Emily's desire to see Benedict again had lent her the courage to make her way down to dinner at 6:30 p.m., her heart lifting as she padded quietly down the carpeted hallway. But as she neared the door to the drawing room, her spirits dampened; familiar voices floated up to her, their words laced with mocking laughter.
"I am sure he's utterly charmed by her… country manners," one voice drawled, disdain thick in each syllable.
A few laughs followed, and another woman added, "Lord knows I do not understand what is so charming about these Americans." She hissed the word, as though merely saying it left a bad taste.
Emily paused just outside the doorway, her heart sinking as she recognized the voices—ladies who had been warm and courteous to her just hours earlier, women she had trusted to welcome her.
"Oh, I'm sure it gives him some amusement," a familiar voice continued. "But honestly, she is no threat to anyone here. She's not the sort of young woman a Bridgerton would seriously consider, at any rate. It's one thing to enjoy a bit of novelty… quite another to marry it."
"Novelty—exactly," another woman giggled. "Men always love something different for a little while. But does anyone here truly believe she'll hold Benedict Bridgerton's interest for long? We all know he'll end up with someone suitable."
Emily felt her cheeks flush. These women weren't just dismissing her—they were mocking her very place here. Women who had complimented her gown or admired her accent now spoke as if she were an oddity to be laughed at.
"Perhaps she'll provide him with a little fun before he settles down," one woman laughed. "One can only hope she's sensible enough to take her leave when it's over."
A biting pain twisted inside Emily. These were people she had wanted to make a good impression on, to charm with kindness and wit. And they thought she was a passing amusement—a mere distraction for Benedict. The laughter cut into her, yet Emily forced herself to stand tall, squaring her shoulders as though to armor her heart.
Drawing a deep breath, she stepped into the room, and all eyes turned toward her. The laughter halted, surprise flitting across a few faces. Emily met their gazes, her expression serene, determined not to let them see how much they had hurt her. Inside, however, she felt herself retreating, the warmth and comfort she had begun to find here now cold and unfamiliar.
"Miss Hawthorne," Miss Grace turned towards her with a thin smile. "You rather disappeared this morning. I do hope nothing upset you."
Emily smiled, a little too brightly. "Oh, of course not! Miss Eloise had invited me to tea in the family's private rooms, and I realized our tour had gone a little late. I thought it best to excuse myself to join the family."
Miss Grace's smile faltered, her face tightening as though she had bitten into something sour. But she said nothing more, and the women soon began making their way to the dining room.
When they were seated for dinner, Emily's eyes quickly scanned the table, her heart sinking as she realized Benedict was seated far from her. She could see him in good spirits, chatting easily with the ladies nearby, his laughter radiating warmth across the room.
Emily tried to engage in polite conversation with those around her, but her gaze drifted back to him often. His charm and ease were undeniable, and she felt a pang of doubt. Perhaps the women's words held a seed of truth. Benedict was so universally liked, his affable nature so magnetic—was she really someone he could take seriously? Was she just a curiosity to him, as the women suggested?
The longer dinner stretched on, the heavier Emily's heart became. The women retired to the sitting room, the men to their study, and Emily felt trapped, unable to shake the darker thoughts clouding her mind. Finally, seeking relief, she slipped out to the terrace, hoping the cool night air would soothe her.
The gardens stretched out before her, cloaked in twilight shadows, and the crisp breeze was like a balm. But as she drew in a steadying breath, a new sound reached her ears—laughter and voices drifting from a nearby open window. And once again, she was the topic of conversation.
Lord Fife's mocking tone was unmistakable as he spoke. "Our American guest, Miss Hawthorne, has a certain… spirit, wouldn't you say?"
One of the men chuckled, catching the insinuation. "Aye, Lord Fife. And rather a sharp tongue to match. Not quite the docile flower our English roses tend to be."
"Docile, indeed. I imagine a lady like Miss Hawthorne would be more spirited in… all respects," Lord Fife added, a leering edge to his voice.
Another man chimed in, a smug tone in his voice. "Think she could be… swayed, Fife? The Americans are known to be a bit wild, are they not?"
Fife laughed darkly. "I'd wager she has a temper—and a taste for adventure. Our dear Miss Hawthorne seems eager enough to toy with Bridgerton's attentions, does she not? One wonders if she's looking for entertainment while she's here in England."
The men laughed, their voices carrying the echo of ridicule. Fife continued, clearly feeling emboldened by his audience. "Mark my words—she might play at being proper, but a woman like that… she's only waiting for someone bold enough to test her mettle."
A sickening anger rose within Emily, mingled with shame and disgust. These were the gentlemen she was meant to find a match among? Men who spoke about women as if they were little more than toys to be enjoyed and discarded? Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat. She had never felt so violated, so utterly degraded, merely by being in their presence.
Lost in her fury, she barely noticed when a voice broke into her thoughts. "I'm glad you don't look at me like that."
Startled, she turned to see Eloise standing beside her, her gaze kind and steady. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.
Emily drew a deep breath, attempting to steady herself. "Thank you, Miss Bridgerton. I… I am." She paused, her voice faltering.
Eloise gave her a sympathetic look. "Oh, please, just call me Eloise. We are all friends here, aren't we?"
Emily forced a small smile, though her voice carried a trace of bitterness. "Are we? In truth, I'm not certain I have any friends here."
Eloise studied her thoughtfully, then reached out and gently linked her arm with Emily's. "Then let us be friends."
The warmth in Eloise's gesture soothed a part of Emily's heart that had felt raw and exposed. Smiling gratefully, she allowed Eloise to lead her back to the sitting room, comforted by the simple kindness in her new friend's companionship.