A Regency Duchess's Awakening: The Shy Duchess / To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabe

was certain Lady Emily would not enjoy it very much—especially once she learned the truth about Vauxhall. But he could hardly refuse, not with the two ladies looking at him so expectantly, and not with the old friendship between his father and the Carrolls. Perhaps it would be a chance to make some amends to Emily, as well.

      “I should like that very much, Lady Moreby,” he said. “Thank you for including me.”

      Lady Moreby laughed, her heart-shaped face glowing. For an instant, he glimpsed Emily in her. She must have looked just like her daughter in her youth, and even now had that classical, fair prettiness. Perhaps that was what Emily would look like in comfortable middle age, with her family around her.

      “I will send a card round to Manning House, your Grace,” she said, and the glimpse of a future Emily vanished. “How fortuitous to encounter you here today!”

      “And we are so happy to see you have recovered, your Grace,” added Lady Granton.

      Recovered? For an instant, he feared she knew about last night. “I beg your pardon, Lady Granton?”

      “From the incident at Hyde Park, of course. Your heroic rescue of that poor child. And my sister-in-law there to witness it all! I am sure I would have fainted quite away if I was there,” said Lady Granton. “We are all so full of admiration, your Grace.”

      “Anyone would have done the same, Lady Granton,” he said yet again.

      “Well, you must tell us all about it at our dinner,” said Lady Moreby. ‘We shall just let you finish your shopping now, your Grace. I am sure you must be terribly busy.”

      They all made their farewells, and Nicholas started to walk away. But a breeze caught Lady Granton’s whisper as she leaned towards her mother-in-law under their parasols.

      “Was he buying a ring there, do you think, Mama?” she said.

      Lady Moreby glanced back at him, her pretty, rosy-round face suddenly tense. “Oh, my dear Amy. We can only hope.”

      A ring. Nicholas hurried on, pulling his hat low over his brow. Blast it, he should have got one of those as well. Who knew if he might need one?

       Chapter Seven

      “Je suis, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes. Oh! Is that quite right, Miss Carroll? I’m just not sure.”

      Emily pulled herself back to the present moment, listening to her pupil Sally recite her French verbs in the school room at Mrs Goddard’s, only to find she was biting her thumbnail again and heard scarcely two words out of ten. She still seemed to be back on the dark pathway at Vauxhall.

      She quickly curled her thumb into her fist and gave Sally a reassuring smile. “Yes, that is exactly right. You’ve made amazing progress, Sally.”

      But Sally wasn’t fooled. She peered closely at Emily with those brown eyes so much older and harder than her twenty years. When she first came to Mrs Goddard’s, her hair was tinted a bright red-orange and her accent was harsh and thick. Now, with the curls back to a light brown and her voice carefully modulated to a soft pitch, clad in plain, pale muslin gowns, she seemed much like any respectable young lady. She worked tremendously hard to better herself, had a kind way with the younger girls, and was Emily’s best and brightest student.

      But still Emily often had the sense that Sally knew so much more than she herself ever would.

      “You aren’t ill today, are you, Miss Carroll?”

      “No, no. A bit tired, that is all.”

      “And no wonder, miss! I’m sure there are parties every night,” Sally said with a laugh. “Dancing and card playing and such.”

      “I wish there were not,” Emily muttered. “They are quite dull.”

      “Dull, miss? Surely not.” Sally twirled her pencil thoughtfully between her fingers. “Aren’t those toff parties meant to help you find a suitor?”

      Emily had to laugh, too. “So my mother says. Yet I have not found them especially helpful.”

      “Miss Carroll! Surely you have a suitor. Lots of them, I would wager, with your looks. Why, if you were at my old place at Mother Logan’s you would have made a fortune!” Sally suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks turning pink. Emily would have thought Sally could never blush. “Oh, I never meant to say that! Forgive me, miss.”

      Emily laughed harder. “Nothing to forgive, Sally. I just fear a ‘toff’ ballroom requires more than a pretty face. A dowry and some conversation help, too.”

      “Well, isn’t there at least someone you might like? Just a little bit?”

      Emily studied Sally’s face for a moment, those knowing eyes. She did so long to confide in someone about the duke, to ask advice from a woman who might be able to help. She could not ask her mother or Amy, of course. Nor could she ask Jane. Much as she liked her friend, Jane was a bit prone to over-excitement when it came to romantic affairs, and she was something of a gossip. Besides which, she probably did not know much more than Emily herself.

      But Sally would know. And she would never tell.

      “May I ask you something in confidence, Sally?” Emily whispered.

      “Of course, Miss Carroll.” Sally leaned closer, her own voice soft. “I’ll help you in any way I can. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”

      “I am not entirely ignorant, you understand. I read and I hear things. I’ve even been kissed, a few times anyway. But …”

      Emily feared Sally must be laughing at her, her own experience was so much greater than anything Emily would ever possess. But Sally merely gazed back at her solemnly. “Yes, miss?”

      “Does it mean something when a man kisses a woman’s—foot?” Emily whispered. “I have never heard of such a thing before. Is it an—odd thing to do?” It had certainly felt most odd, and wonderfully pleasant, when Nicholas kissed her foot and caressed her ankle. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

      Sally’s eyes widened. “Did a man do that to you, miss? At a ball?”

      “No, not exactly.” Emily took a deep breath and told her the whole story. Well, not the whole story, of course—she did not tell her Nicholas’s identity or quite how much punch she had drunk. But it was all enough that by the end Emily’s cheeks were very hot indeed.

      “Cor!” Sally breathed, her fine new accent lost. “You mean he did all that not knowing who you were?” Emily nodded miserably.

      “But he didn’t—finish?” Sally said. “He didn’t force you into anything?”

      “No! He stopped the instant I told him to, and made sure I returned to my friends. He thought I didn’t see him watching me go, but I did.”

      “Amazing. I never met a man who could do that.” Sally’s gaze sharpened again. “You wouldn’t want to tell me who he is, would you, Miss Carroll? I know a lot about more men of the ton than you would think.”

      “I really should not.” Though Emily was horribly tempted to know what rumours there might be about the duke that she would not know, rumours among the darker denizens of London. But what if there was something there, something really dreadful? Did she truly want to know?

      “Well, he sounds like a real gentleman to me, miss,” said Sally. “Unique, I would even say. You shouldn’t let him go.”

      How could she let something go when it was not hers? When it was not meant to be hers at all?

      Emily left Mrs Goddard’s even more confused than when she arrived, if such a thing was possible. She made her