The vows were spoken with clarity, though her voice wavered when she said, "I take thee." He spoke his part steadily, his dark gaze fixed on hers, and for a dangerous moment she imagined he might actually feel something. But as soon as the final amen sounded, he stepped back with a polite, respectful bow.
"Thank you, Emma," he said quietly. "I will make this as easy as possible."
It was perhaps the kindest thing he could have said—and the cruelest.
Whitby Park received its new mistress without ceremony. Emma moved into a suite on the east side of the house, a wife's chambers in title, but separate from his. Thomas ensured she lacked for nothing: fresh flowers, warm fires, new gowns ordered from Bath. He dined with her privately for appearances, but rarely stayed long. Yet despite his emotional distance, he was gentle, thoughtful, and always respectful—and that made it infinitely worse.
Emma tried to settle into her new role. She oversaw the house staff, visited tenants, and organized charitable baskets. She knew the estate nearly as well as Thomas; her father had taught her its workings, and she loved the land as dearly as any Whitby. But her new title did not shield her from whispers in the village.
*"Strange, is it not? The baron married so suddenly—barely a gown on her back, and from that cottage, imagine!"*
*"Well, they say she was always underfoot at Whitby Park. Convenient, if nothing else."*
She bore it with dignity, though her cheeks burned more often than she liked.
One afternoon, while walking the terrace, she encountered Mr. Nathan Harrow, a visiting gentleman staying with a neighboring family. He was handsome, light-haired, and charming, with a warm, mischievous smile.
"My lady," he said, offering a bow. "I heard news of your recent marriage. May I offer my congratulations?"
She returned the courtesy. "You may."
"And yet," he continued lightly, "you seem a woman who enjoys conversation. Perhaps we may walk a little. Marriage need not deprive you of company."
His flirtation was clear, though not improper. She declined gently, but he did not give up easily. Over the next few weeks, Mr. Harrow appeared often: once at the tenant school Emma visited, another time at a village fête, and once on horseback near the river where she had paused to sketch the old stone bridge. He praised her kindness, admired her intelligence, and asked after her days. It was wrong to enjoy the attention, but she had been lonely.
And Thomas noticed. The baron, normally inscrutable, had grown increasingly tense. He watched her at dinner with unusual scrutiny. He interrupted conversations between Emma and Harrow with a rigid politeness that barely concealed irritation.