Emma looked back at the man as she stumbled out of the church. Well, he clearly knew a little of her history––but not enough. No one who knew the whole sorry tale would have encouraged her to go and be happy at the Marnmouth wedding reception.
When she arrived, the wide hallway of the mansion house was filled with people chattering away happily.
“Ah, Miss Tilbury, I was not expecting to see you here,” said Mrs. Coulson pointedly. “Did you receive an invitation?”
Emma forced a smile that was probably more a grimace. She had known, deep within her soul, that she would be challenged on this.
“Why, yes, Mrs. Coulson, I did,” Emma said brightly, opening up her reticule and revealing the invitation she had brought with her for just such an occasion. “And were you?”
The slight went unnoticed. “Anything can be forged these days,” said Mrs. Coulson, turning her nose up.
Emma sighed. Was she to endure such stupidity and rudeness all day? “Yes, but you would think if I was going to lie my way here, I would just turn up!”
Without waiting for a reply from the harridan, Emma stepped to the other side of the hallway and ensured she did not meet the eye of a single other person. All she wanted to do was be here for…what, twenty minutes? Maybe a little longer?
Just long enough so she could say she had been here, but short enough to avoid any more confrontations of that ilk.
Being a mistress, or worse, being the has-been mistress of someone, was difficult in society. No one looked at her and saw her. No, they just saw the dishonor she had fallen into, the man she had once shared her body with.
Emma blinked. She could not have seen what she just thought…it was a trick of the light. Her imagination. He could not be here.
Fitz was sitting in a corner on the opposite side of the room. His head was downcast, his face miserable, his shoulders slumped.
Emma’s heart twisted painfully. It was her fault. She was the one who had caused him such pain, pain which had lingered.
“I only started flirting with you to get money, for the protection you and your name could offer me.”
But blast it, she had only said those things to make him stop loving her! It was ridiculous Fitz could not see her for what she truly was––what society saw.
She bit her lip. Everything she had said to him that evening, she had only said to protect him from…well, her. From her reputation.
Love? That had never been in the cards for her. His obsession, yes, his devotion, of course. She would need both to secure his money and his protection.
But she had never intended to break his heart.
Her heart longed to speak to him. She had even taken a step toward him, despite her better judgment, but at that moment, two others had noticed him and started toward him.
Marnmouth and his bride.
Emma just as quickly stepped into a side room just off the hallway––hidden from their view but close enough to hear their conversation.
“Excellent excuse to escape my parents,” Miss Worsley––no, now the Countess of Marnmouth––whispered.
“Excuse?” said Marnmouth just as quietly. “Braedon, dear man, are you quite well?”
Fitz rose to his feet and inclined his head, but Emma could see even from this distance that his heart was simply not in it.
“Yes. No, ’tis just…” he sighed, and Emma’s heart twisted once more. It was painful to see him like this. “It does not matter, Marnmouth. Do not concern yourself about me.”
“What has occurred?”
Emma frowned. Trust Marnmouth to grow a conscience after she had finished with him. Where had this kind and concerned gentleman been when they had––
“Nothing, that is the trouble, it is just––oh, hang it, it does not matter,” Fitz said listlessly. “’Tis just an ill humor of mine, I shall snap out of it in no time. And besides, congratulations are in order!”
The bride nodded. “Thank you, Braedon. But are you quite sure––”
“Quite sure,” interrupted Fitz with a smile that looked painfully forced to Emma’s eye. “I am, at least.”
Without another word, he nodded and then stepped out into a different room, leaving the bride and groom alone.
Emma sighed heavily. For a moment there, she had thought Fitz was going to tell them…well, something. Perhaps not her name, but enough detail that Marnmouth at the very least would have been able to guess.
“My word, how very odd,” said Marnmouth in a low voice to his wife. “I wonder what on earth is the matter with him?”
Emma swallowed. She knew what she had to do. If she acted like she barely knew Fitz, no one, not even Marnmouth, could guess that she was the real cause of his misery.
And that meant…
“Nothing I couldn’t cure, I am sure.” Emma almost laughed as she stepped out of the side room and advanced toward the happy couple. “Do not concern yourself, Marnmouth, I have not come to upend the party.”
Emma knew it was the right decision the moment she looked at Sophia––the new countess. Her mouth had fallen open, but she had regained her equilibrium, and best of all, hidden a smile.
Yes, this was the perfect distraction. They would never connect her and Fitz now.
“Countess,” said Emma as she curtseyed low to Sophia, who mirrored her gesture. “I am only in London for a little longer, I have decided to go to the Continent.”
“Ah.” Marnmouth had obviously attempted to speak. “For the winter?”
“For the foreseeable future,” Emma said shortly. The less he knew about her true plans, the better she would feel. “And before I departed this heavenly isle, I wished to give you my congratulations and best wishes for, I hope, a merry future.”
Was it her imagination, or did Marnmouth look slightly panicked? Yes, he was glancing at his new bride, terrified.
Only then did Emma realize what she was doing. She was…she was the groom’s mistress.
Good God, what did she think she was doing?
“Yes, right, good,” Marnmouth said quickly. “But––”
“My dear Miss Tilbury, how wonderful to see you again,” said the new countess smoothly. She reached out and squeezed Emma’s hand. “I thank you for your congratulations and hope you enjoy your time on the Continent. The weather, I believe, will be most pleasant.”
Emma could not believe it. Sophia was an absolute genius. She had smoothed over the entire situation with a few sentences. Perhaps Marnmouth had not been wrong to marry this one.
“Thank you, by the way, for your advice,” Sophia continued. Was that a smile? “It was well-timed.”
Emma glanced at Marnmouth and could not help a wry smile. Yes, she had kept that particular conversation quiet. “Absolutely my pleasure, Countess. Now, let me go and see if I can cheer up old Braedon.”
As she walked away in the general direction Fitz had gone––not actually intending to talk to him, naturally, but needing an excuse to depart––it was difficult not to envy the new Countess of Marnmouth.
There was something wonderful about knowing a person who truly loves you, who will take care of you.
For an instant, she had glimpsed a version of that life with Fitz.
Emma halted suddenly. So lost in her thoughts, she had not remembered why she was walking this way––and now she had almost run slap bang into the one gentleman she really wished to avoid.
Fitz.
“I thought you would be here, somewhere,” he said, his gray eyes stormy. “We need to talk.”
“We need to do no such thing,” Emma said quietly. She could escape from this; she knew she could. “There is nothing to say.”
“I have a great deal to say, and you will hear it, Miss Emma Tilbury, because you had your say, and now it is time for mine!”
“Will you please keep your voice down!” Emma hissed, blinking her tears away. “People are starting to look, and I do not wish––”
“Nonsense, you love the attention, do not e
ven attempt to deny it,” bit back Fitz.
She took a deep breath. “You do not understand,” she began in a low voice, not daring to meet his eyes.
He laughed dryly. “No, you just hope I will not understand because it is easier for you, Emma, to retreat from real affection rather than live with the consequences of it!”
“I-I am not retreating!” Emma said, cursing the fact that she had at that moment started to move toward the door. Anything to escape this conversation… “As I said to you, I am going to the Continent and will be there some months. Art, and culture, the architecture of Greece, in particular, I am very intrigued to––unhand me!”
Fitz grabbed her arm as she stepped again toward the door, and his touch was electric, stopping her in his tracks. His eyes had changed again, darker, like his mood.
“No, you are running away from me, from what we feel for each other,” he said. “’Tis time you faced up to the truth, Emma. Time you faced up to love.”
“Love?” Emma repeated. “I am a mistress, and that is all I am good for. The gossip of the ton has surely told you that. I have told you that!”
“You think your past matters to me?” Fitz had not released her. “We met when we met, we shared what we have shared––and now ’tis your future I want!”
“You are too late.” Emma wrenched her arm free, unable to bear the connection any longer. “You want to save me, Fitz, but––but you cannot. I cannot be helped by anyone. I am beyond saving. I will always be the mistress and never the bride.”
She managed to step away for a few yards, but still, he followed, his boots crunching the gravel outside the manor.
“I do not understand why we cannot simply be happy! Emma, stop!”
It was her name on his lips that stopped her. Emma turned to look at him, the man she had believed would be her savior.
She had never expected to find these heights of joy and these depths of pain.
“I do not understand why we cannot just ignore the world and be happy,” said Fitz softly.
“Y-You know why that cannot be,” said Emma, her gaze dropping from his expression of adoration. “Besides, this…this only started a few weeks ago. You will soon find another woman to capture your devotion.”
His laugh barely hid the pain of his heart. Fitz. The man she loved.
“You think this only started a few weeks ago?”
But Emma was not listening. Heart racing, she continued, “I should have known back then––I should have seen it would not work. If only I could go back and tell myself, warn me of what is to come––not, I will not continue. It is not possible, this entire thing is not possible—I am going to the Continent, and that is that!”
As she strode away, a part of her wished he would follow her. It was a traitorous part, and he did not. As she marched down the path, hopeful to flag down a carriage to take her back to London, the tears finally fell.
Emma Tilbury. Former mistress, former lover. Lonely, friendless––and now heartbroken.
Chapter Sixteen
“You are quiet, you know.”
The voice spoke in a kind manner, gently probing for the reason for his aloofness. Braedon reined in Thunder, slowing them to a trot, but did not reply.
He had first suggested this early morning ride a week ago, and he had pitied Colin Vaughn, the Duke of Larnwick, then. The man had seemed unhappy at his ball, and if that was not a cry for help, Braedon did not know what was.
How could he make Larnwick happy if he could not make himself happy?
Weddings, brides, engagements, proposals…they all led to sadness in the end. Braedon had been so sure he would be happy. He had attempted the impossible and proposed marriage to a ‘fallen woman.’
Braedon’s jaw tightened. The crisp morning air was sharp in his lungs, but it made him feel alive, woke him from the slumber of self-pity.
“I did not sleep well last night,” he said in a gruff voice, feeling Larnwick deserved some sort of reply.
Their horses continued to walk slowly around Hyde Park. Every night since that final altercation with Miss Tilbury, sleep had eluded him. He rubbed tired eyes. Perhaps this early morning ride had been a mistake. He should have left London, returned to Tidgley Manor.
No, he could go back there, not yet. It was too soon. Too raw.
Larnwick nudged his horse closer to Braedon’s, not that it mattered. They were so early, mist still rising, that the place was deserted. No one would hear their conversation, though there was nothing much to tell.
Not from his perspective, anyway.
“You know, you are mighty unhappy, and I…” said Larnwick a little awkwardly.
Braedon swallowed. He was not sure whether he was ready to talk about such things, particularly with such a recent acquaintance as Larnwick. Duke he may be, and very agreeable to be sure…but Braedon had not yet managed to speak with a living soul about his heartbreak.
“Well, I heard about the argument you had with Miss Tilbury.”
“Did you, indeed?” Braedon said sharply.
Larnwick nodded. “There is no need to carry on like that. Everyone heard it. You two were shouting at each other at a wedding, for goodness sake! Do you think that sort of thing isn’t going to get around?”
The mere mention of Emma had caused Braedon’s heart to twist painfully. His shoulders tightened, and his breathing, already strained, seemed to quicken painfully.
It was not Larnwick’s fault. He had not been in London long enough to know her history. Braedon still barely knew, though he had learned so much.
He should have been more controlled when it came to speaking to Emma, but control was the last thing he had whenever he was with her.
And why did he lose that control? Precisely because he cared about her too much––not that she seemed to care about him.
“You think your past matters to me? We met when we met, we shared what we have shared––and now ’tis your future I want!”
“You are too late. You want to save me, Fitz, but––but you cannot. I cannot be helped by anyone, and I am beyond saving. I will be always the mistress and never the bride.”
Braedon sighed heavily, watching his breath blossom into the cold air. “I should not have aired my…well, dirty laundry in public. It was badly done.”
Larnwick did not say anything, which rather confirmed Braedon’s words.
His stomach turned over. “And at Marnmouth’s wedding, too, badly done! I suppose he and his bride are very angry with me. They would certainly have sufficient cause.”
He glanced over at his riding companion and saw, to his surprise, the duke was grinning.
“I think you dodged a bullet there, my friend,” said Larnwick cheerfully. “I do not think he was even aware of it. Poor man too tied up with that new wife of his. Sophia.”
There was bitterness in Larnwick’s tone. Braedon looked at him with a little more clarity now, his mind throwing up bits of information. The man was engaged to be married, was he not? To some girl with far more money than sense––a Miss Isabella Lymington, from memory.
Braedon felt sorry for him. Larnwick must be eager to marry Miss Lymington.
“Still,” said Braedon into the silence. “It was wrong of me, very wrong to bring my woes to the wedding of another.”
Larnwick sighed. “What’s done is done, and I can imagine you did not think through the exact ramifications of the argument. Did you give her the money in the end?”
It took a moment for Braedon to take in his words. “Money?”
“Yes, the money you owed her,” said Larnwick, a slight frown on his face. “I assume you had been enjoying her services for a little while and owed her––”
“It was not anything like that, damn you!” Braedon exploded, temper rising. The very idea––was that what everyone thought? “If anything, quite the opposite!”
Anger bristling all over his body, he regretted his outburst as he saw the look of shock on Larnwick’s face. It could not be
more obvious the duke had not meant his words cruelly. He had listened to the gossip and made that conclusion. What did that say about him and the way he treated the women around him?
Worse, what did that say about society’s gossiping about Emma?
“What…really?” Larnwick’s eyes were wide. “You…you care for her?”
“Yes,” he said heavily. “Yes, I care for her. It only started a few weeks ago, which I know is hard to believe.”
“I have read my fair share of Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Larnwick wryly, “and a few years ago, believe it or not, I was a firm proponent of love at first sight. Imagine that now!”
There was a story there, but Braedon had no capacity to inquire. Now he had started telling his tale, he had to get the words out, pouring from him, like water from a dam.
“I rescued her from a few sticky situations, and she seemed to like me. I was flattered. I was…I had admired her, from a distance, for years, and yet I had never had the chance to speak with her, not properly. After a few chance encounters,” and only then did Braedon wonder whether they were so chance as they had seemed, “I took her to Tidgley Manor––”
“Lucky thing!” Larnwick interrupted. “Tidgley Manor in the autumn, I have heard such wonderful things! You know, you may not have noticed, but during our visits to Marnmouth’s, I have been angling for an invitation! Is the library really…sorry.”
His apology came after he looked over and saw Braedon’s face.
“My apologies,” Larnwick repeated. “I…I will keep that for a different conversation. Tell me what happened with Miss Tilbury.”
“I…I do not really know what happened,” he eventually said. “I was sure how I felt about her, and I tell you, I felt strongly. More than I ever had for any other lady. But Emma was looking for a protector, someone to take Marnmouth’s place.”
“She was looking for a protector––well, that makes sense,” said Larnwick softly. “But what were you looking for?”
Braedon swallowed, trying to think of the words. He was usually a gentleman who laughed about town, who didn’t always understand jokes the first time around, who put his foot it in it sometimes, but there was no harm in him.
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 15
