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Authors: Karen Ranney
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being forced to pretend to care.
Damn it. He had to get Emma home, and quickly.
W hen Emma was a child, she had no dreams of being a princess. Perhaps because her father had treated her as if she were one in truth. Anything she wanted, he bestowed on her with generosity and love. He’d purchased a very expensive horse from a next-door neighbor because she’d admired him in the paddock. He’d given her a carriage of her own when she was sixteen, a pretty little thing of midnight blue, with an interior of pale blue velvet upholstery.
“You and your maid can go calling in that,” he said. “A carriage befitting its occupants.”
Perhaps she might have been spoiled had not her mother’s death brought sorrow into her life. Perhaps her father thought to make up, in a small way, for the loss of her mother, a sweet and calm-faced woman with an eternal smile.
Emma remembered being grateful that her father had not remarried. Yet now, as she sat in a strange room in a strange house in the middle of a city she knew well, she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had regretted not marrying again. He’d devoted himself so completely to his interests and to his daughter that there had been no room for anyone else in his life.
Had he been lonely?
Why had it taken until now for her to wonder? Perhaps she had been spoiled, after all.
She sat on the chair beside the window, wishing it would storm again. The weather was calm, however, the view from the window serene. Her life had been like that, until Ian entered her sitting room window. From that moment onward, everything had turned upside down.
Even a scientist from Scotland had heard the rumors. Of course people talked about her—she was the Duchess of Herridge. She was Anthony’s wife. More than that, she was the Ice Queen.
Could she have escaped? Could she have simply walked away from Chavensworth?
If she’d told her father only a fraction of what had gone on in Anthony’s house, he would have gladly offered her sanctuary. But then, she didn’t doubt that Anthony would have attempted to punish her father for doing so. Anthony answered to no authority but his own.
And now, to the Devil’s.
Could she have refused to attend his entertainments? Doing so would have delighted her husband—hadn’t he said, more than once, how he relished a little spirit and fire? In the end she’d survived, the cost for doing so no doubt taken from her immortal soul. She’d hated in a way few people could, and feared in a way that no woman should.
How could she possibly explain that to anyone?
Perhaps she had been spoiled as a child, and paid for it as a woman.
A knock interrupted her thoughts, and when Emma answered the door, it was to find the same young maid who’d summoned her to breakfast. Now she held a small square basket in her hands and a selection of books under her arm. A selection of novels, Emma was delighted to discover, that she’d not read; all books she could not wait to read.
No one in her entire life had ever given her a book, not even her father. No one had encouraged her to sit and read. Instead, she’d always been told that she must busy herself with those occupations befitting the daughter of an earl. If no one would be disturbed, she should practice the pianoforte. If silence was required, she should work on her needlepoint. She was to be a lady of leisure but her time should be spent in a manner that would bring credit to her family and to her husband.
Wasting the hours in fascination, in being transported to another time and another place, was hedonistic, at best, and at worst encouraged a woman to think beyond her role in life.
The girl disappeared into the bathing chamber, emerging to finish dispensing the contents of the basket. She placed a long handled silver brush and mirror on top of the bureau before bobbing a curtsy and leaving the room in silence.
Emma settled on the bed, arranging the books before her like plates at a feast. Bleak
Damn it. He had to get Emma home, and quickly.
W hen Emma was a child, she had no dreams of being a princess. Perhaps because her father had treated her as if she were one in truth. Anything she wanted, he bestowed on her with generosity and love. He’d purchased a very expensive horse from a next-door neighbor because she’d admired him in the paddock. He’d given her a carriage of her own when she was sixteen, a pretty little thing of midnight blue, with an interior of pale blue velvet upholstery.
“You and your maid can go calling in that,” he said. “A carriage befitting its occupants.”
Perhaps she might have been spoiled had not her mother’s death brought sorrow into her life. Perhaps her father thought to make up, in a small way, for the loss of her mother, a sweet and calm-faced woman with an eternal smile.
Emma remembered being grateful that her father had not remarried. Yet now, as she sat in a strange room in a strange house in the middle of a city she knew well, she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had regretted not marrying again. He’d devoted himself so completely to his interests and to his daughter that there had been no room for anyone else in his life.
Had he been lonely?
Why had it taken until now for her to wonder? Perhaps she had been spoiled, after all.
She sat on the chair beside the window, wishing it would storm again. The weather was calm, however, the view from the window serene. Her life had been like that, until Ian entered her sitting room window. From that moment onward, everything had turned upside down.
Even a scientist from Scotland had heard the rumors. Of course people talked about her—she was the Duchess of Herridge. She was Anthony’s wife. More than that, she was the Ice Queen.
Could she have escaped? Could she have simply walked away from Chavensworth?
If she’d told her father only a fraction of what had gone on in Anthony’s house, he would have gladly offered her sanctuary. But then, she didn’t doubt that Anthony would have attempted to punish her father for doing so. Anthony answered to no authority but his own.
And now, to the Devil’s.
Could she have refused to attend his entertainments? Doing so would have delighted her husband—hadn’t he said, more than once, how he relished a little spirit and fire? In the end she’d survived, the cost for doing so no doubt taken from her immortal soul. She’d hated in a way few people could, and feared in a way that no woman should.
How could she possibly explain that to anyone?
Perhaps she had been spoiled as a child, and paid for it as a woman.
A knock interrupted her thoughts, and when Emma answered the door, it was to find the same young maid who’d summoned her to breakfast. Now she held a small square basket in her hands and a selection of books under her arm. A selection of novels, Emma was delighted to discover, that she’d not read; all books she could not wait to read.
No one in her entire life had ever given her a book, not even her father. No one had encouraged her to sit and read. Instead, she’d always been told that she must busy herself with those occupations befitting the daughter of an earl. If no one would be disturbed, she should practice the pianoforte. If silence was required, she should work on her needlepoint. She was to be a lady of leisure but her time should be spent in a manner that would bring credit to her family and to her husband.
Wasting the hours in fascination, in being transported to another time and another place, was hedonistic, at best, and at worst encouraged a woman to think beyond her role in life.
The girl disappeared into the bathing chamber, emerging to finish dispensing the contents of the basket. She placed a long handled silver brush and mirror on top of the bureau before bobbing a curtsy and leaving the room in silence.
Emma settled on the bed, arranging the books before her like plates at a feast. Bleak
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