Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~14 min read
Chapter 14: The London Ball
Emmeline
Emmy arrives in London on a grey March afternoon with the Duke in the carriage beside her maintaining his usual careful silence, and her first impression of the city is overwhelming noise and crowds and buildings pressed so close together she can barely see the sky between them—nothing like the quiet countryside of Ashford Hall, nothing like the peaceful village where she grew up, everything foreign and intimidating and designed to make Emmy feel like she doesn’t belong here.
The Duke’s London townhouse is in an exclusive square Emmy doesn’t recognize—all identical white stone facades and private gardens and the kind of wealth that’s so old it doesn’t need to announce itself—and when they enter Emmy is immediately struck by how different it feels from Ashford Hall, how this house feels even more like a museum than the country estate, how everything screams wealth and taste and not at all like somewhere people actually live.
“These will be your rooms,” the Duke says, showing Emmy to a suite of chambers on the second floor that are beautifully decorated and completely impersonal. “I’m down the hall. The connecting door is locked, as always.”
Of course it is, because why would London be any different from the country—separate chambers, locked doors, careful distance maintained even when they’re supposed to be presenting a united front to society.
“When is the ball?” Emmy asks, because she knows from Lady Margaret’s letters that there’s a major social event scheduled for their third night in London, some gathering where half of society will be present and watching to see if the Duke and his scandalous bride are convincing as an actual married couple.
“Tomorrow night,” the Duke says. “Lady Pemberton’s spring ball. It’s the event of the early season—everyone will be there. Including Cordelia, presumably.”
“Wonderful,” Emmy says without enthusiasm. “Our first public appearance will include your vindictive ex-fiancée and all of London society watching to see if our marriage is real. That’s not stressful at all.”
“You’ll be fine,” the Duke says, and there’s surprising confidence in his voice. “You have the wardrobe. You have the dancing skills. You have the title. And you have me. That’s more than sufficient armor for one evening with gossips and vipers.”
“Assuming you actually stay close to me instead of disappearing to avoid social interaction,” Emmy points out.
The Duke’s jaw tightens slightly. “I’ll stay close. That’s rather the entire point of this performance—showing society that I’m devoted to my wife. I can hardly do that from across the room.”
“Devoted,” Emmy repeats with slight bitterness. “What a lovely fiction we’re creating.”
“It doesn’t have to be fiction,” the Duke says quietly, and something in his voice makes Emmy look at him more closely. “I may not be good at showing devotion. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
He leaves before Emmy can respond to that cryptic statement, and she’s left in her beautiful empty chambers trying to process what he meant—whether he was suggesting actual devotion exists or just that he’s capable of performing it convincingly for public consumption.
The following night Emmy dresses for the ball with help from Sarah—who traveled with them to London because Emmy desperately needed at least one familiar face among all the London staff who look at her like she’s an interloper in their carefully managed household—and she stares at herself in the mirror trying to reconcile her reflection with the poor vicar’s daughter she used to be.
The gown is the sapphire blue silk the Duke selected—the one he said matched her eyes—and it fits perfectly after Madame Rousseau’s final adjustments, the low neckline and fitted bodice making Emmy look elegant and sophisticated in ways she’s never looked before, her hair arranged by Sarah in an elaborate style adorned with pearls that belonged to the late Duchess (the Duke insisted Emmy wear them despite her protests about using Caroline’s jewelry).
“You look beautiful, Your Grace,” Sarah says with genuine warmth. “His Grace won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Emmy doubts that—the Duke barely looks at her under normal circumstances—but she thanks Sarah anyway and makes her way downstairs to where the Duke is waiting to escort her to the ball.
He’s standing in the entrance hall when Emmy descends the stairs, and when he sees her his expression shifts to something Emmy can’t read—surprise or appreciation or desire or all three—and for just a moment his usual careful control slips enough that Emmy sees actual reaction instead of blank politeness.
“You look…” the Duke begins, then stops like he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“Appropriate?” Emmy suggests with slight sarcasm, using his own word from when they first married.
“Breathtaking,” the Duke corrects quietly. “You look breathtaking, Emmy.”
Emmy’s face flushes at the unexpected compliment—the first genuine one he’s given about her appearance instead of just commenting on clothing or theoretical beauty—and she doesn’t know how to respond except to accept his offered arm and let him lead her to the carriage waiting outside.
They ride to Lady Pemberton’s house in silence, Emmy’s nerves building with every block they travel closer to the ball where she’ll be scrutinized and judged and compared to sophisticated London women who actually belong in this world, and when the Duke’s hand covers hers where it rests on his arm she nearly jumps at the unexpected contact.
“You’ll be magnificent,” the Duke says, apparently sensing her anxiety. “I meant what I said. Stay close to me, and I won’t let them destroy you.”
“You can’t promise that,” Emmy argues. “If Lady Cordelia is determined to ruin me, having you nearby won’t necessarily stop her.”
“Then I’ll ruin her right back,” the Duke says with unexpected fierceness. “She doesn’t get to hurt you. I won’t allow it.”
The protective possessiveness in his voice makes Emmy’s chest do something complicated, and she’s trying to formulate a response when the carriage stops in front of a massive townhouse blazing with lights and already surrounded by other carriages depositing elegantly dressed guests.
“Ready?” the Duke asks, and Emmy sees something almost vulnerable in his ice-blue eyes—like maybe he’s as nervous about this performance as she is, like maybe he’s also uncertain whether they can pull off convincing London society their marriage is real.
“No,” Emmy admits honestly. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
They enter Lady Pemberton’s house together—the Duke keeping Emmy’s hand firmly on his arm, his posture protective and possessive in ways Emmy has never seen from him before—and immediately every eye in the entrance hall turns to watch them, the whispers starting before they’ve even been properly announced.
“The Duke of Ashford and the Duchess of Ashford,” the butler announces in ringing tones, and Emmy feels the weight of hundreds of curious hostile assessing gazes as they descend the stairs into the ballroom.
The room is enormous—all gilt and crystal and excessive wealth on display, filled with the most beautiful and fashionable people Emmy has ever seen, exactly the kind of sophisticated society she has no experience navigating—and Emmy’s instinct is to flee back to the carriage and hide in her chambers and never subject herself to this kind of scrutiny again.
But the Duke’s hand covers hers on his arm with surprising warmth, and his voice is low and steady when he speaks so only Emmy can hear.
“Stay close to me,” the Duke reminds her. “And remember—you’re the Duchess of Ashford. You outrank almost everyone here. They should be nervous about meeting you, not the other way around.”
Emmy tries to channel that confidence as they move through the ballroom greeting people—most of whom are polite to her face while clearly judging everything from her dress to her manners to whether she’s worthy of being the Duke’s wife—and she’s managing reasonably well until she sees Lady Cordelia holding court near the far wall surrounded by admirers and looking even more beautiful than Emmy remembered.
“She’s here,” Emmy says quietly to the Duke.
“I see her,” the Duke confirms, his voice going cold in a way that suggests he’d like nothing more than to leave immediately. “Ignore her. She’s trying to get a reaction. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
But ignoring Cordelia proves impossible because the woman notices them within minutes and makes her way across the ballroom with deliberate purpose, her emerald gown perfectly calculated to make her blonde beauty even more striking, her smile sharp and predatory as she approaches.
“Sebastian, darling,” Cordelia says, using that same false affection that makes Emmy’s skin crawl. “I heard you were in London. How delightful to see you. And your little wife, of course.”
“Cordelia,” the Duke says, and his voice could freeze water. “How unexpected to find you here.”
“Lady Pemberton and I are dear friends,” Cordelia says with false sweetness. “I wouldn’t miss her ball. Though I’m surprised to see you here, Sebastian. You used to hate these events. Has marriage changed you that much?”
“My wife enjoys society,” the Duke lies smoothly, pulling Emmy fractionally closer to his side. “I enjoy making her happy.”
Cordelia’s eyes narrow at the possessive gesture, and Emmy sees something flash through her expression that might be actual jealousy beneath the sophisticated cruelty.
“How romantic,” Cordelia observes. “Though I wonder if you’re quite so devoted in private. The rumors suggest otherwise.”
“The rumors are lies,” the Duke says flatly. “As you well know, since you’re the one spreading them.”
“I’m merely repeating what everyone is already saying,” Cordelia argues with false innocence. “That your marriage is unconsummated. That you keep separate chambers. That this entire arrangement is a farce designed to produce an heir without requiring actual affection or intimacy. But please, do tell me I’m wrong. Assure me that you’re madly in love with your vicar’s daughter bride and I’ll happily correct my assumptions.”
Emmy feels her face flush with humiliation at having their private life discussed so publicly, and she opens her mouth to deliver some cutting response—but the Duke speaks first with surprising intensity.
“What happens in our private chambers is none of your concern,” the Duke says, his voice dangerously quiet. “But since you’re so desperate for reassurance, yes, Cordelia—I’m devoted to my wife. Completely. And whatever rumors you’re spreading about our marriage being a sham will only reflect poorly on you when society realizes you’re lying out of jealousy.”
Cordelia’s perfect composure cracks slightly, and Emmy sees actual hurt flash through her eyes before the cruel sophistication returns.
“Jealous?” Cordelia repeats with false laughter. “Of what? Your cold distant marriage to someone completely beneath your station? I assure you, Sebastian, I’m not jealous. I’m merely concerned for you. Making the same mistakes again with another inadequate wife.”
“Caroline was never inadequate,” the Duke says, and his anger is visible now. “And neither is Emmy. The only inadequate person in this conversation is you, Cordelia. You’ve always been inadequate where it matters—in kindness, in loyalty, in basic human decency. So if we’re quite finished with this delightful chat, I’d like to dance with my wife now.”
He doesn’t wait for Cordelia’s response, just guides Emmy away toward the dance floor while Cordelia stands there looking furious and wounded in equal measure, and Emmy is still processing the Duke’s unexpected defense when he positions them for a waltz.
“I’m sorry about that,” the Duke says as the music begins. “She’s even more vicious than I anticipated.”
“You defended me,” Emmy observes, still slightly in shock. “You told her you’re devoted to me.”
“I am devoted to you,” the Duke says, and his hand at Emmy’s waist pulls her fractionally closer than proper dancing requires. “I may not be good at showing it. But that doesn’t make it less true.”
Emmy’s breath catches at the intensity in his voice, at the way he’s looking at her like she’s the only person in the ballroom despite hundreds of eyes watching them waltz, and she lets him guide her through the dance while trying to process this new version of the Duke—protective and possessive and publicly devoted in ways she’s never experienced from him.
“Everyone is watching us,” Emmy whispers as they turn past a group of openly staring matrons.
“Let them watch,” the Duke responds. “Let them see exactly how devoted I am to my wife. Let them report back to Cordelia that we’re completely convincing as a married couple.”
“Are we though?” Emmy challenges quietly. “Convincing? Or are we just good at performing?”
The Duke’s expression shifts to something complicated—something vulnerable and uncertain beneath his usual control—and his hand tightens at Emmy’s waist as they move through the waltz.
“I don’t know,” the Duke admits. “But Emmy, when I’m holding you like this—when I’m dancing with you and defending you and telling vipers like Cordelia that you’re mine—it doesn’t feel like performing. It feels real.”
Emmy’s heart is racing at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice, at the way he’s looking at her with something that might be actual desire instead of just duty or obligation.
“Then what are we doing?” Emmy asks. “Really. What is this marriage?”
“I don’t know yet,” the Duke says. “But I’m starting to think it might be something real. If you’re patient enough to wait while I figure out how.”
The waltz ends before Emmy can respond, and the Duke leads her off the dance floor while Emmy tries to process what just happened—the public defense of their marriage, the admission that his devotion might be real, the vulnerability she glimpsed beneath his careful control.
They spend the rest of the evening making rounds through the ballroom—the Duke keeping Emmy close, introducing her to important people, demonstrating obvious attentiveness that makes it clear to anyone watching that he values his wife—and by the time they leave several hours later Emmy is exhausted from the performance but also strangely hopeful about what it might mean.
In the carriage ride home, the Duke surprises Emmy by keeping hold of her hand instead of maintaining his usual careful distance.
“You were magnificent tonight,” the Duke says quietly. “Better than magnificent. You put every other woman there to shame.”
“Even Cordelia?” Emmy asks, unable to help herself.
“Especially Cordelia,” the Duke confirms. “She’s beautiful but empty. You’re beautiful and real. There’s no comparison.”
Emmy’s chest aches at the unexpected compliment, at this glimpse of the man the Duke might be if he’d let himself be vulnerable, and she squeezes his hand in silent gratitude because words feel inadequate for what she’s feeling.
When they reach the townhouse, the Duke walks Emmy to her chamber door instead of just nodding goodnight in the entrance hall, and when they reach her rooms he pauses with his hand still holding hers.
“Thank you,” the Duke says. “For tonight. For being exactly who you are instead of trying to be who you thought I wanted. For being patient with me while I figure out how to be a husband.”
“I promised someone I would be patient,” Emmy says, thinking of her father’s deathbed request. “However long it takes.”
The Duke looks at her with an expression Emmy can’t read, and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her—actually finally kiss her after months of marriage—but then he steps back and releases her hand and the familiar distance returns.
“Goodnight, Emmy,” the Duke says.
“Goodnight, Sebastian,” Emmy responds, and she watches him walk away down the corridor toward his own distant chambers while telling herself that progress is progress even when it’s painfully slow.
Even when he still can’t bring himself to cross the threshold into her rooms.
Even when devoted in public doesn’t yet translate to intimate in private.
But he held her hand.
He called her beautiful.
He admitted his devotion might be real.
And maybe—just maybe—London is forcing them toward actual connection faster than Emmy dared hope.
One ball at a time.
One waltz at a time.
One moment of vulnerability at a time.
Until eventually the performance becomes reality.
That’s what Emmy tells herself as she prepares for bed alone in her beautiful empty chambers.
And tries to believe it’s possible.
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