Emma sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Oh, I cannot. That is not mine.” She shuffled to the wardrobe and gently fingered the exquisite and expensive clothing hanging there, everything from day dresses to ball gowns to riding habits. Where had they all come from? She had nothing so fine in her trunk. She’d left all her lovely clothes in America because she had outgrown them.
“Rosie, where did all these come from?” she asked as her pulse soared. Though not hers, she wished she had time to try them on one by one and parade before the mirror.
“His Grace,” Rosie replied.
His Grace. Emma remembered his scowl and quickly snatched her hand back from fingering the pink taffeta evening dress Rosie had recommended. Emma frowned. How on earth had he accomplished all this? What purpose did he have that had him dressing her so fine? Her heart slammed into her chest.
Of course it made perfect sense. The duke needed to marry her off, and how could he accomplish that with her wearing the less-than-stylish clothes she had brought with her? If she arrived in London drawing rooms or attended balls wearing her own clothing, she would be laughed at. And not only herself––the whole Seabrook family would be shamed as well.
Her eyes scanned the room. While she slept, Rosie had certainly been busy. The dressing table overflowed with bottles of creams and perfumes, hair combs, ribbons, and pins. Emma smelled a perfume bottle full of a wonderfully light jasmine scent. How did he know she’d like this?
Emma sauntered over to the chest of drawers and opened one after another and found undergarments worthy of a queen. Without a thought, she fingered the chemises and nightshifts made from such fine muslins and linens they would caress her skin like a tender lover’s hands. Where had that thought come from? She blushed down to her toes at the thought the duke had ordered each of these feminine garments with her in mind. Surely not. That would be most improper.
“Rosie, the pink dress it will be.” For a moment she considered wearing one of her black dresses, but she did not want to anger the duke. He had seemed positively put out when they had arrived today, and she would just as soon not attract his ire. If she were smart, she would stay far away from him. How could she stay away when she owed him a thank you for her parent’s portrait? Well, after she spoke to him she would stay quiet and blend in with his sisters, and quite possibly, with any luck, he would then forget about her.
And forget about his duty to marry her off.
Emma sucked in her breath, partly because Rosie, at that precise moment, pulled tightly on the stays to her corset. Also, she feared if she continued to upset him, the duke would actually thrust her off into marriage without consulting her feelings or thoughts on the subject.
Oh, fiddlesticks––surely she would have time to adjust to being part of the Seabrook family before he sent her off to strangers? The dowager duchess seemed to be a sensitive and caring mother. Perhaps she would become an ally.
An hour later Emma descended the stairs, her hands gripping the railing for dear life and her heart beating in triple time against her rib cage. The panic threatening to engulf her almost won out, but then she caught sight of Sebastian waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The wide, welcoming smile plastered across his handsome face soothed her.
“Emma…” He bowed most gallantly. “My dear, you are a vision of loveliness.”
As she approached the last step, he took her ungloved hand—oh, no, she had forgotten her gloves—and raised it up to his lips. Right before he would have brushed her knuckles he met her eyes, his deep blue ones twinkling with mischief. Then Sebastian boldly turned her hand over, placing a warm, moist kiss on her pulse point. She shivered down to her silk-slipper toes. Nobody had ever been so bold with her before.
Emma would have to watch herself around this handsome devil.
Plucking her hand from his grasp, she curtsied. “Sebastian, your flattery is wasted on me. Are we not supposed to be family? Are you not my brother now?”
That brought a burst of laughter from him. “I would be remiss, as a brother, if I did not compliment my sisters on their beauty.”
A throat cleared. Oh, no.
“Excuse me,” Wentworth said flatly from the doorway leading into the drawing room. “The servants are anxious to serve the first course. And I would prefer my meal to be hot when I eat it. Do you two think you could join us sometime this hour?”
The younger brother held out his arm. “Emma, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to dinner?”
“For Christ’s sake, Sebastian, this is not a formal affair. I’m quite sure Miss Hamilton can find her way to the dining room table without your help.”