* * *
"I won't go. I'm not hungry," Emily repeated, digging her nails into the polished oak of the door frame.
"Of course you'll go," Lily chirped, prying her free and dragging her another ten feet. "Mama wouldn't tolerate your not making an appearance. She's hoping you'll make some friends among girls of your own sort." "Girls with birds' nests on their heads?" "Don't be ridiculous. Your hair looks charming." Emily caught her reflection in a console glass as they passed. Her ringlets had been swept up and stiffened with an alarming mixture of egg white and starch. She ducked under a gasolier, afraid her hair might ignite if touched. She dug her heels into the carpet, but Lily jerked her onward. The frail-looking creature must have inherited her mother's muscle tone if not her fortitude, Emily thought. "Do hurry," she commanded. "Mama will be cranky if we're late."
Emily entered the long dining room in dread. An awkward silence fell over the gathering. She could see only a blur of seated guests, all of them staring fixedly at her head. She jerked her hand out of Lily's, wanting desperately to slither beneath the Brussels carpet.
At the far head of the table sat Justin, riveting in his black tailcoat and silk revers. The startling white of his shirt and bow tie drew out the bronze lingering in his skin. His gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment, and she lowered her eyes, fearful of revealing a hunger that had little to do with the succulent aromas wafting from the serving dishes.
A silvery peal of laughter broke the silence. Emily jerked her head up as a helpless shudder of remembered distaste rippled down her spine.
Seated next to Justin, her icy blond hair the perfect complement to his dark head, was the former toast
of Foxworth Seminary and the bane of Emily's existence- Cecille du Pardieu.
Chapter 22
Too soon, the day will come when you take your
heart away from your daddy and give
it to another. . . .
Emily slunk to her chair beneath the curious stares of Harvey and Herbert. Harold was too busy slurping his chowder to notice her. As she sank down, she stole a look at her old nemesis. Cecille looked as prim and elegant as a Dresden statuette in a froth of silver-gray silk trimmed in tiny blue roses. Her hair was knotted in a stark chignon. Loose tendrils softened the heart-shaped angles of her face.
Emily smoothed the stiff ruffles of her bodice, wondering if anyone would notice if she sawed them off with her knife. Compared to Cecille's polished sophistication, she felt like an overgrown six-year-old.
As Cecille draped her graceful fingers over Justin's arm, Emily's hand tightened around the ivory hilt of her spoon.
A test. She must simply think of this as her trial by fire. She had practically bitten off her tongue in the past week to maintain the image of the perfect young lady. If she survived tonight, Justin would be
forced to see her as a woman, not a child.
"So nice of you to join us, Emily," the duchess brayed. "I should like to introduce you to the Comtesse Guermond and her charming daughter-"
"We've met," Emily mumbled into her chowder.
"I'm sure I don't remember," the countess said. She was a tiny creature swathed in lace who chirped rather than talked.
"Mama," Cecille drawled in the French fashion, "Miss Scarborough is that poor dear creature they were discussing at Baroness Gutwild's last week. The one who spent all of those dreary years working at Foxworth's."
Justin laid down his spoon and pushed back his chowder bowl.
Even Harold stopped slurping as she continued, her blue eyes sparkling with malice. "Quite an
industrious little thing, too. You used to give my boots a good polish, didn't you, darling?"
Emily swallowed, remembering Cecille's shrieks at finding a dead mouse stuffed in the patent leather
toe of her brand new jemimas.
She grinned sweetly. "Every chance I got."
Cecille's eyes narrowed, but she recovered by fixing Justin with an adoring gaze. Emily's stomach churned.
"You must realize, Your Grace, that you are the gossip of every salon in London. It was so benevolent
of you to open your heart and home to an unfortunate orphan in this Christmas season. There's even
talk of organizing a society in your name to help rescue other"-she cast Emily a sly glance-'' urchins."
Justin met Emily's gaze, his eyes somber beneath the muted glow of the gasoliers. "It was the least I
could do."
"Yes, it was," Emily replied, tilting her goblet to her lips. "The very least."
She almost choked as the rich, sweet liquid flowed down her throat. Milk, she realized. Crystalline droplets of wine sparkled on Cecille's pink lips. Emily wiped her upper lip with her napkin, praying she didn't have a foamy mustache to rival Herbert's.
Justin had given her milk just like some babe. She set down the goblet with a deceptively mild thump
and fixed Cecille with her most innocent gaze. "My guardian has been the very soul of benevolence."
She shifted her gaze to Justin. "Haven't you, Daddy?"
Justin's head snapped up. His eyes darkened in warning.
"So what do you all think about those pesky Zulus?" Herbert offered, obviously hoping to steer the conversation in a safer direction.
"Shut up, Herbert," Millicent and Edith snapped in unison.
Emily dipped her spoon in her chowder. Justin's gaze dropped to her lips. "His Grace likes it when
I call him daddy," she announced.
Cecille's smile waned. "Does he now?"
Emily swirled the spoon around her mouth, then slowly slid it out, licking away the stray drops of chowder with feline satisfaction. Herbert gaped, the pesky Zulus forgotten. Justin lifted his goblet and began to drink in long, convulsive swallows.
"Especially after dinner each night." Emily lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. The little countess bobbed forward so far that her lacy fichu sank into her chowder. "That's when he makes me sit on his
lap for my bedtime story."
Justin choked, spewing wine all over Harold. Cecille's elegant mouth dropped open. Edith and Millicent gasped and Herbert went scarlet. As Justin disappeared behind his napkin, Harvey jumped up and began pounding him on the back.
"If you'll excuse me for a moment," Emily murmured. She slipped her knife up her sleeve as she rose, thankful for once for the voluminous ruffles.
When she returned, the second course had been served and they were eating their shrimp in chill silence. The countess's fichu drooped and Harold's silk waistcoat was speckled with wine. Justin watched her
take her seat, his golden eyes glittering with banked fury.
Cecille's laugh sounded more inclined to shatter than tinkle. "I'm not surprised our Emily has ingratiated herself into your affections, Your Grace. She was the darling of every delivery boy and chimney sweep
in our neighborhood. She was always so generous with her . . . person."
Justin slammed down his fork. "I've had enough." His voice was low but laced with warning. "My
ward's past is of no concern to anyone but me. I'll not have her maligned at her own table. Anyone who cares to do so is not welcome in my house."