They were finally free to enter the ballroom, and the hum of conversation, the rustling of fans, and the gentle strains of music enveloped them at once. Almack’s was a vision of soft candlelight and elegant decor, the cream and gold walls framed by Corinthian columns, and gleaming chandeliers casting a warm, inviting glow.
As Emma scanned the crowd, she caught sight of her sisters, standing with their husbands near the far side of the room. They joined their family and quickly animated chatter erupted as her siblings and their husbands acted as if no time had passed, as if Alexander had always been among them, not miles away without seeing them for sometimes years on end.
Emma, however, stood beside them, not in the mood for such chatter. Instead, her eyes scanned the ballroom for Lady Ophelia. She had to see her dear friend and tell her everythingthat had happened these last few months before she heard it all from someone else and thought will of Emma’s family.
“Who are you looking for?” Hanna asked, eyebrows arched in curiosity.
“Lady Ophelia,” Emma replied, trying to sound casual. “I heard she recently returned to England.”
Arabella and Hanna exchanged glances, a spark of understanding passing between them. “Ophelia?” Hanna asked, surprised. “You didn’t know she was back? Did you not get her invitation.”
“Invitation?” Emma asked, confused.
“To her wedding tomorrow,” Arabella replied as if it were the most natural thing in all the world.
“Wedding?” she parroted. Was Ophelia getting married to her Italian man? Massimo? Maximus? She could not quite recall.
“Didn’t you know she was back to marry the Duke of Wells?”
Emma felt her stomach drop. “Married?” she repeated, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice. “Ophelia is… marrying the Duke of Wells?”
Arabella nodded. “She and her family returned a little while ago. Apparently, her father saw fit to match her with a man of title and considerable means.”
Emma’s face fell. “The Duke of Wells?” she murmured, almost to herself. “But he’s notorious—a philanderer if ever there was one.” She could hardly reconcile the gentle, kind-hearted Ophelia she knew with a man of the Duke’s scandalous reputation. “I saw him in Hyde Park just last week, fawning over some young debutante.”
Alexander cleared his throat delicately. “Well, perhaps he’s… a bit flirtatious,” he offered, his tone diplomatic.
“A bit?” Emma scoffed, recalling the rumors. “They say he carves a notch into his bedpost for every new conquest. By now, there can hardly be any space left.”
Edwin’s expression grew serious. “One must take rumors with caution, Emma. Were we to believe every tale, people would think I had murdered my own brother.” An awkward silence fell, and Hanna squeezed Edwin’s arm, smiling up at him.
“Indeed,” she said quietly, “and I was once foolish enough to believe such gossip. Emma, it was you who told me to trust my own heart rather than idle words.”
Emma met her sister’s gaze, but her mind remained on Ophelia. “This is different. I’ve seen the Duke’s behavior myself, not only at Hyde Park but at countless balls over the years. And the wayhe looked at that woman…” She shuddered. “It was clear they were… well-acquainted.”
Arabella laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Do you think confronting Ophelia about this will change her mind? If her family has already arranged the match…”
Emma hesitated, casting her gaze down. She couldn’t bear to think of her friend bound to such a man. “I must find her. She deserves to know what he truly is.”
Alexander stepped in, his expression stern. “Emma, you should take care not to interfere in other people’s affairs.”
She shot him a look. “And when have you ever kept your nose out of ours?”
“Emma,” Hanna said but she no longer listened to him. Instead, she spun around and rushed away into the crowd, determined to find her long lost friend and save her from a horrible match.
CHAPTER 3
Evan
Evan Haddington, the Duke of Wells, leaned against a polished pillar in the dimly lit corner of Almack’s, one hand absently swirling a glass of wine, the other pressed to his temple as he stifled a yawn. The candlelight flickered in his emerald-green eyes, casting his face—a collection of sharp angles and aristocratic indifference—in shadows. He turned to his friend Jonathan Stone, the Earl of Lichfield, who was attempting to hide a smirk behind a raised eyebrow.
“Remind me again why I’m wasting my last night of freedom here?” Evan muttered, barely hiding his disdain. “I should be at home, resting for this absurdly early wedding. But no—I’m here, at Almack’s of all places, as if I hadn’t more pressing matters.”
Jonathan chuckled, leaning slightly forward to catch Evan’s gaze. “Quite right, you should be home. But,” he paused with a meaningful glance across the room, “Lord Marley is heretonight, and we haven’t been able to secure an appointment with him otherwise. If we want him to invent in our horse breeding operation, we need to first corner him and it is either here or at parliament and you know that would be frowned upon. Thus this,” Jonathan swept an arm toward the crowd, “is, I’m afraid, our best opportunity.”
Evan sighed, his mouth pulling down at the corners. “I suppose I might as well make the effort, if only to avoid facing him at a more inconvenient hour. But I’ll not be staying long. The wedding is scheduled at some ungodly hour. Eleven in the morning, if you can believe it. And don’t get me started on the arrangements.” He sneered, setting down his wine with exaggerated distaste. “We tasted the proposed dinner afternoon. Abominable. Roasted lamb with rosemary and some dreadfully uninspired sauce—an abomination. I detest rosemary.”
Jonathan chuckled again. “If you hate it, why ever did you include it?”
