Her voice was devoid of self-pity. "I don't think you will. I know what I was. A good wife and a
wretched mother."
Justin swung around, surprised by her blunt confession.
"Did you ever ask yourself why your father resented you so much?" she asked.
He stared at the carpet. "Every day. And I always came up with the same answer. There was something wrong with me."
She shook her head. "There was something right with you. Something so shining and bright that it
blinded him with jealousy." He stared at her disbelievingly. "Frank Connor wasn't always the man you knew. He didn't want the business or the title any more than you did. It was like a lead anchor around
his neck, dragging him down. He longed to sail one of those graceful clippers right over the horizon and explore the world. But he didn't have your guts. He didn't have the courage to simply walk away."
Justin stood awash in conflicting emotions as she moved toward him.
"Denying himself his dreams made your father a bitter, mean-spirited old man." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, filling his nostrils with the longforgotten comfort of lilac and camphor. "Don't make the same mistake, son."
Justin stood alone, staring at nothing, after his mother had gone. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time to bury the old ghosts and let David rest in peace at last. Perhaps the time had come for him and Emily to seize not only the day, but the morrow as well.
* * *
Emily handed the waiting footman her cloak as she and Lily entered the foyer of the Comtesse Guermond's sumptuous apartments. The drawing room beyond had been decorated in the Greek
Revival style favored over a century ago. Graceful Doric columns mushroomed from polished bases.
A lethargic quartet was playing in the corner. Emily's scalloped train swept the marble floor as they
were ushered into the chattering fray.
The chandeliers sparkled beneath the kiss of winter sunlight streaming through the casement windows. After being smothered in the Gothic gloom of Grymwilde for so long, Emily found the effect dazzling.
As Lily wandered off with a friend, Emily stole a glance behind her, hoping to catch a glimpse of Justin entering. He had ridden alongside their carriage on a handsome bay-a striking sight in his top hat and greatcoat. He had seemed strangely excited all day, his golden eyes warmed by more than their usual glow. The afternoon would be sweet torment indeed. They didn't dare even dance together for fear of revealing themselves. But later, Emily thought, in the still, sweet hours of the night, while the rest of the world slept, their patience would be rewarded. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. Who would have
ever dreamed she would make such a pudding of herself over a man? Especially that man.
"Emily, oh, Emily darling, is that you?" She cringed at the sound of Cecille's voice. Her old nemesis caught her in a girlish embrace. "I promised Henry you'd be here. He's simply drooling for a dance."
Emily tried to wiggle free. "I don't think so. I'm afraid my card is full."
"How can it be full? You just got here. Don't move an inch and I'll go fetch him."
As soon as Cecille trotted out of sight, Emily ducked into a safe corner and began to madly scribble fictional names on her dance card.
"I say, gel, haven't we met?"
She jerked her head around to find a bloodshot eye studying her through a cracked quizzing glass.
A silent sigh of dread escaped her.
"I fear you are mistaken, sir." She edged away from the portly fellow.
"I'd stake my life on it," he boomed out. "You look frightfully familiar." His lascivious gaze lowered to
the ruched silk of her bodice. "Perhaps we met at the earl's card party last week?"
"I think not." To her relief, Emily saw Justin approaching through the crowd. An impish smile transformed her face as she threw her arms around the gentleman's neck. "Why, Uncle George!" She beckoned to Justin and called out in a voice that carried through the entire room, "Look, Your Grace,
it's one of my father's oldest friends-my dear old uncle George! You remember him, don't you? He
used to so love to dandle me on his knee."
Justin may not have remembered, but Uncle George was beginning to. He went pale in her choke hold
as the Duke of Winthrop parted the crowd with deadly grace. Several people were beginning to stare.
"No, no, gel," he stammered. "I'm sorry. You've got it all wrong. I don't know anyone named George. My name is Harry. I mean Alfred."
"Surely you jest!" Emily cried as Justin stopped in front of them. "Why, the resemblance is uncanny." She grasped his fat cheeks, turning his face for Justin's perusal. "He's the very image of George, isn't
he, Your Grace?"
Only too aware of her adventures in the bordello, Justin stroked his chin. "Positively eerie. Are you sure you don't have a twin somewhere, my good man?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. Perhaps I do. My mum was never too clear on the matter. Now, if you'll
excuse me, I really must be going." Uncle George-Harry-Alfred awkwardly extracted himself from
Emily's embrace and fled toward the foyer, racing past the puzzled footman holding out his greatcoat
and cane.
Laughter bubbled from Emily's throat. The heat of Justin's gaze warmed her like a touch. Her heart
did a clumsy somersault.
"You look lovely," he said.
She inclined her head, suddenly shy. It was hard to equate this staid, elegant gentleman with the playful satyr who loved her until dawn each night. "So do you."
"Will you dance with me?" he asked, his eyes somber.
"What will they think?" For the first time in her life Emily feared the opinions of others. She had Justin's reputation to consider now.
"They'll think the rich, mad duke has finally found a woman daft enough to marry him."
Emily turned away from him, choking on emotion. Justin wanted her. Not just for a few hours of stolen pleasure in the night. For always. "But the scandal," she whispered. "You're my guardian. I've been
living beneath your roof for over a month. They'll never accept us."
"Then they can all go to hell and I can take my bride to New Zealand for a Maori wedding." He waited for a long beat of silence. "What do you say? Will Cecille forgive us if we announce our engagement at her fete?"
Emily swung around, smiling through a blur of tears. "She forgave me for stuffing the dead mouse in
her boot, didn't she?"
Justin folded her into his arms, ignoring the curious stares. "Stop that, now. Penfeld would never forgive you for soaking all the starch out of my lapels." He held his handkerchief to her nose. "There now. Blow. That's a good girl. Feel better?" At her nod, he said, "Come on, then. You've faced down cannibals and dragons. Surely a few matrons and snobbish swells don't scare you." Emily nodded again, this time more violently. "Well, if you must know, they scare me too, but there's no help for it. If they get mean, I'll send for my mother to defend us."