Free One Whisper Away by Emma Wildes Page A

affront had been blunted in his time at university, since his father had insisted he attend a prestigious school, and even back in America prejudice existed. He’d been insulted often enough before over his unusual bloodlines. “Let me help you dress.”
    “Does this refusal have anything to do with Eddington’s daughter?” Lady Irving’s voice was petulant.
    For a moment he paused as he lifted the frothy volume of the fashionable garment, the lilac material spilling over his arm; the question was not all that surprising, he supposed, considering the gossip, but what took him aback was that he wondered for a glimmer of a moment if it just might have something to do with Cecily Francis.
    Instead of answering, he said as neutrally as possible, “Allow me to play maid.”
    Obligingly, he fastened buttons and retrieved her slippers, grateful that she wasn’t more vindictive over the rejection, and he even saw her safely outside, where her driver—no doubt used to his mistress and her nightly habits—waited down the street. Once they had rattled away, Jonathan went back up to his room and removed his wet breeches, donned his dressing gown, and poured a brandy.
    A novelty. So far he wasn’t having much success in fulfilling his quest to play the respectable earl in order to get his sisters settled and his affairs in order so he could return to his life in America. Though, he did remind himself as he wandered over and sat down by the remaining glow of the fire, this particular debacle had not been his fault.
    What would I have done , he pondered in wayward contemplation, if it had been the duke’s glorious golden-haired daughter naked in my bed?
    Had that unlikely scenario been what he’d come home to from his midnight ride, he wasn’t sure he would have played the gentleman no matter the consequences.
    The realization was infinitely disturbing.

Chapter 6
    H er father sat back in his chair and regarded her with a look that could only be described as . . . as . . .
    Well, she couldn’t describe it actually. It belonged to him alone and had certainly intimidated grown men. Roderick called it the “Eddington stare.” Cecily, who had always basked in the warmth of her father’s affection, was not sure how to handle the icy ducal disapproval.
    He folded his hands on his desk. His hair was going from blond to gray gracefully, his attire, as always, was impeccably tailored, and the spectacles that he refused to wear in public rested on the pile of correspondence in front of him. “Explain to me why Viscount Drury would not make a suitable husband.”
    It was a relief to discover this summons had nothing to do with the unconventional Augustine and all the whispers, so she feigned nonchalance and shrugged. “I’m sure he would, just not for me.”
    “Why not?”
    “He isn’t my preference.”
    “I’m asking you again, why?”
    “You wouldn’t understand,” she equivocated, unwilling to reveal Eleanor’s hidden infatuation. It really wasn’t her secret to tell, and truthfully, her sister hadn’t admitted it to her either. If Cecily was wrong—yet she was certain she wasn’t—it would be an unforgivable error. If she was right, still unforgivable. If Elle wanted to tell their father, that was entirely another matter.
    “I beg to disagree. I am not unintelligent or lacking in understanding of this world. I might even venture to observe that my time in it far outweighs your own, so, out of respect for me as a parent and setting my rank aside, tell me why you would refuse such a very promising prospect if he offers marriage.”
    For a normally easygoing—if a bit distant—parent, he certainly was being uncharacteristically intent.
    “Does it sound naive to point out I don’t love him?” Cecily endeavored to seem as neutral as possible.
    “Naive? I have no idea. Impractical, yes. A young woman should choose a husband based on qualities more important than whether or not he inspires some fleeting and