Page 3 of Her Wily Duke

“I wish I were free,” she said, “as these hairs are free.”

Indeed, her hair tumbled down her back in a most becoming manner. Her father had told her that he thought it set off her sparkling hazel eyes. Surely some fine gentleman would find her irresistible, despite a lack of dowry. At least, that was what he had said.

“You mustn’t talk nonsense,” her father replied. “You’re eighteen years old and an adult now, and there’s certainly no shame in teaching people to sing and play pianoforte. I do it to support us, but also because I love doing it. Once you’re settled, you’ll find it’s not as bad as you think.”

Emme folded her slender arms across her bodice and let out a loud, “Harrumph!”

Mr Mowatt had been patiently enduring these outbursts of defiance since Emme was old enough to express herself in words. At first they had angered him, she knew. Then, as he had matured, they had been an occasional nuisance. Now, in middle age, he found them entertaining, Emme suspected.

She was wise enough to be somewhat aware of her own failings, even if she struggled to be as quiet and demure as a young lady was supposed to be. He had little time for entertainment, for making his own meagre living as a tutor to the wealthy was a major exercise in patience and long suffering, she knew.

Still, his paunchy figure testified to the fact that he did not miss many meals. He often stated that he supposed he had little to complain about.

Since his dear wife had passed on, he'd taken no interest in finding a step-mother for Emme, for which she was, in most ways, grateful. Perhaps he realised that, as these things were most often assessed in the world, he was not a particularly great catch for any admirable woman.

His lack of physical exercise, due to his penchant for reading when he was not composing or teaching, had left him with a less than muscular frame.

When you added his thinning hair and spectacles to that, it made him resemble a man more elderly than his actual years. No matter, he had said to Emme, she was his bright star whom he loved without reserve, he did not need more.

But she knew that he tried not to despair of her future, for he knew, as she did, the limitations of her potential, which was linked to his own meagre status.

For the past three months, Emme had been giving singing lessons to Lady Caroline Villiers, a girl of thirteen who lived on her brother’s estate at Foxridge Park.

Emme herself had been taking lessons from her father - on the pianoforte, and in singing - since the age of five, but this was the first real employment that she had ever had.

Under her father’s tutelage she was becoming an accomplished voice instructor.

“It just seems unfair,” said Emme, “that the only way that a woman can hope to acquire wealth in this world is through marriage or inheritance. I don’t expect an inheritance, and I don’t intend to marry. Therefore, I suppose I shall die penniless.”

Her father’s amused expression told her that she was overdramatising – as she had always been somewhat prone to do.

“Not that it will matter then,” said her father. “We all enter the grave as equals.”

“But I would like to make a professional living,” she said. “Voice teaching can supply a modest income, but not enough to keep me from poverty if you should die, God forfend it. A woman shouldn’t have to depend so much on the health and good favour of men, both of which are likely to betray us when we need them the most.”

“I suggest that you have this conversation with Mary Wollstonecraft,” said her father, sipping his tea languidly. “I can guarantee that she will enjoy it more.”

“She’s dead, Father,” said Emme in a tone of great aggravation. “Which if you cared anything about the sufferings of women, you would know.”

Her father raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I haven’t been keeping up. I’m sorry.”

“She’s been dead nearly twenty years.”

“What do you think of Lady Caroline Villiers?”

It was an obvious ploy to change the subject, but Emme sat up eagerly at the mention of her young protégé.

“She’s delightful, really. Her singing is not remarkable yet, but she shows great promise, and I have hopes that it will improve with proper training. But everyone starts, even those most talented, without skill, until they are trained. And no one at Foxridge Park has treated me with more kindness.”

“I see. And how have you been treated otherwise?”

Emme shuddered at the question and the air itself seemed to grow colder for a moment.

“The young Duke of Foxridge is as bad as they say,” she said. “Though I have had the good fortune not to experience his wickedness directly, as he sees fit to visit the brunt of it upon his servants, and others he considers his social inferiors.”

“Given that he’s a Duke, one would expect us to qualify in that category.”