The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer

thing to do! Emmaline, you will one day be a woman of immense wealth.”

      She had heard this speech so often she could almost recite her father’s words.

      “You must see to it that your inheritance is not squandered,” he continued. “My money can only be entrusted to a man with a good head for business.”

      “Do you wish you could take every tuppence with you when you die, Father?” She tried to hold her tongue. “I’m nothing more than a bank to you. If I marry the right man, your wealth will increase—and that’s all you care about. My feelings don’t matter. My future happiness makes no difference. My only purpose is to ensure that your precious holdings continue to grow so that your name may be remembered with admiration.”

      “How dare you speak to me in this way?” Pickering’s voice quivered with rage. He walked toward Emma as he spoke. “You are my daughter and you will obey me. You must marry, or you will never have a farthing to your name. And you will marry the man I select.”

      “I shall not.” Emma took a step backward. She had never spoken her thoughts so freely, but something inside her had changed. “I don’t care if I never see tuppence from you. I shall do what I’m meant to do, and you cannot stop me.”

      “I can stop you and I will stop you.” Her father loomed before her now, his nostrils flaring as one hand gripped his chest over his heart.

      Emma trembled as she faced him. “You can do nothing to me, sir. Nothing—ever again.”

      As her words registered, his hand shot out and caught her across the cheek in a stinging blow. Her head jerked backward. The ceiling spun and went dark. Then she was on the floor, clutching her burning face.

      Her father took a step and set his foot on her skirt, crushing the soft pink roses. “I am telling you now that you will marry the man I select,” he hissed. “You will have nothing more to do with Miss Nightingale or her nursing school or any other harebrained scheme of yours. Never forget your mother’s wickedness. I shall not allow you to disgrace me as she did. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, Father.” Her head felt as if it had burst and she licked at the blood on her lip.

      “Your behavior tonight was unfortunate, indeed. You embarrassed me, Emmaline.”

      Nodding, she closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

      She had always tried to do as he asked. These many years she had taken the place of her mother in restraining Cissy, in managing the household, in acting as hostess to her father’s associates. She had done all in her power to prevent his ire.

      Cissy had no idea how often Emma had protected her from their father by blocking the advances of unsuitable would-be beaux. And yet when Cissy fell in love…and she often did…her father lightly reproved her, then hugged and pampered his younger daughter. Emma, who looked and acted so much like her mother, bore the brunt of his rage.

      “Priscilla is in your charge,” he reminded Emma. “You must set a worthy example for your sister. I expect you to take care of her and protect her. I cannot be both mother and father to my daughters. Is that clear?”

      “Yes, Father.”

      “Then go to your room, Emmaline. I shall inform our hosts you were feeling tired.”

      Struggling to her feet, Emma tugged her hem from beneath her father’s foot. At the door, she picked up the lavender gloves and held them to her lips. Her injuries would not look bad now, but she knew it could not be long until her face was blue and swollen.

      

      As she stepped into her room, Emma shut the door behind her and ran to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she pressed her cheek against the cool glass and let the tears flow.

      Her father was right, of course. She could never escape him. She must do as he said. Always.

      Was it possible that her father was more powerful even than God? Although such a thought seemed blasphemous, Emma now knew without doubt that she would never be a nurse. The holy calling in her heart could not be answered. One day very soon she must marry the man of her father’s choosing—a proper man, as her mother had done. She would bear children, her father’s longed-for male heirs. She would live in a fine house in London during the season and spend the other months at a country estate.

      She would do all the things she had been brought up to do. It would a fine life. A grand life. And somehow her father, a mere mortal, would overpower the will of God Almighty.

      “Emma?” The door swung open and Cissy stepped into the darkened room.

      “I’m here, Cissy.” She drew away from the window.

      “You must come quickly! It’s Father’s heart again. He’s having a spell.”

      For an instant Emma hesitated. Her father had forbidden her to practice nursing. By rights she could refuse to go to him, letting him suffer or perhaps even—

      “Where is he?” she asked, hurrying toward her sister.

      “In the study. Mr. Bond found him collapsed on the floor.”

      “Did you use his smelling salts?”

      “I forgot.” Cissy clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Emma, you know how useless I am in a panic!”

      “It’s all right. Come with me.” Emma lifted her skirts and strode along the hall and down the steps.

      The study was crowded with guests as she pushed her way toward the sofa where her father lay. Lady Delamere hovered over him while Nicholas placed a damp cloth on his pallid forehead.

      “We must have fresh air,” Emma said as she knelt on the carpet beside the settee. “Please clear the room, Mr. Bond.”

      She saw at once that her father’s round stomach rose and fell evenly. His heart, though weak, still pulsed. Flipping back his lapel, she removed the bottle of salts from his pocket and held it under his nose. Instantly his eyes fluttered open and he began coughing.

      “There, there,” she murmured softly, as her mother always had. “All is well, sir. You must rest.”

      He caught her arm. “Emmaline, is my daughter—?”

      “Calm yourself, Father.” Emma anticipated the question that always formed itself upon his lips after an episode. “Priscilla is fine. You’ve given her a bit of a fright, but she’s just outside the door waiting to see you. I shall send her to you in a moment.”

      Rising, she spoke with Lady Delamere, then she slipped out of the room. Cissy rushed to her sister’s side. Her blue eyes swam with tears.

      “Emma, did something happen in the study?” she whispered. “Did you quarrel?”

      “We did have words.”

      As she turned away, Cissy gasped. “Oh, Emma! He’s hit you again, hasn’t he? Your cheek!”

      “Shh, Cissy,” Emma said. “Say nothing more.”

      Arm in arm, they left the others and returned to their suite. Cissy turned up the gas lamp so that the room was bathed in a golden glow. She turned toward her sister.

      “Come with me, Emma. I want you to see something.”

      Emma allowed herself to be led to the mirror. When she gazed into it, she saw two figures staring back at her. One was just as she had been when they’d left the room earlier that evening. Cissy stood prim and soft in a powder-blue gown, her golden hair coiled around a bright bird, her eyes shining.

      Emma hardly recognized herself. Her hair, no longer curled and pinned to the top of her head, hung wild about her shoulders from her dance with Adam. The pink stain of her father’s handprint marred her cheek. Her mouth was swollen and bruised. Shaking her head, she touched the drop of dried blood on her lip.

      “What has become of me?” she whispered. “Who