“Why do you ask me to see if someone else could get Simon’s troubles out of him?” James asked.
Graham arched a brow. “Don’t play as if you don’t know you’re the leader of our little group, James.”
James laughed, but he appreciated Graham’s informality. When they were alone, Simon and Graham never called him by his title, for they knew Abernathe came with so many negative connotations. Even now, years after the last duke’s death, when someone called him by that title, James flinched a little inside and thought of his father’s cruelty.
He shook off the thought. “We all have our part, Northfield,” he said.
Graham folded his arms and the two of them looked out over the party once more. He shot James a side glance and said, “Are you really so opposed to marriage this Season?”
James tensed slightly as Graham was entering dangerous waters. “I’m only seven and twenty. I feel I have plenty of time to do my…duty.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Graham said softly. “Or even to find someone who makes it feel like more than a mere duty. I hear falling in love is coming into great fashion these days.”
It took everything in James not to roll his eyes. Love was a foolish notion, after all. He’d never seen it work out for anyone who attempted it. Certainly, his own parents could hardly stand each other. His father had responded to their unhappiness with shouting and the occasional burst of physical violence. His mother had retreated to her bottle.
No, he had no interest in marrying. Not this Season. And very possibly not any Season at all.
“I doubt there is any woman in this room who could tempt me to love, Northfield,” he chuckled. “She would have to be quite extraordinary, indeed.”
Emma Liston stood against the wall, wishing she could simply fade into the wallpaper and never be seen again. This was a common reaction when she was dragged to a ball, but tonight it felt more powerful than ever. Normally she slid through these things with only her friend Adelaide at her side. They were wallflowers and liked to have good talks.
Tonight, Adelaide was not in attendance and somehow Emma had gotten caught up in a circle of young women who were certainly no friends of hers. While she was a mere bluestocking wallflower, Lady Rebecca and Lady Frances were diamonds of the first water. They were pretty and perfect and popular and…mean.
And right now their focused attention was across the room as they all stared at the Duke of Abernathe and the Duke of Northfield, who were standing together, engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation.
“It is such a waste!” Lady Rebecca said, twisting one of her perfectly formed black curls around her finger. “One of them already engaged, the other refuses to even try to find a bride!”
Emma had been trying very hard not to look at Abernathe while the other two talked. She had been out in Society for four long years and he was the one person who made her the most nervous. She tried to avoid him and his path as often as possible.
Now, though, she looked at him, dragged to do so by Lady Rebecca’s statement that Abernathe refused to do his duty. Emma knew why he troubled her. He was ridiculously handsome, for one. Probably the best-heeled man she’d ever laid eyes upon.
He had intense brown eyes and thick dark hair that he wore just a little too long for current fashion. Not that it mattered. Men like Abernathe made fashion, they didn’t follow it. He had once worn a certain pattern on his waistcoat two years before and within weeks every other man in Society had copied the piece. Though none had looked quite so fine in it.
But it wasn’t just that he was handsome that threw Emma off. It was that he was…golden. He led the pack around him without even noticing he did it. He laughed loud and often, and sometimes inappropriately, and it didn’t matter. He took every bet, he raced every race, he even fought every fight. With a normal man, that kind of boldness would have gotten him tossed out of favor on his ear.
And yet Abernathe’s legend only grew with each wild act. He could do no wrong.
In short, he was the opposite of everything she was. Where he was popular, she was forgotten. Where he was handsome, she was plain and she knew it. Where he was golden, she was a bluestocking down to her very toes.
And yet, sometimes when Emma looked at him, she saw a sadness in his stare. A brief flash of heartbreak that didn’t fit with the confident display of male power he wore about him like a cloak. Those were the moments he made her most nervous, for she knew she’d caught a glimpse of something he didn’t want anyone to see. If he knew she did…well, a man like that could destroy a woman like her without even trying.
“I’ve heard he’s said he won’t marry this Season, either,” Lady Frances said, dragging Emma from her thoughts with her shrill, annoyed tone. She had folded her arms and was all but glaring at Abernathe like he’d committed a personal offense against her.
Emma glanced at him again. “I wonder why?” she whispered, almost more to herself than to them as she thought again of those unintended glimpses of sadness.
Lady Rebecca turned toward her with a laugh. “I would think it wouldn’t matter to you, Emma, either way.”
There was blood in the water now and Lady Frances met Lady Rebecca’s eyes with a cruel tilt to her lips that Emma knew too well. She braced herself for whatever was to come next.
“Yes, Emma,” Lady Frances cooed, her tone all false niceness. “It isn’t as if a woman like you would ever catch his eye.”
“I’ve heard Sir Archibald’s wife finally died,” Lady Rebecca said. “Perhaps you should inquire if he is looking for a wife to take care of those eight children of his.”
They used “helpful” tones, but there was no denying the cruelty of them. Emma kept her expression neutral as she said, “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry for his loss and I appreciate your thoughts for me and my future.”
Lady Rebecca and Lady Frances each smiled and laughed, then they linked arms and flounced off without another word for Emma. When they were gone, she let out the breath she’d been holding in and muttered, “Rotten cows.”
“I’ve never liked them either.”
Emma stiffened at the voice that came from behind her. She slowly turned to see who had overheard her inappropriate outburst. She blushed to find Lady Margaret, the sister of the Duke of Abernathe, standing at her back, a smile brightening her pretty face.
“Lady Margaret,” Emma gasped, her breath suddenly gone from her lungs.
Like her brother, Margaret was very well liked. If she hadn’t already been engaged to the Duke of Northfield, there was no doubt she would have had dozens of offers of marriage to choose from.
And yet, unlike the women who had just left Emma’s side, Margaret had always seemed kind when they interacted. Just as she smiled kindly now.
“I-I shouldn’t have said that,” Emma said. “Please don’t tell them.”
Margaret slipped up beside her and laughed. “I try to avoid the two of them, myself. I promise you I would never tell them a word of what we think of them.”
Emma breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She shifted with discomfort. “Er, how are you enjoying the party?”
“Lady Rockford outdoes herself every year trying to make her debut ball memorable. But she has clowns this year and their makeup is disturbing.” Margaret grabbed Emma’s arm and pointed toward one of the performers. “See?”
Emma looked and found the clown Margaret referred to. The red of his makeup resembled blood just a little too much. “Oh my, that is alarming,” she said with a shiver.
Margaret laughed and Emma found herself doing the same. “I swear, next year she’ll bring prisoners from Newgate, complete with chains, just to make us all talk.”
“Oh dear, I think I’ll skip that party,” Emma said.
Margaret nodded. “I’ll stay home with you.” She smiled broadly. “Now tell me…”
“Emma,” Emma supplied quickly.
Margaret’s brow wrinkled. “
I know who you are, my dear. I came over to talk to you, didn’t I?”
“Oh,” Emma said, blushing. “I assumed you might not remember as we haven’t spoken all that much through the years.”
Margaret shrugged. “These things are always such a crush. It isn’t for lack of wanting to. I’ve always enjoyed our talks when we have spoken.”
Emma tilted her head, uncertain now if she was being teased. “Have you?”
“I have. But tell me, what were you and the other two discussing that made you so cross with them?”
Emma bit her lip, uncertain how to proceed. She’d never been much of a liar, but it felt unseemly to tell Margaret that the ladies had been discussing her own brother.
“Well…” she began.
Margaret’s eyebrow arched. “Abernathe,” she suggested.
Emma felt blood rush to her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know?”
“Everyone is always talking about James,” Margaret sighed, and Emma wasn’t certain if she was upset or resigned or angry at that fact.
“But almost always in a good way, my lady,” Emma said swiftly.
“Oh please, call me Meg,” Margaret said. “All my friends do.”
“Meg. Of course.”
“Let me guess, they were discussing my brother’s reluctance to marry?” Meg continued.
Emma nodded. “Lady Frances said she heard he will not marry this Season. They were quite disappointed in that potential outcome. He’s, as you know, considered quite a catch for women like them.”
“Women like them,” Meg mused. “Nasty title hunters? I hope he won’t marry someone like that. If he marries at all.”
“Is that truly a possibility?” Emma asked with a shake of her head. “That he would not marry?”
Meg shrugged. “When he thinks I am not listening, he sometimes says things that make me think he is pondering a life lived alone, yes.”
Emma just barely kept her mouth from dropping open in surprise. It was a ridiculous notion that a man like Abernathe would refuse to do his duty. More than that, he could have virtually any woman he desired. Any one of them would fall at his feet if he asked for their hand. And any woman he so much as looked at would have the entire focus of Society on her.
“Your mother must be upset at that notion,” Emma said, shivering as she thought of her own mother. Violet Liston was a ball of manic energy, and when she began to roll down a hill toward Emma, there was no escaping her schemes.
Currently her focus was on seeing Emma married. This Season. As soon as was humanly possible.
Meg’s face fell. “My mother is…different from others. I doubt she would care what James did or didn’t do.”
Emma tried not to show any reaction on her face. She sometimes heard little whispers about the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe, but never anything entirely untoward.
She shifted and fought to find some way to change the subject from the obviously uncomfortable one. “You will marry, though, and soon from what everyone says.”
Meg smiled, but there was a tightness to her lips. “Yes, I suppose it shall be soon. Northfield and I cannot be engaged forever. My brother is insistent that we make a date for later this year or early next at the latest.”
Emma stared. She’d hoped she would find a more positive subject with Meg’s engagement. After all, everyone knew that the Duke of Northfield was one of the Duke of Abernathe’s closest friends. He and Meg had practically grown up together and their marriage had been arranged for years.
And yet Meg’s smile was false and her eyes dull as the subject was broached. Emma barely resisted the urge to shake her head in disbelief. Here she was, her mother pushing her to find a match, her prospects weak at best, nonexistent at worst, and Meg had a duke in her pocket, a man who would let her want for nothing…and she was unsatisfied.
She would never understand the popular.
She sought yet another subject, but before she could find one, someone bumped into Meg and Emma from behind. Both of them turned and Emma was shocked to find the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe, herself, standing behind them. She had a drink in her hand and it sloshed in her glass as she staggered.
“Well, well, well,” the duchess said. “If it isn’t my dutiful daughter.”
Emma caught her breath as she looked toward Meg and saw the color draining from her cheeks. This was what Meg had meant by her mother being different, apparently. And suddenly Emma understood a great many things she hadn’t fully grasped before.
Chapter Two
“Meg, I’ve been looking for you,” the Duchess of Abernathe said, rather too loudly. She slugged down another gulp of her drink before she hiccupped.
Meg’s face had now lost all color, and she stepped forward. “Mother, I thought we talked about how much you would have to drink tonight,” she whispered with a quick look toward Emma.
Emma’s eyes went wide at this entirely unexpected development. Indeed, the duchess did look deep in her cups. Her eyes were bleary and her body swung.
“You aren’t my mother, Margaret Elizabeth Elinor Rylon,” the duchess slurred. “You can’t tell me what to do while you sit on that high horse of yours.”
A few in the crowd close to them were beginning to stare and Meg clutched at her mother’s arm. “Please lower your voice.”
“Embarrassed, are you?” the duchess hiccupped again.
Emma stared. No lady she knew would make such a scene at a ball, of all things. She had no idea what to do. She could turn away so that Meg wouldn’t have to be even more embarrassed, but then she’d leave the other woman to deal with the situation herself. She knew how horrible it could be to have others watch you, talk about you.
She shivered at the thought, and in that moment she made a decision.
“Your Grace,” she said with a bright smile. “You may not know me, but I’m Emma Liston, a friend of your daughter’s. We were about to go to the retiring room to rest a moment. Perhaps you would like to join us.”
Meg jerked her face toward Emma and she nodded slightly as if to encourage her. “Yes, Mother. The retiring room is just the place.”
The duchess looked entirely confused as Meg removed the glass from her mother’s hand, set it aside and then she and Emma each took one of her arms. They began to lead her through the crowd, holding her up as she stumbled in her growing stupor.
“Don’t fall,” Emma heard Meg whispering through clenched teeth. “Oh, please, don’t fall and let them see.”
Emma was flooded with a sense of empathy for the other woman. She understood what it was like to have a parent who humiliated her. She understood the fear that engrained, the anxiety. Only it was her father who did it to her, rather than her mother.
She caught a glimpse of a few in the crowd staring and cleared her throat. “Oh yes, Your Grace, it is dreadfully hot, isn’t it? The retiring room will be just the place to recover your senses.”
Meg shot her yet another grateful look as those in the crowd went back to what they were doing. But as they exited the room, Meg looked over her shoulder. Emma didn’t know what she was doing, so focused was she on keeping the duchess upright, but within moments of them exiting the ballroom and going into the hall toward the little chamber where the ladies went to rest, there were heavy footsteps behind them.
Emma glanced over her shoulder and her heart nearly stopped as she saw the Duke of Abernathe at her very heel. His usually bright and confident expression had been replaced with one of concern.
“Meg,” he said softly.
Emma’s heart skipped without her wishing it to have that reaction. He had such a deep, resonating voice, one that hit her in the stomach and then trailed little flutters even lower.
An entirely inappropriate reaction when she was dragging his drunken mother away from the eyes of Society. She pushed the reaction away and refocused.
“Yes,” Meg said, answering a question he hadn’t asked.
; He frowned as he opened the retiring room door and allowed Meg, Emma and the dowager to enter. It was empty, thank goodness, and Emma and Meg helped the duchess to a settee where she collapsed, grinning up at them.
“I like your friend, Meg,” she slurred. “Gemma, you may not be a great beauty, but you have spark.”
Meg gasped. “Mother! Enough.” She turned to face Emma. “I’m so sorry.”
Emma reached out to take Meg’s hand, trying desperately to ignore Abernathe as he stood at the door to the room, arms folded, gaze focused on the little show before him. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I-I should leave you. But I hope your mother feels better.”
Meg blinked at tears and nodded. “Yes, thank you again for your help, your kindness, Emma.”
Emma squeezed her hand and then turned toward the door. Abernathe was staring at her now, his dark gaze focused on her face as she took a few hesitant steps toward him.
“Y-Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
He nodded at her. “Thank you, Miss…”
He trailed off and she whispered, “Liston, Emma Liston.”
“Miss Liston,” he said.
Then his focus was gone, back to the family drama unfolding on the fainting couch across the room. Emma left them, shutting the door behind her and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath.
What had just happened was certainly not what she expected as she entered the ball tonight. Somehow she had involved herself with one of the most powerful families in Society. Somehow she’d come to know a secret about them.
Now she could only hope it wouldn’t come back to haunt her.
James scowled as he watched his carriage pull away from the drive. Deep, abiding anger pulsed within him as he turned back toward Meg, who was standing in the foyer, face pale and pinched.
How he hated to see her that way. It brought back memories from their childhood. Memories of taking care of their mother on dozens of nights when she’d lost herself like this. Memories of Meg’s pained face when their father had ignored or chastised her. They’d only ever really had each other to rely on. When she was hurt, James felt as though he’d failed her somehow.
The Daring Duke Page 2
