Emily was perhaps more anxious than anyone for the marquess to arrive, although her mother ran a close second. Lady Smithfield was terribly frustrated to have to keep the secret of her daughter’s conquest. She was desperate to tell her closest friends, not to mention her greatest enemies. Lydia was anxious, also, but not for the marquess to arrive. For the first time in her life, the kindhearted young lady was wishing an accident to befall someone. Not anything serious, mind, just serious enough to lay him up for a few weeks and somehow prevent him from marrying her or her sister. Because no matter what Emily said, Lydia could not believe that her dear sister could really wish to sacrifice herself in such a manner.

Emily assured her sister repeatedly that it was no sacrifice. If anything, she was fearful that her mother and the duke would not accept her as a substitute for Lydia. She was determined to ensure her sister’s romance with the vicar came to fruition, or she feared that Lydia would be forced to marry Wesleigh no matter what she wished. Or what Emily wished.

For Emily dearly wanted to marry the marquess. She had moments of doubt, when her stubborn little heart yearned for something like Lydia had found. Someone who loved her and wanted her, not because his father ordered him to, but because his heart did. But then she would sternly push those thoughts aside. Be sensible, Emily, she told herself. How would you ever meet such a man in Stonehurst? And then, once again, she would look forward eagerly to the marquess’s arrival.

It was not that Emily was materialistic or grasping, determined to be a duchess at all costs. It was just that she was bored! She was incredibly bored, there in dull, poky little Stonehurst. She wanted to go to balls and masquerades, attend the opera and the theater, and meet people, famous people, like Lord Byron, and the Prince Regent. She wanted to travel to the Continent, to faraway, only-dreamed-of places like Venice and Rome. She would look longingly at pictures of elegant ensembles in La Belle Assemblée, only to look despairingly in the mirror at the missish dress that the village dressmaker churned out. Lydia, on the other hand, cared nothing for any of these things. When quizzed about her aborted season in London, she could only say that she did not care for London, finding it very dirty and crowded. She would be perfectly content to stay in Stonehurst forever. Life was so unfair!

But Emily was determined that, with a little resourcefulness and ingenuity, she could change her fate. And, instead of sitting and twiddling her thumbs until the marquess arrived, she could start by sealing her sister’s fate. And the vicar’s.

The time for Sunday services finally arrived, to the satisfaction of many, for various reasons, and none of them spiritually motivated. Emily was anxious to begin her plan of aiding Lydia and the vicar in their romance, Lydia was anxious to catch even a sight of her beloved, and the vicar was not loath to see Lydia, either. But perhaps the person with the greatest interest in attending the services was a visitor to Stonehurst, Lord Wesleigh.

Of course, for the purpose of his visit he was not to be known as Lord Wesleigh, but rather, Alexander Williams. This had much distressed his friend Jonathan Sedgewick, when Alexander had revealed his plan to him a few days earlier.

“You wish to pose as a curate? But why?” Sedgewick had asked, after the initial greetings had been exchanged. Jonathan Sedgewick was a handsome young man, with fair hair and blue eyes. Alexander had always liked Sedgewick, but there was no denying he took himself a little too seriously. Alexander should have known Sedgewick would not react well to the little masquerade he had planned.

“That is a long story, my friend, and one that does me little credit,” Alexander replied, still stinging from his father’s words earlier that day.

“I would like to hear it, just the same.”

So Alexander explained that his father thought it time he was married, and had arranged a match for him with a Miss Smithfield, whom he had never even laid eyes on.

“Miss Smithfield!” Sedgewick exclaimed loudly.

“Yes,” Alexander said, a little startled by the vehemence of his friend’s response. “Miss Smithfield. Her mother went to some ladies’ academy with my mother. Apparently they have nothing better to do at those schools than sit around and discuss the futures of their unborn offspring.”

Sedgewick did not respond to his friend’s attempt at humor. He still appeared to be in a state of shock. “But it cannot be, not Miss Lydia Smithfield. Could it have possibly been Miss Emily Smithfield?” he asked.