Emma stopped midsentence, her quill hovering over the paper, and pondered a mystery that had gnawed at her all week.
Not old.
Soon, not a bachelor.
Not the controlling monster she’d first imagined.
Not the bumbling fool, either.
The Duke of Clearford was something else entirely, and it made Emma’s palms sweat. It distracted her, turning her usually well-organized notes into a jumble of contradictions. This would never do.
She must focus. Quill to paper, mind to task. What had she been writing? Ah! She scribbled quickly across the page, replacing the duke’s stern expression with his sister’s happy one.
Lady Felicity was a sweet girl who needed a man to show her and tell her where his loyalties lay. She needed a fellow who would look at her with his heart in his eyes, who would offer tiny touches of adoration the way her sisters’ husbands did. She needed, as well, someone who was not entirely serious, a gentleman who enjoyed a game of cards or charades, but also one who would be strong and honest. She would need a man whosupported her silently, without need for praise. Like her brother did.
She closed her notebook and stood up so quickly the chair teetered backward but didn’t fall. She marched to the window and set her palm and forehead against the cool glass. Her gaze wandered to the garden, to the statue, the only witness of the kiss she’d shared with Clearford. He’d put his lips against hers, knowing he would be courting another. He was a rogue. Duke Clearly Rakish.
Not when he spoke with her, though. When he’d sat beside her in Hyde Park, devastation rolling through him as he’d learned about the self-doubt of womanhood, he’d been more lost soul than rake. Duke Clearly Caring.
A sharp rap on the door. “Emma? May I come in?” Aunt Georgie asked.
“Please do.”
The door opened, and Aunt Georgie smiled, clasping something to her chest. “Are you ready for your meeting with Clearford?”
“Aye.”
“Excellent.” Aunt Georgie sat on the edge of Emma’s bed, settling three objects on her lap—a letter, a book, and a book-shaped parcel. She held the letter out to Emma. “First, a letter from your father arrived.”
Emma took it. He’d want to know how she progressed with Felicity. She placed it on the writing desk, her stomach flipping. She’d answer it later. “And those?” She sat next to Aunt Georgie on the bed.
“I’ve come to give you something and to ask a favor.”
“Oh. You need give me nothing. I am grateful for your warm welcome.”
“Bah. That is nothing. What else would I do? What I give you is important.” She handed Emma the book, a brown rectangle with gold lettering on the spine.
“The School of Venus? What is this?” She had an inkling.
“An education, my dear. What do you know about a woman’s body?”
Emma jumped to her feet, dropping the book to the mattress like a hot coal. “Aunt!”
“Bah. If you are shocked, your need to read that is greater than I thought. I do not know if your mother told you the necessities. And I know your father did not. It does not seem as if you have had any older woman to guide you in such things. Do you possess a married friend or a matron who has mentored you?”
“No.” The word a hesitation filled with a mix of dread and… anticipation. What other shocks would anoproduce?
“I thought not. Now be honest. How much do you know? About men and women and sexual pleasure.”
Emma choked. “I, um, I know enough. I know how babies are conceived, how a man’s, um…” Oh God. She looked out the window, up at the ceiling. Nothing helpful in either place. “Howhefits intoher.” Mortifying.
But Aunt Georgie chuckled, took her hands, and led her back to the bed. “Sit, sit, darling girl, and wipe away that embarrassment. Talk about it often enough and it won’t seem so daunting. Learn enough, and you’ll look forward to it instead of dreading it. That”—she picked the book back up and placed it in Emma’s lap—“is what this is for. It might even improve your matchmaking.”
There was that. “I’ll never need it personally, though.”
“So you say, but I don’t give up hope easily. The Earl of Westgrove has many dashing sons. Some of them married, some still on the market. They have the manners of brutes, the looksof charming rakes, but the married ones treat their wives quite well. I could introduce you.”
“No, no thank you, but”—Emma flattened her palm against the book—“thank you for this. I think I will find it fascinating. I admit to an unladylike curiosity. I have never sought out answers to my questions, though. A lady’s reputation is fragile, as you know.”
