And Emma, one hand gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles shone through her skin, reached a shaking hand out toward them. “Stay here. Do not leave this balcony.” She did not stay to answer questions, nor to ensure obedience. She took the stairs slowly, settling each foot on each step with careful precision as if one wrong move could topple the entire ballroom.
Her father stood like a boulder in the doorway. People came and went, flowing in and out like sheep through a gate, like water parting around a rock. Two rocks. Her father and Viscount Parkington. Neither dressed for the occasion, both rumpled and mean-looking in rough traveling clothes instead of evening wear.
She'd almost reached the bottom step of the ballroom when her father found her. He rocked back onto his heels, a crooked grin slashing his lips across his face. She felt as if she walked through muck and mud and refuse, each step difficult, painful, like stepping on broken glass. But soon she stood before him,clutching her hands behind her back so he did not see them trembling.
“Good evening, lass,” he drawled, his brogue thick, his breath putrid with whisky fumes.
“Father. How unexpected.”
“I like to keep people guessing.”
Guessing how he would pay their bills.
“Good evening, Lady Emma.” Parkington reeked, too. They had not simply shared a bottle of whisky on the journey; they had doused themselves in it. “Will you not greet me after such a long absence?”
She’d rather not. But he did not seem to be poofing out of existence, so she must. “Parkington. Even more unexpected to find you here.” She turned back to her father. “What brings you this far south?”
“You, naturally.”
“Me?” The ballroom seemed to be fading away, the chatter surrounding her softer now, yet somehow louder at the same time. “There's no reason for you to come all the way to London for me.” The words fell from a tongue that had forgotten how to shape them. “If you mean to check up on my work, I can assure you that things are going quite well.” Where was Samuel? She should introduce him, a social requirement. But she needed him, too, would stand stronger with him beside her. Yet she wanted Samuel far away, too, wanted the kind-hearted duke miles from her alcohol-soured father.
“I assure you, Father,” she mumbled, “everything is well here. I just sent you a letter. By the time you get home, it will be waiting for you.”
“And I’ll have no bluidy need of it.” Her father’s boot began to tap, slow, staccato, unceasing. “You’re coming home with me. You can tell me all about what you wrote on the way.”
A roar rushing through her ears dulled the ballroom chatter. She must not have heard him right. “I am not going back to Scotland. I have not yet finished my task here.”
“And you won’t. Those silly tasks are done with. No more. They never earn enough anyway.” Her father slapped Parkington on the back. “Tell her why you came. Tell her.”
“Lady Emma,” Parkington sneered. The curl of his lip, the tilt of his head in condescending victory… something in her lurched away from him. Her belly churned, and her feet begged to run. “Will you dance with me?”
“No. My dance card is full.” A lie.
“Dinna play courting games,” her father snarled. “Just tell the girl.”
Parkington’s eyes flickered with the light of a thousand candles flaring high under a surge of air. “Your father has honored me by granting me your hand in marriage.”
“No.” Emma tumbled back a step. “No. I must have misheard you.”
“You're coming back to Scotland and marrying the man,” her father said. “Now.”
“No.”No. No. No. No, no, no.She ran back several steps but hit a wall of bodies. They turned and glared, and she tried to run forward but was caught up in her father's arms. And Parkington’s.
No no no. She threw elbows, lifted knees, her struggle silent, quiet, futile.
“Quit making a scene,” Parkington hissed, his hold on her arm tight, tighter, a chain that would not loosen.
She shook and shook but still he held, hissing.
“Stop it, you brat.” Her father jerked her arm, shook her limp. “Dinna make the viscount regret it.”
“Why?” Emma panted. “Why?”
Her father chuckled. “No other lass will have him, it seems.”
“Not after your little performance at the assembly rooms. Lady Mercer says you spoke with her, accused me of manhandling you.” Parkington’s hold on her arm was still so tight there would be bruises. Already they burned into her skin, into her muscle and bone.
But… that meant Lady Mercer had believed her, and she’d told the women of Edinburgh, who’d believed her as well. She’d saved them, saved all of them from marrying a man like this.
