’t explain this to her father. He sought his solutions in a bottle. And yet he was so different when he was sober. Gentle. Caring. She was ashamed that she had caused him distress.
“I was in my cups last night,” he admitted. “You had gone to the party without telling me. I’d fallen asleep,” he continued, “and when I woke up and saw you had gone, I went straight to Lord Fletcher’s house to find you. On the way a peculiar fancy crossed my mind. I imagined I heard your mother telling me that you were in trouble somehow.”
“I suppose I was,” she said, too guilty to meet his gaze. But she had told him about the party, knowing he was too drunk to understand, knowing he had forbidden her from attending.
“I never dreamt you had disobeyed me to meet a lover.”
“I didn’t.” She edged around him. He followed her to the drawing room.
“How long has this romance been brewing?”
“Well, he was Michael’s friend before I met him, and—”
His face darkened. “I wish you hadn’t felt the need to keep your romance a secret. Did you learn nothing from the pain your mother caused?”
“I have lived with that pain every day of my life,” she said quietly. “I can feel it between you and Michael every time he comes home.”
“Then why would you engage in such deception, knowing what the price might be?”
“I was lonely, Papa.”
“You have friends. You have that little nitwit Lucy and your lady’s maid.”
“I wanted a husband.”
“Well, an earl is not a bad catch.” He shook his head, clearly confused. “You evaded my answer. How long have you known Shalcross?”
About five hours longer than you have, she wanted to shout. And that he was marrying her only for the good of God and country. Instead, she said, “I know him best through Michael.”
He sat down on the sofa beside her. “Forgive me for what will surely sound like an insult. But I cannot help wondering why a man of his rank would choose a country maid for a bride when there must be a hundred women who would better fit the bill.” He might be a drunk and neglectful parent, but he was not without perception.
Emily shrugged. “I suppose it was in the cards. Destiny, you might say.”
“Destiny,” he repeated in chagrin. “I assumed you would settle down with a nondescript gentleman like Camden.”
“Are you complaining because I am marrying an earl?”
“You have not exchanged vows with his lordship yet. I shall withhold judgment until he meets you at the altar. I also think it would be decent of him to call on us today instead of waiting until Sunday.”
“I understand that he had other business plans to arrange. He might have wanted to give us time to settle down.”
Or perhaps he had simply gone.
? ? ?
Damien did not call at the house at all that day. He did, however, send a messenger to the baron to apologize and to say he looked forward to tea on Sunday. Emily hid behind the door as her father hesitated to reply.
What could he do? Emily wondered.
Should he hunt down Damien, who might be on the road this moment, or should he appear to agree, hoping that Sunday would bring a desirable outcome?
“Sunday it is,” he said after a long pause.
The messenger bowed, and Emily released her breath. “You don’t think he’s going to come, do you?”
Her father frowned at her. “He will come, or I shall lead a chase to drag him back for disgracing you.”
She smiled wanly. “With the vicar?”
“And his wife.”
An hour later a basket of long-stemmed red and white hothouse roses arrived for Emily. She pulled out the card that read:
For my beloved from—
D
And behind her she heard her father calling a maid to put the earl’s flowers in a vase that should be prominently displayed on the mantel.
Emily pressed the card to her heart. Beloved, he’d written. What a rogue. Still, it was a beautiful word. It went perfectly with his gift of the gorgeous roses, which she decided to enjoy, even if they were only a token gesture.