EMILIA DIDN’T PREPARE FOR the final ball. Instead, she looked over her belongings to judge what should be packed first. Tomorrow, she would write to her father and ask him to bring her home. Her dreams of living in Edinburgh, of a life of theater, music and art, seemed silly now. She didn’t belong in the city, with the complex, fickle folk who dwelled there. She belonged in a small home with a garden, and only chickens and a goat for company. Perhaps the occasional goose. They made more sense than men like Robert Banbrook.

She settled onto the foot of her narrow bed with a sigh. Robert. Tall, handsome, with the most fascinating grey eyes she’d ever seen. So often, he seemed withdrawn, even cold, but when he was happy, laughing, he made her happy, his joy, a rare gift. Everything she’d dreamed of.

Emilia shook her head. No, not everything. She didn’t dream of a man who was hopelessly in love with Viscountess Dunreid. Only a fool would dream of that.

She reached for her sketchpad and flipped through the thick pages to his face. Heaven help her, she was a fool, for she could think only of him. Her heart beat quicker at the sight of his face, even on a page.

She snapped the book closed. Packing for her journey home, that was her chore. Not woolgathering over Robert.

A knock brought her to the door. The maid, Mary, waited on the other side. Unlike any other time Emilia had seen her, Mary appeared unhappy. Emilia frowned.

“There’s someone to see you, Miss, in the small parlor.”

The small parlor? A titled someone, or wealthy. Not Robert. Somehow, she was certain of that. Robert wouldn’t bring such worry to Mary’s face, even in one of his darker moods.

Dunreid, then. Would he ever take no for an answer? Frustration bloomed in Emilia. She firmed her lips into a hard line. This time, he would.

“Thank you, Mary. I’ll be right down.” She made to close the door, but Mary’s foot blocked the way.

“Miss, I know it isn’t my place to say, but I don’t think you should.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mary never voiced suggestions. She was Lady Peddington’s creature, there to see all, report all, and not develop attachments.

“The lady waiting for you, Viscountess Dunreid, she can’t have anything to say you’ll want to hear, Miss.”

Not Dunreid, but his wife, Lady Cinthia, who hadn’t been shy in her desire never to set eyes on Emilia again. What could possibly bring her? “Be that as it may, I can’t simply ignore her.”

“I could say I couldn’t find you, if you like.”

Emilia studied Mary’s worried expression. Worried for her? For the school, should Lady Cinthia be angered? Emilia was tempted to take the offer. “No, but I do thank you. I will speak with her. Perhaps I can end the fiasco my life has become.”

“Yes, Miss.” Mary, expression neutral once more, nodded and backed away.

Emilia closed the door and went to her mirror. She wore her plainest gown. Her hair was pinned up in a severe fashion, no curls to hide the roundness of her face. She had not a single adornment. No mark of sophistication about her.

What did her appearance matter? Lady Cinthia wouldn’t care. Her judgement had long since been passed. Likely, Emilia looked like the artless country girl she was. That would please the viscountess. She offered her reflection a shrug and headed for the small parlor. She would look even less grand surrounded by the opulence there.

Lady Cinthia stood framed in the window, gazing out over Charlotte Square. Emilia closed the door quietly behind her, more as a kindness to Mary than to keep the conversation secret. The maid’s eavesdropping would be made easier if she could press her ear to the door.

“You asked to see me, my lady?”

Lady Cinthia turned, grace in every limb. Emilia curtsied. She received a nod as regal as any queen’s, followed by a disdainful perusal of her person.

“I did,” Lady Cinthia said in her cultured, clipped English accent. “I’ve come to make sure things are clear between us, Miss Glasbarr.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t realize there was anything between us, my lady. I rate myself less than a passing acquaintance in your eyes.”

“You are a clever girl, then, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lady.”

“Hm.” Lady Cinthia made an airy gesture. “I heard Robert gifted you a necklace, but that you ran from the ball before speaking with him.” She leaned forward, the eagerness in her face repulsive. “May I ask why? Was he inexplicably angry with you? He has high emotions for an Englishman.”

“I don’t know what he was, my lady. I was in a distraught state myself. Something I overheard upset me, and I left.” What could the creature possibly want? Emilia had refused Dunreid, lost…rather, never possessed Robert. Perhaps the viscountess wanted her to leave Edinburgh, altogether? Well, she would have that as well. “But I’m afraid my acuity is not what you think, if you deem me clever. In fact, I’m so out of my depth here, I plan to return home at my father’s earliest convenience.”

Blue eyes brightened—sparkled like Robert’s sapphire and its false promise of his affection. “You plan to leave? I’m pleased for you, child. You’ll be much happier back with your own kind.”

Anger flickered in Emilia, but died under the weight of despair. The viscountess was correct. Emilia didn’t belong in Edinburgh. For all her dedication to finishing school, she’d won only a broken heart, and that hurt more than any of this woman’s cruelties. She dropped her gaze to Lady Cinthia’s silken slippers, cobalt to match her gown.

Rich fabric rustled as those slippers brought the viscountess near. “You seem sad, child. It pains me that you’ve been abused so.”

Emilia didn’t believe Lady Cinthia’s sympathy, but she did feel rather abused. An ache filled her throat. She shrugged, for words forced past that ache would come out thick with tears. She would not give her pain to this woman.

“It would be better for you, I think, if you could leave soon.” False compassion slithered through Lady Cinthia’s voice. “Why suffer while you await your father? A gentleman farmer, I assume?”

Emilia nodded.

“He’ll be doubly busy this time of year,” Lady Cinthia said. “I don’t want you to have to linger in this state for days, perhaps weeks, even.”

A gloved hand settled on Emilia’s shoulder. She tried not to cringe from the feather-light touch.

“To make up for the poor treatment the men in my life have given you, allow me to provide transport. I’ll hire a carriage to take you home.”

Emilia looked up. She flinched to find those blue eyes so near her own, the slender viscountess looking down at her from beneath white-blonde locks.

“Thank you.” She would accept help from this woman, if only to never have to see her again.

“How about tomorrow morning, then, dear?” Lady Cinthia’s smile was smug.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, my lady.”

“Good. You’ll want to pack. No time for the final ball.”

“Oh, no, definitely not. I wasn’t going to attend, actually. I don’t feel very…festive.”

“Splendid.”

How could the woman smile with absolutely no warmth? Was the ability to completely falsify emotions a particular skill of the English? Whereas before she had longed to visit London, now Emilia resolved never to travel there.

“I’m glad we had this talk, Miss Glasbarr, and that I’m able to help return you home with all alacrity.”

“I am as well, my lady.” She was. The sooner she left Edinburgh, the sooner she could forget Robert. It would be a momentous task not to dwell on memories of his laughter, his grey eyes. But a change of scenery must surely help.

“Well, run along and pack, child.” Lady Cinthia’s clipped accent scattered Emilia’s thoughts.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said for what seemed the tenth time. She curtsied and left. As she traversed the nearly empty halls, she hoped the viscountess was behind her forever.

Once in her room, Emilia sent for her trunk from storage and laid out her wardrobe. The drab dress she wore would do well enough for travel. She hadn’t brought much, or gained much while in Edinburgh. Once she was gone, her life would be almost the same as if she’d never attended Lady Peddington’s school.

By the time the ball began, Emilia was packed. She stood in the middle of the room, empty now of signs of her occupancy. Tomorrow, she would bid Lady Peddington’s farewell. This room, the school, even her friends, would become buried in the past with her dreams. If only she could shed thoughts of Robert as easily.

She looked down at her dress. She didn’t wish to go to the ball, and couldn’t, dressed as she was, but remaining in her room seemed unbearable. Almost unbidden, her feet set out, the rest of her accompanying them by necessity.

Careful to stay clear of the front wing foyer, candlelit halls and ballroom, she wandered the building, silently saying goodbye. When she reached Missus Millview’s classroom, directly across the courtyard from the ballroom, she slipped inside to find the space dark. Emilia turned in a slow circle. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. She would like to say farewell to her favorite instructor, but didn’t wish to admit her failure. Missus Millview had aided her, at risk to her position, and Emilia had squandered that assistance. A man was sent to help her find a good husband, just as she’d hoped. Instead of falling in love with one of the perfectly acceptable gentlemen Robert introduced her to, she’d fallen in love with him.

By moonlight, she paced the room, and trailed her fingers over the long tables. She made a full circuit. Memories of friends and laughter bubbled in her mind. They were overcast now, colored darker, sadder, by this waystop in her journey. As was the room, muted in the pale glow of moonlight.

Her steps brought her back around to the long windows. The oak slept without. Across the lawn, light spilled from the ballroom, windows thrown wide to permit fresh air to enter. She pushed open one of the long panes before her and let in soft strains of music. Unwanted tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.

Behind her, the door slid open. Emilia tensed. If Dunreid or his wife entered, she would climb out the window and run.

“One of the maids, Mary, said I would find you here.”

Her breath hitched. Robert. Her heart leapt, but couldn’t take flight, sent crashing back to earth in pain. “Why should you wish to find me?”

His footfalls drew nearer. “Are you crying? Will you look at me?”

“I am, and I will not.”

“Emilia.” His voice was rough, anguished. “I have things to explain.”

Music swirled through the courtyard, carried across on a light breeze. The leaves of the oak danced to the rhythm.

“That you still love Lady Cinthia?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone. “There’s nothing to explain. She’s perfect.” On the outside. “What man wouldn’t want her?”

“I don’t want her.”

Now he would lie to her? She looked down at her hands, gripping the sill. “Oh? Not since the last time you had her, when she was at your home, returned in your carriage in…how did Viscount Dunreid describe her state? Disheveled?”

“Dunreid doesn’t know of what he speaks.” Two more steps, and she could feel the heat of him behind her. “She was at my home. She wanted…”

His tone was tentative. She could hear how he searched for the right words. Pain filled her at the hope he would find them.

“She wanted what you suspect she wanted,” he finally said. “I won’t lie, a month ago, I would have said yes, engaged to Miss Thomas or not, but the viscountess was too late. My answer was no.”

Emilia closed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. He sounded sincere. How could she know? She wanted so much to believe. Could she trust herself?

“I was so happy when you sent that necklace.”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes flew open. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Serious grey eyes. Dark hair not as neat as usual. Unshaven. He looked miserable, and seeing him that way filled her heart with new pain.

“You didn’t?”

“Lady Cinthia did.” How cold his voice went as her name left his lips. “She, rightly, suspected I would see the necklace and believe you’d given in to Dunreid. She is the one who told me he sent one.”

“When she was with you, at one of your not-longed-for, not-scandalous meetings?” Emilia asked, the pain of imagining them together too sharp to relinquish with ease.

He came around her, to stand beside her at the window. A thumb, skin slightly rough, smoothed tears from her cheek. “I do not love her, or want her, or have even the smallest, remotest desire to set eyes on her again. Ever.”

“Ever?” Emilia’s voice sounded small. Could he be telling the truth?

He cocked his head. Across the courtyard, strains of a waltz drifted toward them. The hour was later than she thought. She should be locked safely in her room.

“Dance with me.”

Emilia nodded, unable to resist. A strong hand gripped hers, no gloves to mute the mingled warmth of their skin. Another hand slid along her waist. Holding her near, but with care, as something fragile, Robert turned her away from the window in time with the distant notes. With her gaze, she traced the folds of his wrinkled cravat, unsure where to look.

The arms about her were strong, a barricade against all that was evil in the world, something to brace her against a storm. She longed to believe they were the arms of a man who loved her.

But if she believed his words tonight, that he didn’t love Lady Cinthia, that she sent the necklace to sow strife between them, that also meant he hadn’t sent the gift. Robert had never declared his affection for her. A new despair unfurled in her.

“Emilia.” His voice was soft, oddly rough. “Look at me.”

She hesitated. Could she resist him once she looked into those grey eyes? Did she wish to resist Robert?

Emilia raised her gaze to his face. He smiled. Her attention shifted to his mouth, to the way his lips curved, to the scruff shadowing his chin. Was this how he appeared when he woke in the morning? She lifted her hand from his shoulder, touched his cheek. He leaned into her caress. Her face heated. She dropped her hand back onto his shoulder, breathless.

“I didn’t send the necklace, but I should have,” he said. “I had a hundred chances, which makes me a hundred times a fool for not telling you sooner.” He gave a gentle smile. “I love you.”

Her gaze snapped up to meet his. They stilled, though music still drifted in.

“You love me?”

He slid downward, dropped to one knee before her. He raised the hand he still held to his lips. His kiss, the press of his lips to the back of her hand in a fleeting warmth, made her dizzy. When he looked back up, his grey eyes shone in the moonlight.

“Marry me, Emilia Glasbarr. Love me. Grow old with me while our children run in the yard and we pick out fabulous carriage horses together and visit every museum, attend every recital. Let me be yours forever.”

New tears threatened. She dropped to her knees before him, pulled his face down to hers. Her heart, freed, took flight as their lips met.