Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (36 page)

“Well, now,” said Sarah in a contemplative tone, “this is an unexpected development.”

Emma wasn’t interested in Sarah’s unexpected developments but was well bred enough not to show it. “What’s unexpected?” she asked, her eyes straining to see something above the fluffy blond head in front of her.

“Your sister,” answered Sarah.

“My sister?” Emma was unable to conceive of Lavinia doing anything unexpected.

“Yes, your sister is dancing with a duke, one with whom I didn’t know she was acquainted.”

Emma gasped with surprise and clapped her white-gloved hands. “Lavinia is waltzing with a real live duke? But that’s marvelous!” Instantly she was back on her tippy-toes, trying to get a clear view of the dance floor. Oh, why couldn’t she be tall like Sarah? “Tell me. I can’t see. Is he handsome? Of course he is. All dukes are handsome in their finery,” she said before a thought struck her. “Oooh, is Sir Windbag here? Do tell me you see him! Wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful if she were to jilt Sir Windbag for a duke! Very proud of his heritage, is he? He doesn’t have anything on a duchy.”

Sarah sent her a quelling look. “Emma, my dear, you must learn to be discreet and not quite so childish. Sir Waldo Windbourne is an excellent catch and a very nice feather in your sister’s cap.”

“Bah! One does not marry feathers.” Emma dismissed. She would not listen to a favorable word said on his behalf. “Just tell me if he’s here.”

Sarah used her height to advantage. “Yes, I can see him. He’s standing on the other side of the dance floor and he looks none too pleased.”

Emma giggled. “Of course not. So much for his consequence.” Her balance was precarious, and when she felt herself begin to fall, she clutched Sarah’s arm—and accidentally elbowed the lady in front of her. Although Emma apologized charmingly, the woman took offense and haughtily walked away, leaving a clear view of the dance floor in her wake. Greedily, Emma’s eye drank in the scene until she caught sight of her sister’s dancing partner. Then she paled.

“But, Sarah,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “that’s not a duke.”

“I assure you, dear, that is a duke.”

She refused to accept this. “No, you must be mistaken.”

“Really, Emma, I’ve been out for almost ten years. Surely I know the Duke of Trent when I see him.”

Twenty-four years of
faultless
propriety

are about to go down the
drain
.