***
By the time Thomas arrived home the following morning, the air fairly crackled with tension, a tension so ominous it made his skin prickle. Sighing, he handed his hat and coat to Giles, his brows raised in silent question.
“Your Grace, the dowager duchess awaits you in your study.”
“Thank you.” The sharp pain in his side had not gone away but had been excruciating off and on during the ride home. And the stairs would not help his condition. Perhaps speaking with his mother would clear the air and lessen his guilt and physical pain.
As Thomas slowly moved one foot after the other up the staircase and down the hall, he reminded himself that he was a duke and not some ten-year-old awaiting a scolding from his mother. He was a twenty-nine-year-old with responsibilities to country and family. He would not let his mother bully him. If he could face down opponents in Parliament, he could face down his mother. He decided on a strategy of control.
Steeling himself, he opened his study door and moved with stealth to his desk and sank down into the butter-soft leather chair. He grimaced because of the pain, but looking at his mother’s face, he knew he would have anyway.
“Mother,” he said, his head nodding in greeting as he saw her flinch. Thomas knew she hated it when he called her that.
For a long second his mother leaned forward, projecting her anger toward him without saying a word.
“I pride myself in thinking I am a good mother to my children. That I instilled a kindness and decency into their upbringing that they would carry into adulthood.” Her hand flew into the air in frustration. “Obviously I imagined it all. Have you anything to say on the matter?”
With eyes closed, he prayed the excruciating pain in his side would subside. How did his mother turn him into a bumbling youngster so easily? “What happened last evening has nothing to do with how you raised me. I lost my head, and now I will suffer the consequences.”
“We all suffer now, because of your actions. You’d better hope Emma does not suffer for your consequences, too. You ruined her, and you will beg her forgiveness and be a kind, loving, and faithful husband to her. She deserves no less after what you did.”
Of all the things Thomas expected his mother to say, this was not it. He expected her to be appalled at the idea of him marrying Emma. Since when was he so bad at reading people? And what possibly gave her the notion he would not be kind to her?
“I plan to be a good husband to her.”
“Good. Now, we need to plan,” his mother said, as she leaned forward slightly in the chair. “Three weeks is short notice for a large, extravagant wedding, but we can have a nice intimate ceremony with family and friends at the country estate. You must go at once to the Duke of Canterbury and apply for a special license. But first you must go to Whitehall and asked the Prince Regent’s permission to marry Emma.”
Wentworth stared at his mother, his jaw open, as she went on and on about wedding plans. About who they would invite and who would not be welcome. And how she would be packing up the girls and leaving tomorrow for the country. He was expected to join them in a fortnight. Surely that was enough time to wrap up his affairs in London? The House of Commons would have to do without him for a short while. And she expected them to honeymoon on the Continent shortly after their nuptials. When she was finished, she rose, turned, and left the room smiling.
Soon after his mother left, Thomas glimpsed a nervous Emma standing in his open doorway. She looked fetching in a light blue day dress that fit her to perfection––not to mention accentuating all her womanly curves. His pulse spiked. What better time than now to get this conversation over with?
“Emma, please come in and sit.” Thomas stood and waited for her to get settled, then he sat back down. “My mother just left.”
Her body stiffened right before his eyes. He could almost see the tension settle in one muscle at a time as it traveled up her body.
***
“Your Grace,” she began, hesitantly, “I beg of you to call this marriage off and send me back to America. I do not believe scandal will travel with me across the ocean. If you will be so kind as to give me a living allowance, I will get on just fine in America.”
Emma held her breath, waiting and waiting as her eyes watered from the strain of this ordeal. Wentworth looked at her as though she were a simpleton and what she asked was preposterous.
Well, it was not. She knew she deserved no less. He had ruined her. Things could be worse; Major Fontaine could have been the one to compromise her. God forbid. Because that was one man she would not marry, scandal or no scandal. She pitied the poor woman who ended up married to him.