Before He Was Mine (Before Series, Book 2)

Emilia

London, England

1834

A few turns about the ballroom earlier...

When Emilia had stepped into the shimmering ballroom that evening, she'd had no clue that she was going to meet the man who would ruin her.

Gentlemen typically did not get close enough to Emilia for that even to be a possibility, after all.

For example, tonight's dancing partner was paying her no attention. He had already stepped on Emilia's toes at least twice, and yet she was supposed to be grateful to him for offering to dance with her.

He was supposedly the catch of the season. Lord...Greyson... was it? He was the son of a marquess. No, the son of an earl. Emilia scrunched up her face unknowingly, trying to remember. Yes, it was an earl. She was sure of it.

Not that she cared with the impression he was making.

Lord Greyson, or whatever his name was, stomped on her slippered foot for the third time.

Emilia tried not to scowl and instead aimed to maintain a cheerful, airy look. That was how all the other ladies appeared when they danced. All the other ladies who were not wallflowers, that is.

Emilia had learned soon after her debut into society that there were many reasons why a woman might become a wallflower.

Perhaps it was because their dowry was substantially meager, their nose rather large for their face, or their stammer a little too pronounced. Though certainly unfair, London's ballrooms held exceptionally high standards for its misses and ladies alike.

Unfortunately for women with such luck to be sitting along the wall, there was very little to be done except search for precisely the right partner that might overlook their shortcomings.

For Emilia, that partner was not Lord Greyson.

He was likely enduring the dance to make a good impression on her brother, who stood on the other side of the ballroom. See, Lady Emilia Shepard was a wealthy woman. Not in her own right, of course, but her brother was the Duke of Kingfield. And he wasn't one of those beggared nobles with dried up coffers. Theo had all but tripled their father's already substantial fortune after his death with careful albeit risky investments.

People liked to impress her brother. But never so much as to dance with Emilia more than once. Or, God forbid, court and marry her.

Emilia noticed that Lord Greyson was watching the sidelines of the ballroom, but not in her brother's direction. Even as they took turns and pranced about the dance floor in intricate patterns, his eyes remained glued on a certain three people.

Only two of them did Emilia know. In the middle of the threesome, Emilia immediately recognized the esteemable Lady Humphries. Her dazzling smile was blinding even from across the room. It was no wonder Lord Greyson could not take his eyes off her.

However, he was not alone in doing so. The gentleman to Lady Humphries' right also ogled her, his mouth nearly agape. Emilia almost laughed watching it. It was that rogue, Lord Farrington.

Emilia had recently heard the most interesting thing about Lord Farrington and Lady Humphries. Suddenly, she understood why Lord Greyson was staring at them with open fascination.

Emilia directed her attention back to him, not being able to contain the words as they bubbled up.

"Do you reckon that Lord Farrington will win the bet on Lady Humphries?"

Lord Greyson did a double-take as he passed Emilia's hand off to another lord whom she did not know. They were at a part of the dance where they traded partners systematically, passing through a sea of bland smiles.

"Excuse me?" he asked when Emilia was passed back to him.

"You know, the bet on which gentleman will be the next to bed her?"

Emilia blinked up at him, knowing he surely knew what she referred to. Everyone—well, every gentleman and Emilia—knew of it. Lady Humphries had been a widow for many years and the possessor of a great many rumors. However, the ton's gentlemen did not seem to know if Lady Humphries' accolades could be proven true, and naturally, decided to wager on it.

Lord Greyson scowled as they broke apart again, only to come back together a moment later. The quadrille was not Emilia's favorite dance. It made it awfully difficult to maintain a conversation. "You should not know, or speak, of such things," Lord Greyson finally replied.

Emilia peered at him curiously. "One would think the act of bedding was one-sided with how much men speak of it and women do not."

She enjoyed the way Lord Greyson's mouth opened and closed, not having the words to reply. Emilia smiled at him and continued to shuffle her feet to the sway of the music. "Perhaps it is," Emilia added, shrugging. Then she gave a sly smile and said, "Have you also joined the wager, my lord?"

"I—I would never," Lord Greyson stuttered, looking affronted and embarrassed all at once. His foot caught on the hem of her evening gown. In the last part of the dance, couples spread apart once more. Emilia could see that Lord Greyson was visibly relieved.

Oh dear, she had done it again. She had terrified the man. And people always said that women had delicate sensibilities. Emilia wasn't certain she felt bad about it, as Lord Greyson hadn't precisely been a prospect for her.

Soon, Emilia noticed that Lord Greyson was approaching her again, following the motions of the quadrille.

"I am terribly sorry if I have done anything to offend," she said, loud enough for him to hear her. She flashed a broad smile, giving one last effort. Perhaps she could engage him in a more respectable conversation. Surely, she could think of how to have one of those.

But Lord Greyson did not appear interested in doing anything but get as far away from Emilia as possible. As the dance ended, he quickly bowed, leaving her to return to her place along the wall.

Emilia kept a pleasant smile upon her face, not wanting anyone to know how it actually felt to be sitting here, alone.

Part of the problem was that she knew exactly why she had been sidelined after her debut. It wasn't her dowry. And Emilia was, admittedly, not ugly. Oh, her lips were perhaps on the plump side, making her look like she was perpetually pouting, but the rest of her was quite fashionable.

Above all else, however, Emilia certainly did not stutter. Or stammer. Or mince her words.

And it seemed that was the problem.

Ladies were decidedly not supposed to speak of wagers during dances with gentlemen. Emilia did not completely understand why not, being that such things should surely interest the gentleman, seeing as that is what they spoke of between themselves when they thought no such lady was listening.

But Emilia was always listening. Plus she couldn't help but regurgitate the information. And, of course, add her own. Opinions, that is. What an unwanted thing it is, a woman's opinion.

And so she knew she should refrain from such uncouth conversation. Emilia knew this, but she found most acceptable topics were so unacceptably tedious and boring. She simply refused to waste her breath on such undeserving words.

Some might say that she should, perhaps, just save her breath entirely. And yet, she did not listen. Meaning that Emilia—smart, attractive, wealthy, and well-connected Emilia—was, quite avoidably, a wallflower.

Emilia glanced around the ballroom, trying to spot her brother. Struggling to find him, she swept her gaze from one side of the space to the other. Emilia was searching for Theo's green eyes when she was startled with dark blue ones. They pierced through her from across the room.