her daydreams.
She turned to see Miss Morris, now Mrs Goddard, standing in the office doorway. Though the white cap on her brown curls and her grey silk dress were plain and austere, her dark eyes were bright with laughter, her lips creased in a smile.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” Emily said, hurrying to kiss Mrs Goddard’s pink cheek. To see her was always so wonderful, like seeing her second mother. “My sister-in-law wanted to talk, and—”
“Quite all right, my dear. I know how hard it can be to get away. Liza has got the girls started on today’s lesson.” Mrs Goddard led her up the stairs to the first floor, where all the classrooms lay. The women who came here seeking a new life under Mrs Goddard’s charity were given lessons of all sorts, beginning with reading, writing and simple sums. They moved on to deportment, sewing, cooking, elocution, whatever might help them find a new, respectable livelihood. They also lived in the house, in rooms on the second and third floors.
When Emily first came to help her former governess last year, she taught reading and a little sewing. Now she taught some French and fine embroidery to girls more advanced in their lessons who wanted to be ladies’ maids and milliners. To help them in even such small ways, to see them find a new way in the world, made her concerns about not becoming a duchess seem silly indeed! These women lived with the terror she felt when Mr Lofton tried to kiss her in the garden every day, only on a far worse scale than she could ever imagine. The women needed her help, and she was never happier than when she was here being useful.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Carroll!” her pupils called when she stepped into the classroom. A row of young ladies in fine black gowns turned to her with smiles of welcome.
Emily laughed happily. Maybe she disappointed at home, but not here. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles! Comment allez-vous aujourd-hui? “
Chapter Three
“It’s about time you got home. I’ve been waiting an age.”
Nicholas had barely stepped into his library at Manning House, the afternoon post and various messages from his estate managers in hand, when he was brought up short by his brother Stephen’s words. Stephen lounged in an armchair by the fire, a snifter of brandy in his hand and the newspapers open on his lap and scattered across the floor.
“I see you’ve had no trouble passing the time, though,” Nicholas said. “I just got that case of brandy from the wine merchant.”
“And excellent stuff it is, too,” Stephen said with a laugh. He tossed off the last of his drink and sighed happily. “You always do have the best brandy, Nick, and the best chef, too. I had luncheon earlier, it was superb. I should visit you in town more often.”
“You come often enough as it is,” Nicholas said. He tried to sound grumpy about the unexpected invasion of his life and wine cellar, but in truth he was glad to see his brother. He was always glad to see any of his family. Life in town could be a lonely, dull affair, and their affectionate jokes and banter, their exuberant pranks, always kept that coldness away. With them, he did not have to think so very much. He did not have to remember. He could just be Nicholas, living in the here and now.
But they were all very busy of late. Stephen had inherited their mother’s estate at Fincote Park, where she had retired in quiet sadness after their father, the duke, eloped with his lover Lady Linwall. Stephen worked hard to transform it from a place of dark memories into the finest stable and racetrack in England. Their half-brother Leo helped him in that task, travelling the Continent in search of suitable horseflesh for the stable. They sometimes heard from him, but not often.
And their half-sisters, Justine, Annalise and Charlotte, were occupied with their own growing families. They wrote often, usually to gently enquire when he, too, might enter the blessed, blissful state of wedlock as they had.
But he doubted he would ever find such great matches as theirs, love pairings all. He had tried that once, and it all ended in pain and despair. He knew his duty well enough, to provide heirs for the dukedom, and he would do it. Just not quite yet.
And since he had returned from Italy he had felt a strange distance from his family. He had lost the lightness of heart he once had with them, and he could sense their worry. He just didn’t know how to reassure them—or how to find the joy in life again.
For some reason, an image of Lady Emily Carroll flashed through his mind. He remembered catching her in his arms last night as she tumbled from the stairs, the soft, warm feel of her body against his. She smelled of warm summer roses, and her bright hair brushed like silk against his cheek. She felt surprisingly sweet and alive.
In that startled moment, she had laughed and blushed, clinging to him as she found her balance. They called her the “Ice Princess”, and usually he thought they must be right. She was so quiet, so watchful, her pale green eyes taking in everything around her, seeming to judge them and find them wanting.
At that house party at his family’s pleasure house, Welbourne Manor, she hadn’t joined in the games and laughter. She hadn’t chased around the gardens or played hide-and-seek in the attic. Nicholas did know his duty; it had been ingrained in him since he was a child. It struck him at that party that Emily Carroll was exactly the sort of lady to fulfil that duty—pretty, well born, well mannered. A fine hostess for a ducal estate, and a fine mother for future dukes and ladies, at least as far as looks and pedigree went. Her parents had once been friends with his father, and would surely welcome the match.
But then there would be the making of those dukes and ladies, and Nicholas didn’t relish the idea of an ice princess in his bed. He was lonely, true, yet was he that lonely? No, not yet.
At the ball, though, in that one moment, her quiet, pale mask slipped and he glimpsed a light deep in her eyes. Which was the real Emily Carroll?
It was maddeningly intriguing.
“You’re quiet today, Nick,” Stephen said, pulling Nicholas back into the present moment and away from thoughts of Emily Carroll.
“Sorry, I was just attending to some estate business and it has me distracted,” Nicholas said. He dropped the post on to his desk and sat down on its edge, crossing his arms over his chest. His valet would fuss about the crushed cravat, the wrinkled waistcoat, and cluck about how a duke should “keep up appearances”.
But Nicholas feared he couldn’t always be a proper duke. His father had been dead many years now, perished of a fever in Naples with his new wife Lady Lin-wall, and so very much had happened since then. Yet Nicholas still felt he was learning his role, still trying to fulfil all his many responsibilities.
“It was dull stuff, and I’m tired from it,” he said.
“You, Nick? Tired? Never!” Stephen cried. “You’re the one who could always swim across the lake and then ride five miles, all before breakfast. I would wager you were up playing cards and visiting wenches all night, and that’s why you’re tired. Here, have some brandy and it will revive you.”
“I will have some brandy, before you drink it all, but I think you would be surprised at what really occupied me last night.” Nicholas sat down in the chair next to Stephen’s, reaching for the bottle.
“What, no gaming hells? No house of ill repute?”
“Not unless you count Lady Orman’s ballroom.”
“You
