His Brother's Fiancee. Jasmine Cresswell

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      CHAPTER THREE

      EMILY DIDN’T NEED to ask where everyone was when she finally managed to fight her way through the crush of city traffic and return to the Chambers’s house. The sound of loud, angry voices informed her she would find a large gathering of furious people in the family room at the rear of the house.

       Feet dragging, she walked slowly down the hallway, fighting a cowardly urge to hide in one of the formal reception rooms, where the heavy antique furnishings provided cover, and Victorian oil portraits of Chambers ancestors looked down at the goings-on of their descendants with bland indifference.

       The irate voices grew progressively louder, with Mr. Chambers’s upper-crust baritone booming over a cacophony of other speakers. Her mother sounded as if she might be crying, and Emily winced in anticipation. The prospect of opening the door to the family room and facing the hurt and disappointment of her parents was almost enough to have Emily turn tail and run as fast as her legs could carry her in the opposite direction. But the thought of Mr. Chambers berating her mother put some steel into her flabby backbone. Reminding herself that a canceled wedding barely rated as an earthshaking problem in the grand scheme of things, Emily opened the door.

       The family room was little used and quite small, converted from a combination of the old butler’s pantry and housekeeper’s sitting room. Right now it appeared crammed to overflowing with irate people. Her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Chambers. Michael. Jeff Greiff, his campaign manager. Michael’s brother, Jordan, was also there, standing a little apart from the others and staring out of the window. He was the only person who wasn’t yelling, shouting or crying.

       Emily swallowed hard. The tension swirling around the room was powerful enough to squeeze the air out of her lungs. Her vocal chords stubbornly refused to function and she pressed her hands to her rib cage, trying to speak, but no words came. Surprisingly, it was Jordan who noticed her arrival first, even though his back was toward the door.

       “Emily’s here,” he said, half turning. He spoke quietly, but his cool tones penetrated the hullabaloo, and the babble of exasperated voices stopped for a few seconds while everyone swiveled around to stare at her. She’d noticed before that Jordan rarely needed to raise his voice in order to make his presence felt, and she wondered why his family seemed unaware of the fact that on the rare occasions when he wanted to, Jordan could dominate any situation he found himself in.

       Amelia Chambers spoke first, her voice acid with sarcasm. “Well, it’s the vanishing bride! How good of you to put in an appearance. Finally. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies.”

       Emily flushed. “I had an appointment on the far side of town, Mrs. Chambers. I’m sorry to have kept everyone waiting.”

       Amelia was standing by the fireplace, her hand resting on the mantelpiece. At Emily’s reply, she drew herself up to her full, imposing five feet nine inches and squinted down her narrow, patrician nose, her nostrils flaring with temper.

       “You had an appointment across town?” She sounded incredulous, as if Emily had admitted to taking off for a brief trip to the planet Mars.

       “It was a long-standing commitment. A business appointment.”

       “Oh, well, that explains everything. I appreciate your finding time to squeeze us into your busy schedule.” Amelia rarely lost her temper, but when she did, her sarcasm could corrode steel. “Perhaps, now that you’re here, you’d be kind enough to give us some clue as to why you’ve chosen to ruin my son’s life?”

       “You’ve no call to talk to my daughter in that nasty tone of voice!” Raelene Sutton, plump and petite, sprang to her daughter’s defense like a sparring bantam hen, giving Emily no chance to speak for herself. “If she’s called off her engagement to your son, you can be sure she has a good reason for it.”

       “Yes, and I’d like to know what that reason is,” Sam Sutton said fiercely. “What did your son do to my little girl that she doesn’t want to marry him anymore?”

       Sam was a good six inches shorter than Michael, but that didn’t deter him from confronting his daughter’s former fiancé. Hands on hips, lower lip thrust out, he looked as if he’d as soon punch Michael’s nose as listen to an explanation.

       Michael stepped back, alarmed. “I didn’t do anything to your daughter!” he protested, sounding aggrieved. “Emily, tell everyone the truth! Explain to your parents that you called off our engagement because we were incompatible. You have to convince them you’re okay with this! Nobody seems to believe me.”

       Emily sent him an astonished glance, although she didn’t really look at him. Couldn’t look at him and maintain any pretense of being in control. Was this how Michael had resolved the dilemma of explaining that he’d called off their wedding? By blaming it all on her? If she hadn’t felt so numb—so bludgeoned—she thought she might have been angry.

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