The embroidery needle she’d held lay dangling over her knee by a thread. Amelia stood at the drawing-room door, her hands pressed together before her as if in prayer, a pose that was probably intended to mask the ridiculously low and inappropriate neckline of her dress. Only a tiny scrap of lace maintained her modesty. A piece would have to be sewn into it before she was allowed to wear it in public. ‘The dinner gong went five minutes ago, yet you’re still here,’ the minx said, before Emma had a chance to scold. ‘Oh, heavens, Emma! Are you so determined to wreck my chances of finding a husband? Isn’t that the frock you went out in this morning? There are mud stains all around the hem. You can’t wear that to dine.’ Dinner. Hours had passed. Yet she hadn’t seen or heard anyone come in. After Darleston had … after he’d touched her, her heart had raced so fast she thought it would jump right out of her chest. All of her breath had been stolen. She’d had to get away from him as fast as possible, but she hadn’t run very far.
