It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal
The duchess’s head bobbed, and a rare smile tilted her lips. “Yes, right here at Willow Lake.”
The name of the estate came from the massive lake that surrounded the property along with the hundreds of tall willow trees.
“I know it is unseemly with Maxwell—” She visibly fought to compose herself and then continued, “But the entire village suffers. There are many without any joy, or food on the table. I know of your weekly works, but your efforts are not enough to support an entire village and infirmary. My efforts are not enough. The ghastly effect of the war is horrendous, and I thought three days of festiveness where we all came together—the gentry, the tenants, the vicar of the village and his family—would be a welcome respite.”
“It would be lovely, Georgette.” Emily smiled, loving the idea. “I will organize games and events. The entire lake is frozen, and it would be wonderful to open skating to everyone.”
“Thank you, my dear.” The duchess clasped her hands, and Emily was grateful for the glint of happiness she saw. Too much grief had shrouded them.
“I will commence planning as soon as I return from Brompton with Marcellus,” she promised.
She left the duchess to plan the meals and compile invitations for the festive ball. Emily was grateful for more work to fill her days. Her dearest friend, Miss Leah Knightly, could help her plan. She also volunteered as an aide at the infirmary, so Emily would speak with her then and enlist her assistance to ensure everyone had a jolly good time. It seemed unlikely, but she suddenly felt as if there could be some happiness, if only fleetingly, to banish the horror of everything.
She walked with eagerness through the foyer and strode out the door. Giving Alfred a radiant smile as he held open the door, Emily hurried down the steps, fighting the blush that tried to rise in her cheeks as she spied Marcellus waiting for her, leaning against his black-lacquered Renault. He looked so self-assured and handsome. She forced herself to walk calmly down the steps.
“Lord Blackthorn,” she murmured in greeting. He raised slashing brows at her formality, and the blush she tried to suppress flamed her cheeks.
He held open the door, and she slid in. She waited in agonized silence as the footmen filled the backseat with the packages. Marcellus entered and started the car. The smooth purr of the engine came alive, and they drove away.
The memory of their night lay between them, so strong that it was almost tangible. Emily desperately searched for a way to break the tension. There had never existed this silence between them before. She glanced at him and noted the rigid ticking in his jaw.
In desperation, she spoke. “As we had discussed, I had Jeffers search through your armoire for last season’s wear. I have parceled as much as I could for gifts to the villagers. I also took a slab of meat from Cook for the infirmary. Even though it has been proclaimed the war has
ended, meats are still being rationed.”
She winced when he only grunted in reply, but continued valiantly, “Now that Prime Minister George has announced the war has ended, I pray the villagers will be able to restore their lives and banish fear.”
“I suspect they will.”
She relaxed slightly at his response, grateful he was following her lead and not talking about their night. “Do you think that all will be well, Marcellus? Is it possible to recover from such horrors?”
She waited for his answer as he slowed around a curve. The road was slick with wetness and flakes of snow. He changed gears, and the silence lulled her into relaxing fully.
“I fear we must. Our way of life has changed in ways that many have not yet comprehended. And we will have to continue with change and embrace progression to survive as a nation after such atrocities. Our women are strong; our men honorable. Our children will be taught, legacies will live on, and we will flourish. It is inconceivable to imagine that we will not rise.”
She smiled, strangely happy for the first time in months. “I fear, to the distress of Mama and Papa, that I never want to return to the naive debutante I was. They are appalled that I would want to continue with my efforts at the hospitals now that the war has ended. But I feel that more will need to be done for those that return from the battlefield. I want to be a part of that, Marcellus. I want to help. I have even toyed with the idea of writing, possibly even working.”
He glanced at her. “I do not think it will come to you working, Emmeline.”
“It may not. But I feel as if I want to do something. I have a passion in me to write about the effect that I witness. How it took something as gruesome as war to lower the social barriers that we hold on to so rigidly.”
“As my wife and the future Duchess of Harcourt you will be able to do all you desire,” he promised. “If you wish to write, write. Our family has many contacts with the newspapers and publishers.”
Her heart jerked, and warmth unfurled as, for the first time since his proposal, she allowed herself to imagine being his wife. His unshakable support of her desires had always enthralled her. She turned her head to look at his patrician profile fully.
“Thank you, Marcellus.”
He gave a curt nod. “Is there nothing that you yearn for, Emmeline?”
Still facing him, she prevented the tumble of Maxwell’s name from her lips and really thought about it. She wanted more from life. She needed to be more than just a young lady seeking a suitable marriage connection. In the new fabric of the world being formed, she wanted to have more influence, to make more of an impact. Unable to voice the thoughts that bubbled inside her, she shifted her mind to a lighter topic.
“To hear you call me Emily even once,” she teased.
The low laughter that pulsed from him curled through her. She realized that she hardly ever heard Marcellus’s laugh.
“You tease me, Emmeline?” he drawled her name with such sensuality she swallowed.
He sounded pleased.