Free The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries

to fluff the corkscrew curls surrounding Emily’s face, Lady Dundee said reassuringly, “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be at your side as much as I can, so don’t hesitate to ask questions if you’re confused about anything.” Lady Dundee lowered her voice as the carriage halted. “Remember, you’re in masquerade. You’re Lady Emma Campbell, daughter of a respectable Scottish laird from a venerable old family. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
    Lady Emma Campbell. It still sounded strange to her ears. They’d considered letting Emily use her own Christian name, but hadn’t wanted anyone closely acquainted with Lord Nesfield to wonder at the coincidence that his niece and the daughter of his rector had the same one. Emma was at least similar enough to Emily’s real name to prevent her from growing confused.
    So now she was Lady Emma, miraculously transformed overnight from a common nobody to a lady of the realm. But it was all fruitless, she thought, as she and Lady Dundee descended from the carriage. She would fool no one. They could dress her in the rarest satin and put pearls in her hair. They could teach her the waltz and the language of the fan. But they couldn’t make her into an earl’s daughter, no matter how hard they tried. One day she’d be found out—she had no doubt of that.
    Pray heaven that she finished her task before it happened.
     
    With casual unconcern for the sleeves of his cash-mere cutaway, Jordan leaned out the window of his carriage and called up to his coachman, Watkins, “What the devil is taking so long?”
    “Sorry, milord, but there’s a cart o’erturned in the lane. It’ll take ten minutes at least for them to clear it.”
    Jordan jerked out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
    “I suppose we’re very late,” his friend George Pollock remarked from across the carriage.
    “Yes. Thanks to you and your vanity.” He tucked his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “I should have left you to hire a hack instead of waiting while you dithered over which waistcoat to wear. And how many cravats did you ruin before you could tie one to your satisfaction? Ten? Fifteen?”
    “Probably twenty,” Pollock said blithely. Wetting one finger, he used it to smooth a wayward lock of his blond hair into place. “What good is having money if you can’t spend it on cravats?”
    “You should have spent it getting your deuced carriage repaired, so I didn’t have to wait for you.”
    “Relax, old chap. Since when do you care if we’re late to a marriage mart? You’re not looking for a wife.”
    “No, but Ian is. God knows why he has this urge to marry, but I promised to help him. I was supposed to reach Merrington’s before Lord Nesfield and his daughter Sophie leave, and since it’s nearly eleven already, that’s unlikely, isn’t it?”
    Ian Lennard, the Viscount St. Clair, was Jordan’s closest friend, and rarely asked favors of anyone. It galled Jordan to fail him now because of Pollock’s ridiculous vanity.
    “St. Clair won’t mind if you’re late,” Pollocksaid. “He’s not that desperate. If you don’t arrive in time, he’ll merely try his scheme on her at the next ball.”
    “It doesn’t matter. I said I’d be there, and I will. I keep my promises.”
    The carriage shuddered forward, and the sound of the horse’s hooves clopping over cobblestones filled the air. Jordan relaxed a fraction.
    “That’s not what’s irritating you, and you know it,” Pollock retorted as he flicked a minute speck of dust off his gloves. “You don’t like having your schedule upset, that’s all. Everything must go precisely according to your plan, or you lose patience.”
    “Anyone would lose patience with a dandy like you,” Jordan snapped.
    His friend frowned. “I’m not a dandy, but I do believe that being well dressed is the mark of a good gentleman. Besides, I like dressing well. That’s the trouble with you, Blackmore. You don’t know how to relax and