Sense and suitability, p.26
Sense and Suitability, page 26
This wasn’t merely sentiment. It was strategy. For them all.
Simon straightened his cravat in the mirror over the mantel in his office, holding his own gaze with a promise. Tonight he would make his aunt see.
At that moment the door burst open, and in ran Fia, a cat slung over one arm and a crumpled paper flapping in her other hand. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, her little face scrunched into a frown. It was clear she hadn’t even noticed him.
Midas, the long-suffering feline, hung limply, resigned to the whims of his pint-size captor. The poor creature likely had no illusions left about dignity.
Two more days. Just two more days until Mrs. Lane arrived to impose her miraculous order upon the household. Emma had praised Mrs. Lane’s ability to somehow wrangle chaos into something resembling routine, while still allowing the children their games and whims. Simon raised a thankful gaze to the ceiling.
Oh, happy day.
“Are you looking for me, Fia?”
Her head snapped up, and her face lit with a wide, toothless grin. “Mrs. Patterson said you were here, but then you weren’t.” She shuffled forward, and Simon lowered himself into a nearby chair, bringing himself to her level.
Of course she had a story to tell. Fia always did.
“Midas brought me a bird,” she announced with the solemnity of a royal decree. “But it was very asleep, so I took it to Mrs. Patterson.” She nodded, her eyes wide with the weight of her tale. “But she said it was a very special sleeping bird and needed more rest, so she put it outside again.”
Poor Mrs. Patterson. Simon bit back a laugh. “Very wise of Mrs. Patterson. I’ve heard those sleeping birds are not very good at managing either cats or the indoors.”
Fia tilted her head, considering this, her curls bouncing with the movement. “Then I do hope Midas stops catching that sort. They’re no fun to play with at all.”
“Indeed, I imagine they aren’t.” His lips twitched as he glanced at the paper clutched in her small fist. “Was there something else, lamb?”
She beamed at him, her dimples carving into her cheeks, her golden curls framing her face like a cherub in a painting. With that combination of a toothless grin and earnest eyes, she could melt the heart of the sternest curmudgeon.
Fia skipped over to him, unceremoniously releasing Midas, who bolted for the safety of a nearby chair. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, she climbed into Simon’s lap. “Lottie asked me to give you this very special letter.”
And just like that, Simon’s smile faded.
A letter.
Arianna’s farewell had come by letter too. Its brevity had been as cutting as its contents—irrational and emotional, its cruelty sharpened by the whispers of a flatterer who’d preyed upon her grief.
He shook the thought away and forced himself to focus on the scrap of paper Fia now held aloft like a prize. With a steadying breath, he unfolded it.
The words were written in a childish scrawl, their content equal parts innocence and impudence:
I’ve gone to Miss Lockhart’s house to learn about strawberries. I didn’t ask because I knew you would say no, which would have been a very bad idea as Miss Lockhart has been so kind to us. Perhaps someday you’ll remember how to be a gentleman, but I don’t care to wait until then.
Simon suppressed a groan, his jaw tightening. The little imp.
“Thank you, Fia,” he managed, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears.
He stood, setting Fia gently on her feet. Would he have refused Lottie’s request if she’d asked? Likely not. The idea of building a stronger relationship between Emme and his sisters might have felt dangerous—not only because he hadn’t secured any acceptance from Aunt Agatha, but also because every additional moment he spent with the woman only made him want to spend dozens more without a certainty of their future—but for Lottie’s sake, he might have relented.
Now, it seemed, she had taken matters into her own hands. Typical.
Tucking the note into his pocket, Simon sighed. His little sister’s audacity had certainly been inherited from somewhere—though at the moment, he wasn’t particularly inclined to take credit for it.
He glanced at Fia. “Anything else you’d like to confess, lamb?”
She shook her head solemnly, then beamed up at him again, her smile entirely guileless.
“Good. Now I must ride to one of our neighbors’ houses.” Simon reached over to ruffle her curls. “Do you think you can manage to stay out of the water puddles while I’m gone?”
Fia nodded, though her expression wavered as though the promise might cost her dearly. “But sometimes, they’re so big, they find me.”
“Understandable.” Simon pressed his lips together as though weighing her predicament. “But perhaps you could stay inside, just for a little while, and search for”—he glanced around the room, desperate for an idea, until his eyes alighted on the carved ravens perched over the doorway—“ravens. How many ravens do you think there are in the house? Count them all, and when I return, you can tell me the number. If you’re very thorough, I daresay we’ll have strawberry tart to celebrate.”
Fia’s face lit with delight, her previous hesitation vanishing. She followed his gaze to the carved ravens, her brows knitting with determination. “I am very good at finding things.”
“I know.” Without a doubt, and many times things he’d wished she hadn’t.
With that, she scampered off and Simon marched to find Mrs. Patterson. Who knew whether Emme had actually invited Lottie or if his sister had concocted the scheme entirely on her own?
After notifying Mrs. Patterson and Aunt Agatha of his plans—“a quick ride to a neighbor’s estate, back by dinner,” he assured them—he saddled his horse and set out toward Thistlecroft House.
And yes, he could have stayed home. He could have waited for Lottie to return, heard her story, and avoided yet another interaction with Emme Lockhart.
But what would that accomplish?
Yes, calling on her at her home was ludicrous. Borderline improper, even, considering his supposed search for a different sort of bride.
And yet, the memory of her antics at the theater rose unbidden, warming him in a way that made rationality seem wholly overrated. Add to it her veiled conversation, telling him she’d forgiven him? Well, there was nothing else to do but to attempt to ascertain her feelings.
And if he had to use Lottie as an excuse to do so, well, so be it.
* * *
“You cannot be upset with him,” Aster announced, not looking up from her sketch. She lounged on a garden bench near the roses, her lap scattered with pencils and paper.
Emme had spent far too much time in the garden that morning. For some reason, her creativity had dwindled overnight, and unfortunately, it seemed to begin and end at the theater and then the ball.
“I am not upset with him.” She clipped a full chrysanthemum, the shears in her hand as precise as her tone.
“No, of course not.” Aster’s attention flicked up from her drawing. “You’re merely sulking like a governess left out of the nursery party.”
Emme spun around, spectacles nearly toppling from her nose. “I am not sulking!”
“Good, because it would be terribly hypocritical of you.” Aster raised one brow. “You’re the one who sent Miss Clayton his way in the first place.”
“I did no such thing,” Emme countered, her voice lightening as she feigned detachment. Though, in all honesty, she did do such a thing. “And I’m not upset. Miss Clayton is exactly what Lord Ravenscross needs.”
Aster studied her, a smirk tugging at her lips. Very unsisterly of her. “I’m so glad you didn’t take to the stage, Emme. You would have failed miserably.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you’re attempting to look unaffected, you’re doing a poor job of it.”
Emme huffed, looking directly at her sister and snipping an aster bloom with more force than was strictly necessary. “What do you expect me to say? That I’m pining for someone I cannot have? That I wish the world worked differently?” The conglomeration of floral scents wafted on the cool breeze, tousling tendrils of hair across her face. She brushed them back with a sigh. “The truth won’t change the fact that he requires something I cannot provide.” Her voice hitched as she turned back to snip another chrysanthemum, its rich pink hue and voluminous petals offering a charming distraction. “All I can do now is leave to let nature take its course.”
“I understand why you’re leaving, but I don’t like it.” Aster harrumphed, a sound that did nothing to calm Emme’s mind—or heart. “It’s not fair.”
“Not everything can be resolved as neatly as in a novel, I’m afraid. We must accept it . . . and move on.” Even as she spoke, the words tore at her. Oh, she had wanted to assist Simon, but perhaps more selfishly, she yearned to remain close to him just a little longer. What a dreadful decision! It only complicated matters further. She really should’ve let him alone from the very beginning.
At least when Colonel Brandon asked Elinor Dashwood to talk to Edward Ferrars about a job as curate on his estate, Elinor had possessed undeniable purpose in seeing and helping Edward. Emme had just thrust herself on poor Simon at cost to both of them.
She inwardly groaned. How could she have been so rash? Good intentions without wisdom rarely boded well.
“Can’t there be another way?” Aster’s eyes, which could shift from blue to green with the hue of her gown, studied Emme with evident disapproval. “He still harbors feelings for you. And I know you feel the same.”
“It’s not enough, Aster.” Emme averted her gaze, adding a rose to her bouquet. “Yes, I care for him. But we must accept the reality.” She met Aster’s gaze, her voice dropping to a pained whisper. “We must.”
With a deepening frown, Aster crossed her arms. “Your plight almost persuades me to accept Mr. Todd, who only desires a pretty arm ornament but promises to let me travel the world. Clearly, love need not be a priority.”
Emme’s lips tipped the slightest at her sister’s attempt at levity. “Mr. Todd is old enough to be your grandfather.”
“And yet, that does not detract from my point,” Aster retorted, her brows arching in challenge.
Before Emme could respond, the sound of the garden gate creaking open made them both turn. Simon strode in, his coat undone and his cravat slightly askew—an uncharacteristic look for him, but not one she necessarily disliked. She swallowed. At all.
“Sim—Lord Ravenscross?” Emme corrected herself. “What are you doing here?”
“Pardon my intrusion, but I need to find Charlotte.” He strode toward them, his attention fixed on Emme in such a way that her throat closed just a little.
“What do you mean?” Emme’s face cooled at the statement, nearly losing her grip on her bouquet. “Is she missing?”
Dear heavens! Like Arianna?
“You’ve not seen her?” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. And still, she didn’t mind the look. “She left a note saying she’d come here to learn how to plant strawberries.”
“I offered to teach her, but I insisted she must ask your permission first.” She sighed, reading the worry on his face. “I assume from your scowl and the desperate flight here, she did not follow my advice.”
The scowl softened considerably. “She isn’t very good at heeding instruction, I’m afraid.”
“Well, at least she’s among good company,” Aster quipped before casting Emme a pointed look.
“Is that so?” He dipped his head to Aster in greeting.
“How can you doubt it? You know Emme.” Her sister only tipped her brow higher, needling the reference to Emme and Simon’s past. “She’s always been a little too opinionated for her own good, setting off into ridiculous rescue plans without thought.”
Aster’s implications, and in front of Simon of all people, were too pointed.
“You’re one to talk, sister.” Emme’s face grew sunburn hot, but she pushed up a grin for diversion, if nothing else. “It’s no wonder Charlotte felt a kinship to us then, is it?”
“No wonder,” Simon murmured, his gaze lingering on hers just long enough to set her pulse skittering before he shifted his focus. “But if she isn’t here, where could she be? I came directly from the estate.”
“She’s likely on her way.” Emme was thankful her voice sounded much calmer than the tremor of her pulse. “Perhaps you traveled faster than she anticipated.”
“Yes, that’s quite possible.” He exhaled with a nod, scanning the garden again. “I rode Zeus. Her mare is not the fastest animal.”
“Given by design, I’m sure.” Emme allowed herself a small, teasing smile as she snipped another chrysanthemum, only to realize—too late—that Aster had vanished, leaving her alone with Simon.
Her breath hitched. Dear heavens. Aster had abandoned her with the one man she had no business being alone with. What was her sister thinking?
“I apologize for interrupting your”—he gestured to the bouquet—“artistry?”
“Bouquet for the dining room,” she managed, adjusting the flowers as though they would shield her from the effect his nearness had on her thoughts, pulse . . . emotions. Good heavens, all of her.
He didn’t stand terribly close, but her desire for him to step closer was a traitorous thought. It really wasn’t fair for him to show up in her garden looking this handsome. And if it wasn’t incredibly inappropriate to tell him, she would have said so. “Chrysanthemums are in such abundance this year, and they carry a lovely meaning of . . .” Her gaze settled on the red one in her hand. Love. She hesitated. “Good fortune.”
“Good fortune?” He stepped nearer, inspecting a flower with a half smile that made her knees feel rather unsteady. “Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm. An excellent flower for you, Lord Ravenscross, to inspire the best of luck.”
His lips crooked further, and her heart stammered rigorously in response.
She wouldn’t have to feign a faint at all if he kept this up. Heaven help her!
All she needed to do was make it through this week, and then she would be gone.
She turned back to her work to keep her face from his, taking the opportunity to pluck a late sunflower next, sending him a grin over her shoulder. “Sunflowers for determination, in honor of Charlotte.”
His chuckle warmed the space between them, sending a lovely tingle up her neck, despite the high collar of her jacket. “Determination, indeed. She has that in spades.”
Emme was certain she was disproving Aster’s assessment of her acting abilities with each moment she passed in Simon’s presence. But whatever skills she did possess were beginning to weaken with each grin or look he sent her. Something new hid in those eyes, and her heart nearly lurched from her chest attempting to seize it.
She shifted a step to the right, plucking a white rose. Relatively safe. “Gathering bouquets is one of my favorite tasks. Not only do they make a room more cheerful, but the aromas sweeten any space.”
“Indeed.” His voice brewed low, nearer. “And what does the white rose signify?”
Her breaths grew shallower. She cleared her throat and then almost whimpered. Love, also. But she sifted through her mind for a safer meaning. “Loyalty, actually.” How on earth were the plants even conspiring against her?
“Loyalty?” At this, he’d drawn too near, his presence entirely too much. Oh, why was he torturing her so? Hadn’t Miss Clayton supplied ample distraction? Or Miss Thompson, for heaven’s sake?
To keep from turning toward him, Emme reached for another bloom without looking, but instead of a chrysanthemum, her fingers closed around a sprig of nettles.
“Ah!” She snatched her hand back and dropped her shears altogether.
“Nettles?” Simon’s concern gave way to a wry grin, his brow arching. “What subtle message were you hoping to convey with those?”
Cradling her stung fingers, she glared weakly at him. “Perhaps ‘keep your distance’ would suffice.”
“Ah, but I’ve never been one to heed instruction well either.” His voice swooped low, reverberating somewhere inside her—the teasing look in his eyes disarming her entirely. In fact, she hadn’t realized he’d taken her hand until she saw him lifting her fingers for inspection.
They hadn’t been this close since the balcony—or perhaps his veranda at Ravenscross. And they certainly hadn’t been this close since she realized just how much she’d never stopped caring for him. How bothersome feelings were—especially right now, when her body wanted one thing, and her mind—bless it—proved entirely useless at forming a coherent thought, let alone mounting a defense.
Clearly, her sense was no match for a pair of familiar blue eyes, a velvety voice, and the gentleness of his touch. He studied her fingers with care, his brow furrowing as if this small injury were of the gravest importance. Then, without breaking eye contact, and with an infuriatingly tender slowness, he brought her wounded fingers to his mouth, brushing a feather-light kiss over the reddened area.
Sweltering heat rushed to her hairline, her heart stopped, and the world shrank to this—the press of his lips to her skin, the look in his eyes, and the brush of his breath over her wrist.
And she knew that as long as he was anywhere near, there was no escaping him.
Or this overpowering love she had for him.
“Blast it, Emme,” he whispered, her name slipping past his lips like a plea. His gaze traveled over her face with a look so endearing, she stopped breathing altogether. “Why did you have to wear those ridiculous spectacles?”
A helpless laugh bubbled from her lips, barely a sound. He’d always weakened in some mysterious way when she’d worn her spectacles. Distracting, he’d called them, which, in truth, had caused her to wear them all the more.
Her free hand reached for his chest, an instinctive move to steady herself, but the quick rise and fall beneath her palm only drew her nearer. His unoccupied hand slid gently to her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin in a way that unraveled her. How curious it was to love and loathe the effect someone could have on her in equal measure. It never made sense, but at that moment, logic was clearly irrelevant.
