If she walked through the door.
If it were just the two of them.
Would he be there, leaning one hip against a desk like the one in his office at the Vega Club? Perhaps with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, as the first night she met him. Perhaps with his neckcloth loosened—discarded. Perhaps he would look at her as he’d done while dancing, with his amber eyes burning with hunger that made her want to throw herself at him. Perhaps he would smile the wicked smile he’d given her when he’d said he was an uncouth cardsharp. She felt his hand around hers, the brush of his body against hers, and inhaled a deep shuddering breath.
With a start she backed away from the door.
She’d known she would have to protect Lucy. She hadn’t considered that she would have to protect herself.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Emilia was ashamed to admit herself a coward, but after that she began actively avoiding Mr. Dashwood.
He was away so much, it wasn’t difficult, but now she took care to ask Mr. Pearce when he was expected home. Every day she planned something that would occupy her and her students during those times: French lessons, pianoforte practice, visits to a museum, walks in the park. Dancing lessons were put off until midday. And whenever an excuse offered itself to get away from the house, Emilia seized it.
Mr. Dashwood had explicitly told her to acquire a proper wardrobe for Charlotte. Emilia decided to enlist help, in the form of Lady Arabella McCorquodale. Not only had Arabella been her steadfast friend since childhood, she was the daughter of an earl who possessed an impeccable sense of fashion, as well as the funds to afford it.
Arabella swept in with a whiff of perfume and a flutter of paisley shawl. “Em,” she cried, taking Emilia’s hands and pressing her cheek to Emilia’s. “It’s been an eternity since I saw you!”
“Youwent to Scotland,” Emilia reminded her with a grin. “I’ve been here all the while.”
Arabella made a face as they sat on the sofa. “Oliver’s mad idea! He’s still there, you know, poor man. I wish you hadn’t broken his heart. We would have made such wonderful sisters.”
“And that’s why I could never marry him,” returned Emilia with a laugh. “Because I alreadyamlike a sister to you—and to dear Oliver.” Oliver didn’t love her, let alone want to marry her. He was a marvelous fellow, loyal and good-natured, but he was hardly ever serious about anything. He’d been laughing when he proposed, and he’d laughed when Emilia had said“Don’t be silly, Ollie.”
Arabella made a face. “Well, Idoblame him for not being persuasive enough, but I still wish you had said yes. Now, tell me what you’re up to,” she said, switching topics with her usual rapidity. “Nicholas Dashwood! The very last person in London who would need a governess, if you ask anyone in society.”
Emilia pleated her handkerchief and smiled. She had to handle this delicately; Arabella did love a good gossipy story. “Yes, well, you must have heard the news by now.” She hadn’t told anyone save Lucy, Mrs. Watson, and Henry about her search for the Sydenham heir, but now he was common knowledge. It had even been printed in the newspapers, which she knew because she’d asked Mr. Pearce to save them for her. Such a luxury, getting the newspapers again, even if what they printed about her employer verged on libelous.
“Viscount Sydenham!” Arabella smiled and fluttered her eyelashes. “Is His Lordship home?”
Emilia laughed. “He’s not the viscount yet, and no, he’s not at home.”
She didn’t know why, as it was late morning. Normally he would be here by now, albeit asleep. But today he hadn’t appeared.
“I shall meet him sooner or later,” said Arabella breezily, unconcerned. “He cannot keep to this cloistered nocturnal existence as a peer.”
“I wouldn’t know what he plans,” Emilia murmured. “But today I need your help, Arabella. I hope it’s not an imposition—”
“For you? Never!” Arabella sat up straighter, wiggling her shoulders in eager determination. “What shall we attempt? A siege of White’s, or Boodles? Are we bent on stealing back an indiscreet letter to a former paramour?”
Emilia snorted with laughter. “Of course not! On second thought, perhaps I shouldn’t ask this of you. It may require too much diplomacy, tact, and sensibility.”
Her friend made a face at her. “I can feign all those things when I wish to. What is our mission?”
Emilia shook her head, still grinning. “I need to outfit a young lady on Bond Street, and it’s been so long... Well, I would like a friend to remind me how elegant people shop.”
Arabella reached out for her hand. “You never have to beg for my help. It will always be freely given. Your father—” She stopped at Emilia’s warning look. “And your uncle—”
“Arabella...”
“And Fitchley—!”
“Arabella!” Emilia glared at her. “They are dead to me.”
“Would that they truly were, all in miserable and painful ways,” muttered her friend. “I shall never forgive them. But who is the young lady?”
“Mr. Dashwood’s ward.”
