Very well. If he insisted.
Once he’d left, Emma tried, rather unsuccessfully, to return her attention to the play. The players might as well have been speaking Latin. The dialogue coasted in through one of her ears and left through the other, making no impression in between.
After a few short minutes, she rejoiced to hear the sound of the door opening. She drew to her feet, eager to leave, no longer caring about the characters’ tragic demises.
But it wasn’t the duke who’d entered the box.
It was Miss Annabelle Worthing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Miss Worthing.” Emma was so shocked at the intrusion, she curtsied deeply—before recalling that she was a duchess now, and Annabelle Worthing should properly curtsy to her.
“Are you enjoying your evening, Emma?” she asked.
“Very much so.”
“It’s so amusing, isn’t it? I could never have guessed we would cross paths in such a circumstance.”
“Nor I, Miss Worthing.” Emma eyed the woman warily. “Forgive me, was there something you wanted?”
“Am I not permitted to greet an old friend?”
An old friend?
A man’s formerly intended bride wouldn’t wish to become friends with the man’s new wife. Moreover, Emma knew this formerly intended bride wasn’t precisely brimming with kindness and generosity.
“You must be quite dizzy with it, Emma. Having climbed so high, so quickly.”
“If you’re here because you believe me to be a schemer, or someone who took advantage of your broken engagement . . . I will assure you, you are mistaken. The duke proposed our match. His offer took me completely by surprise.”
“Oh, I know that. But I suspect you don’t know why he offered for you.”
Emma was too surprised to deny it. She couldn’t deny it. She’d insisted from the first that it made little sense for him to marry her.
“I know the reason. Everyone will. I don’t like to say it, but you deserve to know, too. That’s why I’ve come to tell you, as a friend.” Annabelle moved closer, lowering her voice. “He has married you to spite me.”
“What?”
“Simple retribution. I’m sorry for it, but I know the man. We were betrothed for more than two years. He’s furious about the broken engagement. So he married my seamstress to have a laugh at my expense. Has he shown you that yet? His cruel sense of humor? Ashbury’s always had an ugly side, since long before his injury.”
“I’m well aware that my husband”—Emma leaned on the word “husband,” claiming what was now hers—“is imperfect. I’m also aware that he is honorable and brave. He incurred his wounds while defending England. If you could not appreciate the honor in his scars, he was fortunate to be rid of you. Our marriage is none of your concern.”
“He has made your marriage my concern.” A sharp edge entered Annabelle’s voice. “Parading you before London society, humiliating me in full view of the ton. For your own sake, I advise you not to acquire any airs. You may have wed a duke, but every lady of the ton knows you as a seamstress who once knelt at their feet. They will never let you forget it.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“Yes, but you care about him. Don’t you?”
Emma didn’t answer.
Miss Worthing tsked. “You always seemed a clever girl. Surely you don’t believe a duke would seek to marry a woman of your class for any honorable reason. Even if he did desire you, he could have easily made you his mistress.”
“No, he could not have done. I would never have—”
As she looked out over the theater, the corner of Annabelle’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “Gentlemen prefer common mistresses, I’ve heard. In bed. Girls like you do the things ladies won’t.”
How dare she.
“I will not stand here and be insulted. Nor will I hear the duke impugned in such a vile manner.”
“You don’t believe me?” Annabelle slid her arm about Emma’s shoulders and turned, subtly pointing her fan toward the opposite side of the theater. “Do you see there? Just to the left, and one tier down? There’s Mama.”
Yes, there in the box opposite sat Mrs. Worthing, the family matriarch. Emma recognized the demanding harridan from Annabelle’s many, many fittings in the shop.
“Lord Carrollton is kind enough to loan my family the use of his box. The second Thursday after a new play opens, we’re always in attendance.” She looked Emma in the eye. “Do you know what tonight is?”
Emma could hazard a guess. “Surely a coincidence.”
“Oh, no. Ashbury knew I’d be here.” Miss Worthing looked about the box. “Did he tell you this was how we met? He stared at me, the whole evening, from just this spot. Couldn’t take his eyes off me for the entirety of the performance.”
The champagne in Emma’s stomach churned.
“I’d wager he chose this gown for you.” She fingered Emma’s sleeve. “Red as a cherry tart. He seated you right up front. Of course he did. All this effort would have been for nothing if I failed to notice.”
His words to her earlier echoed in Emma’s mind.
You must sit here, near the front. The world deserves to see you. I want you to be admired.
“Do you believe me now? On a night he knew my family would be in attendance, he bedecked you in a harlot-red gown and put you on garish display. His lowborn replacement bride. He’s using you, Emma. To him, you are nothing but a means to an end.”
Emma put a hand on the wall for support. The theater was spinning.
She didn’t want to believe it. Any of it. She told herself not to doubt him.
But as Annabelle said, all the pieces were there. The sudden outing, the gown, the play. She’d never understood why he’d been so determined to marry her in the first place, making his offer after ten minutes in the library, when he knew nothing of her.
Well, he had known one thing about her. He’d known she sewed Annabelle’s wedding gown.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.
Perhaps all the effort he’d gone to tonight hadn’t been for her, but for another.
Suddenly, Emma didn’t trust any of her own perceptions. She second-guessed every conversation, every moment. Everything she’d built with him, all the emotions she’d hoped he might come to share . . . Was it possible it had been nothing more than wounded pride and cruel intent?
She didn’t care one whit what Annabelle Worthing thought of her, nor the other ladies of the ton. But if Ash . . .
She pressed her hands to her stomach.
Down on the stage, the fifth act was nearing its grisly climax. Players were dying right and left, staggering and moaning as they dropped to the boards. What poor performances, she thought. So unconvincing.
She was dying inside, and there was no staggering or moaning. Only bleak, hollow despair.
The fault was yours, Emma. You should have known better.
She had known better, and that was the most dispiriting part. The red silk flowing around her felt like mockery. Once again, she’d been a fool.
She had to leave. She had to leave at once, before he returned.
Someone pushed aside the drapery, entering the box. “What is going on here?”
Too late.
Ash was afire with anger.
He’d left behind a radiant, coquettish wife, likely aroused to the point where he could give her two orgasms in the carriage home alone, and he’d returned not a quarter hour later to find her backed into a corner, pale and trembling.
And the cause . . . oh, the cause was plain to see.
He swung his gaze on Annabelle. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing but tell her the truth.” Her eyes sparked with hurt and anger. “You bastard. You haven’t done enough to me already? You had to bring around this slattern of a seamstress to humiliate me in front of all London?”
“You will not speak such words in her presence.” He had to force the words through clenched teeth. “She is the Duchess of Ashbury. You’ll address her with the honor that title confers.”
“I will not curtsy to a girl who knelt at my feet, simply because she gets down on her knees for you.”