Sense and suitability, p.1
Sense and Suitability, page 1
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Dedication
To Becky Monds
Who believed in me enough to bring this story to life
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Acclaim for Pepper Basham
Other Books by Pepper Basham
Copyright
Prologue
Emmeline Lockhart’s life teemed with secrets.
Too many secrets for a country gentleman’s daughter, but at least it made her parochial life a little more exciting.
Her smile tipped. Very well—a lot more exciting, in fact.
She tugged at her gloves and stared out into the ballroom, the candlelit chandeliers casting an almost angelic glow across Lord and Lady Ruthton’s glossy floors. The hosts of the St. Groves Season never failed to fill their palatial home for every one of the balls they hosted, which was a substantial number for the season. Anyone who was anyone clamored for an invitation to the parties of the wealthiest and most influential aristocrats of their flourishing spa town.
But tonight one of Emme’s secrets would come to light. A secret she treasured even more than her occupation as a published author. Tonight she would finally become engaged, putting all the nasty rumors of clandestine meetings and covert affections to rest. Tonight Simon Reeves, cousin to the Viscount of Ravenscross, planned to ask her to marry him.
Her!
A woman without rank or riches.
And though her family was highly respected within St. Groves, they held no esteem in the larger world, so the entire romance proved every bit as fantastical as the fairy stories her mother used to read to her.
Men like Simon didn’t marry lower gentry.
Especially not lower gentry with an insignificant dowry and a scandalous secret profession. Perhaps if she had written books more sanguine and suitable for gentlewomen—like the anonymous author of Pride and Prejudice—her work might be more accepted by society. But her first two stories involved pirates, kidnappings, and other sensational exploits wholly improper for a gentlewoman to read, let alone write about.
And perhaps she hadn’t counted the cost of such a secret when her cousin Thomas convinced her to submit one of the stories she’d only ever shared with her family. Danbury and Sons had taken the book and, upon Emme’s insistence and Thomas’s keen business sense, chosen to keep the authorship of the story shrouded in mystery. Not even her family knew of the first publication, or her newly submitted second.
And neither did Simon.
Her heart fluttered at the very thought of him.
And their engagement needed to begin with complete honesty, despite her fear of his response to her secret. She had every intention of divulging her career to him once they were sequestered alone from the public’s hearing. If they determined to keep her writing a secret, it wouldn’t dampen his reputation at all.
They could just go on as they were in all of their delightful affections.
And though she had very few dealings with many of his relations, especially his cousin the Viscount of Ravenscross, the title carried esteem she never wished to sully.
“She’s already putting on airs,” came a loud whisper to her right.
Two ladies, Mrs. Wheaton and Mrs. Low, stood near the archway where Emme waited, doing very little to hide the object of their conversation.
“It truly is appalling the way she’s practically thrown herself at him.”
Emme increased the speed of her fan to cool the heat in her face and turned her attention away from the women. She’d never once thrown herself at Simon. Stumbled into him, perhaps. Crushed a foot once or twice. But never thrown anything at him, herself included.
In fact, if they hadn’t chosen the same hiding spot while attempting to avoid unwelcome suitors, they would likely have never met at all. Rank ruled—quite literally, in some respects—but especially in the social world. Her smile spread at the memory of their amusing attempt to remain hidden and avoid scandal.
That one unexpected meeting began a humorous rhythm of consecutive encounters, which slowly grew into a friendship and then . . . something even sweeter than friendship.
All the rumors of the determined flirt, Simon Reeves, melded into an awareness that beneath the dashing facade lay a faithful heart worth the loving. And despite every sensible notion, every caution of society, every inward warning at the implausibility of the match, Emme had given her heart to him.
From all accounts and to her utter surprise, he’d responded in kind.
However, over the last few weeks, their clear preference for each other had become more apparent, which no doubt led to the newest rumors swirling about the ballroom. Emme hated being the topic of conversation.
“She’s only a distraction for him until he finds a more suitable bride. Everyone knows he has no plans to marry until later, as he’s so frequently professed,” one of the ladies said.
Emme had heard those rumors too. Recognized the stories of Simon charming one lady after another with no real design to match himself to any of them.
But he had told her he meant to propose. Tonight.
Professed how she’d redirected his course.
Her face warmed as she smiled. And he’d told her he loved her.
“It would not be prudent to align himself with someone so beneath him,” the other woman responded. “A motherless country gentleman’s daughter? Lord Ravenscross would never approve.”
Emme raised her fan to shadow her grin. But Lord Ravenscross had, by some miracle. In fact, Simon’s cousin cared very little for the romantic entanglements of his uncle’s eldest son, so without any resistance whatsoever, Simon was moving forward with his plans for tonight, where he promised to meet her in the Ruthtons’ garden by the waterfall to make everything official.
She’d become his wife.
An elevation for her family, for certain, but even more than that, a perfect match for her heart.
After all, he wasn’t a viscount, so at the foundation of rank, for the most part, they were the same: He was a gentleman’s son and she a gentleman’s daughter.
“Once he drops her, she’ll be ruined. Everyone will know she’d chased after him and been found wanting.”
Emme stepped away from the women, waving her fan in time with her pulse. She’d fought the worries of his future regret in the inequality of the match, wondered if he’d come to rue her lack of wealth or connections. But he’d quelled her doubts at every turn, promising her that their future happiness would overcome any of the social ramifications.
And he kept proving to be the veritable hero of any good novel.
She sighed. Only her hero wasn’t reserved to the page.
The clock chimed the hour, and she turned her attention to the room. She’d not seen Simon since her arrival, but he often arrived late. In fact, she wondered whether he may already be waiting for her in the garden. With a rather saucy glance back to the gossipmongers, Emme slid down the hallway and out onto the steps of the veranda, breathing in the cool March air.
What a glorious way to end her very first St. Groves Season.
She’d barely made it to the steps into the garden when someone called her name.
Turning, she found a manservant approaching at a clipped speed. How very odd. How had he known where to find her?
And then something much less warm and delightful than her previous feelings quivered in her chest.
“Miss Lockhart?” He paused, still in the light of the doorway. “Miss Emmeline Lockhart?”
Her throat tightened. “Yes.”
With a bow of his head, he offered her a card. “For you, Miss.”
Hesitantly, she took the card, and the man removed himself back into the house. She slid her finger beneath the seal of the envelope and stepped forward into the light glowing from the doorway. The note held only a few words in a dearly familiar hand, but nothing about those words felt dear.
Everything has changed. Please forgive me.
S.
Chapter 1
A knock at the front door of anyone’s house before ten o’clock in the morning rarely boded well for the home’s inhabitants. And in this particular case, it boded abominably for Emmeline Lockhart.
She’d attempted to brace herself for the lengthy intrusion after her father’s unexpected announcement the night before. Likely he’d waited un til the very last moment to apprise his unsuspecting daughters of their fate.
Father, as good-hearted as he was, had a tendency to avoid conflict at all cost. When pressed, he sprung unwelcome information on people, and then he disappeared into his study or garden or nobody knew where for the aftermath of his revelation. Some people said that the loss of his dear wife after bringing Alfie, the lone Lockhart heir, into the world ten years ago had led him to an acute need for peace and tranquility, but in all truth, Father had fled conflict in every possible way well before Mother died. Over time, though, his tendency had grown almost chronic.
Another sharp knock echoed through the halls, and Emme could practically hear the doorframe flinch. As if everyone else in the house knew the eventual consequences of opening the door, no one did, prompting another impatient assault on the wood. Emme sighed. As the eldest daughter and in the absence of a mother’s guidance, the responsibility of dealing with social expectations inevitably fell to her.
Even this.
Her posture wilted for only a second before she rallied.
She’d been preparing for this fateful confrontation since early morning, alternating between fervent prayers and envisioning it all as a comical plight for one of her novel characters. It did help to have an outlet for her frustrations.
Fictional disasters for fictional people were, after all, far safer than real-life ones.
Setting aside her spectacles and tucking away the slips of paper bearing her latest scribbles, Emme pushed her small pile of novels to the desk’s corner, except for one—The Heroine—which she took in hand, should distraction become necessary.
She’d strategically placed her desk in this spot by the window for two reasons: One, it allowed morning light to bathe her in enough warmth to dampen any chill from the low-lit fires of the night, and two, the location afforded her a view of the entrance hallway if she twisted just so.
Carter, the long-suffering butler, ambled into view, his pace slower than usual, if that was even possible. The dear man had appeared ancient when Emme was a child, but now he seemed to have approached near antiquity, though his wits proved rather alert and his ears even more so, for good or ill.
He cast her a weathered look down the hallway, his jaw set for battle. Poor man. It was moments like this that she was certain he earned every shilling of his somewhat inflated salary.
Emme stood, novel in hand, and drew in a deep breath before the plunge. Once Carter opened that door, her blissfully quiet life would be turned on its head—for the next four months, at least.
Another series of heavy knocks ushered in the entrance of Aunt Albina Bridges, rather unaffectionately referred to as Aunt Bean, whose self-importance rose from the ends of her pearl-tip shoes to the zenith of her long and usually upturned nose.
She and Father failed to resemble each other at all, in looks or comportment. Whereas Father fled discord as a whole, Aunt Bean saw it as her duty to generously find or create crises wherever she went. In this respect, Emme tended more toward her father’s disposition . . . and desire.
Unless in fiction, of course.
“It was quite irksome to remain on the stoop like a beggar for so long, Carter.”
And the sweet greetings whisked down the hall with the same melodic ring as a new violinist.
“Now, Mother,” came a smoother, more amiable voice, one that immediately brightened Emme’s mood. Cousin Thomas. “It is still early. I would imagine Carter has been occupied with other matters this morning.”
Where Aunt Bean created persistent offense, Thomas smoothed out the edges with wit and voice, a fortunate trait for a clergyman.
“Besides, Carter,” Thomas continued in a mock whisper, which Emme heard well enough from down the hall, “it wasn’t that long.”
Emme’s smile brimmed . . . until she heard the resounding click of Aunt Bean’s cane as it tapped the floor. Closer and closer, like the march of troops advancing in combat. Each click increased Emme’s pulse toward retreat.
She glanced around the room, hoping for reinforcements. Aster? Alfie? Even Benedict, the spaniel, would prove a happy distraction, but no, Emme stood alone, left to face the tampering talons of Aunt Bean.
If only Mother were here.
Without a daughter of her own, Aunt Bean relished her role as matchmaker with the fervor of Lady Ruthton’s enthusiasm for hosting balls—a zeal so boundless that she had single-handedly transformed St. Groves into a pale imitation of Bath. And her adoring husband spared no expense. They’d even recently built a new hotel, a theater, and even a concert hall.
Her parties last year numbered fifteen!
Fifteen!
Emme’s shoulders sagged yet again from the weight of her social future. Though, to be honest, she conveniently dodged five of the fifteen for various real and imagined illnesses or situations. After the difficulties of her first season, Father hadn’t forced the issue.
Six clicks later, Aunt Bean came into view with Thomas at her side. In usual Thomas fashion, he wrestled with a smile, which countered the disposition of every previous rector in St. Groves. And if Thomas’s youthfulness and temperament didn’t spark a great deal of interest, his singleness certainly would.
“Good morning, Emme,” Thomas offered before Aunt Bean pounced. “I’m glad to see you are awake and employed already.” His gaze dropped to her book, one quizzical brow etching upward. “Devotional reading, I assume? To usher in the day?”
Emme tightened her grip on Eaton Stannard Barrett’s entertaining novel and slipped it behind her back. “How could you doubt it?”
“Of course.” A twinkle surfaced in his dark eyes before he turned to his mother. “Our cousin is a paragon of virtue, is she not, Mother?”
Not from what the gossips declared, but after almost two years, the tattling tongues of St. Groves had found new victims to exploit, leaving Emme’s catastrophe well faded into infamy. Her inability to find a match last season may have resurfaced some murmurings but mostly pity, which likely sparked this very visit.
Aunt Bean heaved a sigh as large as her bosom and studied Emme from the top of her blonde head to the toe of her morning slippers. “Why is it that you are the only one to greet us this morning? Is everyone else inclined toward laziness?”
Laziness? Emme raised a brow, following Aunt Bean’s survey of the room. Cowardice, perhaps.
“Actually, I do believe everyone else is otherwise engaged, Aunt.” Which was true, even if “engaged” meant Father hiding in the library and Aster out for an extended morning walk. So extended, in fact, that she’d likely made it all the way into St. Groves by now. “Alfie is in lessons.”
“Alfie?” Her cane tapped the floor as the name took agitated flight. “I have no interest in your brother. His future is secure. It is you and your sister for which the rescue must be made.”
Rescue? Giving Aunt Bean the role of heroine seemed to defy the very definition of the word. At least for those to be “rescued.”
But it was so. Gentlewomen had to be rescued by matrimony, inheritance, or death, for they were not usually given a living and were certainly not allowed to earn one.
Unless it was secret.
“Of course. It’s just that we weren’t expecting your visit quite so”—Emme almost said “early” but then thought better of it—“soon after your arrival. How have you found the rectory?”
Thomas opened his mouth to respond, but his mother overrode his attempt. “Better suited than I expected.” Her face softened a little but not enough to garner much hope toward optimism. “I will not be ashamed to remain for the season. Thomas’s uncle offered a rectory of no mean salary and situation. What parson do you know with five hundred a year?”
Thomas winced at the blunt declaration of his private matters. True, everyone knew, but the subject of such gossip rarely wished to hear it dangled about like a prize to be won. Or a horse to be sold.
“Indeed. I have no doubt my youngest son will be the talk of St. Groves in no time.”
He already was, and none of the single ladies of the parish had even laid eyes on him yet. “Single” proved a powerfully magnetizing word among the Christian and pagan alike, especially when paired with such an income!
Emme raised her brows and smiled at Thomas. “I’m certain the position will make an excellent match of its own for Cousin Thomas.” His eyes narrowed in playful parrying as Emme continued. “I would hazard a guess the church will be particularly full this Sunday of people curious to hear from the new rector, especially the young ladies.”
