One day, it seemed, her aunt was badgering her about a trousseau, and the next Emma was standing in the drawing room reciting vows in front of a parson. The ceremony passed in a whirl, not unlike the waltz she had shared with Battencliffe. How little time was required to attach her life irrevocably to another. She stared at the champagne in her hand, alive with bubbles. Papa had insisted on celebrating her nuptials with the best. Fueled by the drink, his laughter echoed throughout the sitting room as he chatted with her new husband and brother-in-law. Emma imagined she knew just what those bubbles felt like in their wild swirl, buffeting one another, careening this way and that. Since the Pendleton ball, the light-headed feeling she’d experienced in her then-betrothed’s arms had remained her constant companion. It still was—and she hadn’t taken so much as a sip. Not even when Papa toasted to her future with Mr. Battencliffe. Uriana eased over to Emma’s side.
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