a long chain about her neck.
‘Is this some family crest?’
‘My mother’s,’ she replied softly and deposited the golden trinket down again between her breasts, glad when he did not pursue the topic.
‘Who was French?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon.’
‘You said that your mother was from France.’ He was so close she could have reached out a finger to run along the hard cut of his jaw.
‘I did? Yes, of course I did. Because she was.’ Lord, this lying was eating at her composure and she felt sweat in the palms of her hands.
‘Êtes-vous originaire du sud ou bien du nord de la France?’
What was it he had said? Something of north and south. This much she had translated, though the other was lost to her.
‘Oui.’ She chanced one of the ten or so French words she actually knew and was disconcerted by the amusement scrawled on his face.
‘And honesty was as important to your mother as it is to you?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘Admirable,’ he returned and as his eyes glanced across the loose material of her gown she felt the skin on her nipples pucker and folded her arms. She should have worn her underclothing, but it felt so much better without it.
‘It is seldom one meets a woman of such high moral fibre.’
The blood rushed into her face. ‘I will take that as a compliment, your Grace,’ she said simply.
His laughter brought the conversation around them to a noticeable quietening and as she looked up the hostess, Lady Flora, caught her eye and smiled broadly. Emerald observed that the green-eyed beauty standing next to their host didn’t look anywhere near as friendly as she posed a question.
‘I hear that your newest ship is ready for a launch here in London, your Grace. What is it to be called?’
‘The Melanie.’
An inexplicable tension filled the room.
Who was Melanie, she wondered, and what was she to Asher Wellingham? Someone important, no doubt. Someone he loved?
But where was she now?
The Bishop of Kingseat raised his glass.
‘To the Melanie, then. May she ride the waves long and true and be as beautiful as her namesake.’
There it was again. Her namesake? Interest flared as Asher acknowledged the toast and drank and Emerald was struck by the difference five years had made in the lines of his face.
Hardness and distance.
For some reason the thought made her unfathomably sad and when the topic turned to dancing she was pleased, for it gave her time to compose herself.
Half an hour Emerald stood alone near a pillar that led off to a balcony. Asher Wellingham was across the other side of the room with the beautiful green-eyed woman draped across his arm. From this distance the darkness of her carefully coiffed hair was exactly the same shade as his. The memory of her own hair was sharp and she raised her hand to pat down the short errant curls.
Two ladies behind her were talking about the Duke and she turned so that she could overhear them more easily.
‘If only he would look our way, Claire. Just once. Would it be considered rude, do you think, to raise one’s glass and smile at him?’
The other girl began to laugh. ‘Oh, you would never do that, surely. Imagine what he might think of us.’
‘It is rumoured that he will go to India next month. Let us hope that he does not meet the ghost of the pirate Beau Sandford on his travels.’
A loud squawk of titillation brought the Duke’s glance their way, and Emerald tensed. Hearing the name of her father here disorientated her because it was so very unexpected. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw the subject of the girl’s conversation start towards her.
‘Lady Emma? Would you walk with me for a moment?’
‘Walk with you?’ Her astonishment was such that she forgot to use her carefully perfected girly voice.
‘There is a balcony just here overlooking a garden. I thought it a good place to talk and I have something for you.’
More of an order than a request. She ignored the arm he held out and hoped that he had not seen the imprinted adulation on the faces of the young women around her. His arrogance was already legendary enough.
The balcony was open at one end and she welcomed the quietness of it. A group of other people stood near the French doors that led in from the main room; pausing by the railing she waited for him to speak.
‘Lucy gave me something to give to you and I had my man return home for the letter when I saw that you were here tonight.’ He dragged a sealed envelope out of his pocket. ‘It is for your cousin, Liam Kingston. A letter of thanks, I should imagine but Lucinda is young and impressionable, so if the correspondence seems exaggerated in places—’ He stopped as she held out her hand and his fingers inadvertently touched her own. She shivered. Even here in the most public of places and with the simplest of contacts she was vulnerable. Hoping that her face did not hold the same expression as the vacuous women inside, she tucked the letter unread into her reticule.
‘If Mr Kingston could find it in him to send a reply and state his circumstances, I would be grateful. Seventeen-year-old girls have a propensity for imagination, you understand, and I would like the matter resolved.’
There it was again. Responsibility and control. Important to a man like Asher Wellingham and something he rarely let go of.
What would happen if he did let go of it? a small voice questioned. As the blood hammered in her temples she turned away to give herself a moment to recover and his next words came through a haze.
‘Would it be possible for you to give me his direction? When I am next in his part of the world I could call in on him and give my thanks.’
Lord!
What address could she tell him? She knew no one in the Americas. A happier thought surfaced. Perhaps Azziz had contacts…
‘I will write it down for you and have it delivered.’
He shook his head. ‘You will be in Falder in two days. I can wait until then.’
The strain of the supper waltz rent the air.
‘How is it that I know you, Lady Emma? Have we met before?’
‘Are you familiar with Cheshire, your Grace?’ She was relieved when he smiled at her question and shook his head.
‘No, but I do not think the memory of you lingers from England somehow…’
Desperate to take his mind from recollection, she
