Sense and suitability, p.29
Sense and Suitability, page 29
“I understand and I’ve weighed those choices.” He stepped with her toward the door, wavering on asking the next question, but he had to confirm. “And your allowance?”
She stopped and turned back to him. “You’ve chosen a governess and evidently a bride.” She peaked a brow. “As long as you remain free of scandal, then you will have it. Good night, Simon.”
Her words, though reluctantly spoken, carried the weight of her blessing. With a soft nod, she stepped into the hallway and the door closed behind her with a quiet finality.
Simon stood there for a moment, taking in the unexpected turn of events. The door had barely clicked shut when he stumbled back into his office, his breath escaping in a soft laugh. Then he collapsed back into his desk chair and raised his gaze to the heavens, his heart full, his hopes even fuller.
Tomorrow night at the ball, no matter what it took, he was going to ask Emmeline Lockhart to be his bride.
Chapter 21
Clearly, possible scandal was not enough to deter some men from their unwanted pursuit.
Emmeline’s shoulders stiffened at the thought of Mr. Rushing.
He was relentless.
And unnerving.
And completely dismissive of her disinterest.
She had managed to avoid dancing with him for the first half hour of the ball, even going so far as to accept the offer of the septuagenarian widower, Mr. Roth, who’d mistaken her attempt to hide behind him as a subtle request for a partner. The smile on his face had been her reward, and despite the social faux pas in the elegant Assembly Room, she couldn’t truly regret it. The elderly gentleman may have been several decades her senior, but he was nimble on his feet, and his attentions kept her safely on the opposite side of the ballroom from Mr. Rushing.
The latter had already secured one unpleasant dance, gripping her far too tightly. Each word he slurred was laced with whiskey, and he made certain to lean in so close that Emme felt as though she were being swallowed whole by the overpowering scent of alcohol. She had no idea what the dance must have looked like from an observer’s perspective, but she’d leaned back so far at one point, she thought she’d almost gone horizontal.
Oh, if only Thomas were here to rescue her! He had come to her aid at two previous balls, but he’d been called away to visit a sick family. Most of her other dance partners had already been claimed, and she could hardly blame them.
And Mr. Marshall, who had clearly heard of her intent to refuse an offer from him, had only regarded her with glares from the opposite side of the room, which meant he would not be a possible partner to escape Mr. Rushing.
She sighed, resolutely avoiding Mr. Rushing’s gaze. At least this would be her last ball in St. Groves for a while. In her absence, she hoped he would find someone else to unnerve. Most likely at this point in her third season, he thought her desperate enough to succumb to his . . . charms.
She hoped never to be that desperate.
But where to hide now? She glanced around the ballroom for any route of escape. The lights flickered in the grand chandeliers above, casting a glow over the swirling couples, but her focus was locked on the man moving toward her with single-minded fervor. Perhaps finally, she’d found a perfect time for a solid faint.
Her pulse quickened as he closed the distance. She scanned the area around her, looking for a soft spot to land should she decide to take such drastic action.
Mr. Rushing’s grin twisted with ruthless interest, the glimmer in his eyes promising the verbal battle ahead.
Before she could summon an excuse—or muster the courage to swoon—a dark figure stepped in, cutting through her view of Mr. Rushing. The air around her shifted, warmed by the sweet leather and fresh cologne that heralded only one man.
Simon.
He looked maddeningly handsome, dressed to perfection in a black tailcoat and matching trousers, with a dark blue waistcoat that almost matched his eyes. But what truly disarmed her was the way he looked at her—not with the gawk of Mr. Marshall, nor with predatory intent, like Mr. Rushing—but with something infinitely more dangerous. Tender, warm, and so full of unspoken emotion that she dared not meet his gaze for too long, lest fainting become a genuine possibility.
“Miss Lockhart.” His voice was low as it wrapped around her name like a caress. “I believe you promised me this next dance.” Simon smoothly extended his hand as he cast a cool, dismissive glance at Mr. Rushing.
And, as if her body and mind took a sudden disconnect from each other, she placed her gloved hand in his. The man truly shouldn’t hold such power over her mental faculties.
But something in his demeanor, in the secure way he drew her onto the dance floor into one of the triple minor sets, proclaimed a confidence she’d not seen since . . . her face grew cold.
Since when she’d thought their futures aligned.
But not now! Dancing with him could only invite gossip, and gossip could ruin everything for him.
What was he thinking?
“What are you doing?” she whispered as they took their positions, grateful they were the third pair in the set, affording them a measure of privacy. “This is not a good idea, Lord Ravenscross.”
“Saving a lady from that walking cask of brandy is always an excellent idea.” The teasing quirk of his lips failed to match the man she’d spoken with in the street only a few days earlier.
It fit the man in the garden, though. Too rash. Too unguarded for his own good.
Had he lost his senses again?
And she wasn’t certain whether to very unfashionably run from the room or reprimand him for being so unguarded. Well, since it would cause a greater scene to leave the dance floor, she acquiesced to the moment. Perhaps this could be her goodbye—a memory to carry with her as their paths inevitably diverged.
“You’ve taken to heroics this evening, then?”
“Heroics?” Their turn came, drawing them into the steps, away from each other for only a moment and then back together, his gaze finding hers at every turn. “Oh yes. I have my sights set on being a hero, Miss Lockhart.”
His palm warmed her waist through the fabric of her gown. No other dance of the evening had her responding in such a breathless way, no matter how intricate the footwork. “And is there a reason for this sudden devotion to gallantry, my lord?”
The strong muscles of his arms tensed at her back as he steered her through the steps, their bodies closer. Kissing-close with just the right angle.
What a thought! Her cheeks heated. And yet, her attention dropped to his lips as if to ascertain the exact trajectory.
Have mercy! Perhaps she should leave the room straightaway! She stumbled a moment, barely noticeable, but Simon noticed.
“I’ve finally gotten the proper perspective, Miss Lockhart. And I must say, it’s been difficult to put my transformation on display for you because you’ve been in such high demand tonight.”
“Hardly,” she countered, averting her gaze from the intensity in his eyes. What was he doing? He seemed almost . . . giddy. “One persistent suitor is scarcely a testament to my popularity.”
“A persistent suitor?” His lips twitched up on one corner as they drew close again. “I suppose then that you could say the same for me.”
“You?” She nearly missed her next step. What did he mean? He was certainly no Mr. Rushing. The heat in her cheeks clearly attested to that fact. “Except, unlike Mr. Rushing, you would not risk propriety in front of an entire ballroom.”
His grip tightened subtly, almost as though he were pulling her just a fraction closer, his eyes darkening with something unspoken. “Perhaps I’ve grown reckless.”
Her breath hitched. There was something in his tone—something simmering beneath the surface. She could feel the warmth of his body acutely now, the rhythm of their movements a magnetizing force with every step.
“Or perhaps,” she ventured, her voice barely audible, “you’ve forgotten what’s at stake.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Miss Lockhart. If anything, I’ve realized what truly matters.” His gaze trailed over her face as though committing every detail to memory. “Or rather, who.”
Her heart trembled at the intimacy of his words. For a fleeting moment, she forgot everything—his aunt’s stipulations, their differing social standings, the curious eyes around them. Even the music faded into a distant hum.
What was he saying?
They parted again, allowing the other two pairs a turn as they stared across the short distance between them. His smile faded, replaced by an expression so earnest that it left her more unsettled than ever. Then the dance brought her back to his arms. “I know I hurt you, Emme.”
And as strange as it sounded, the music gave them an intimacy and freedom little else could. Distracting others. Crowding over their conversation so that only they could truly hear each other as the others danced their part. She studied his face, trying to make sense of his behavior. She read his expressions and lips as he continued, “I was lost and afraid. Overwhelmed by responsibilities I hadn’t expected. And I failed. I failed everyone, but most of all, I failed you. I should never have acted on my feelings in your garden without being able to offer you a future. Forgive me.”
Their turn came to an end again, and she hesitated to follow the dance rules, her mind reeling. He stood only a short distance across from her, dancers framing them on either side, but only his eyes communicated with her, inspiring a hope she didn’t fully understand. Finally, with a quick step and a touch of hands, they drew near each other again. “I did little to discourage the rumors about my romantic exploits because I thought, in time, they might lessen your regrets.”
What? He’d wanted her to hate him in order to protect her? What an idiot! She fixed him with a glare. “So you thought turning yourself into a rake would help me?”
“I’ve been a fool in many parts of my life, Emme.” Simon’s voice dropped as his hand steadied her through the allemande turn, his gaze never leaving hers. “But this reluctant, misguided, cowardly fool has never stopped loving you.” He was so close that his breath fanned lightly against her cheek. “You alone have always held my heart.”
Every word fled her. Breath evaporated from her lungs. She would have stopped entirely if his hands hadn’t guided her seamlessly into the next steps. Her emotions splintered—love, frustration, and longing all battled within her. Why was he confessing this now, when they could do nothing about it?
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, let alone your affection,” he said as they danced toward each other again. His words pulled her in as much as his arms did. “But you have shown me nothing but grace, even when I gave you every reason to despise me. You should not have a man who has been so careless with your heart.”
Their movements carried them apart again, and she used the reprieve to gather her thoughts. He gave himself far too little credit. She’d seen a glimpse of his life now, heard the ache of impossibility in his voice. When they came together once more, she met his gaze, her defenses rallied. “You have not been careless, Simon.” Her voice steadied. “Fumbling, perhaps, but I believe you’ve had so many cares that the last thing you’ve been is careless.”
Their turn ended and they took their spots across from each other again, waiting for the other two pairs to have their turn.
But he pressed on, relentless. It was as if he’d been waiting years to speak and not even the distance of a dance and a room filled with ravenous socialites would stop him. “At first, I didn’t think it was possible for you to forgive me or for me to even pursue you.”
At first? Had something changed in his circumstances?
“I didn’t want to hope for it, only to break your heart.”
“Break my heart?” She forced a light laugh, though her voice wavered. “You’ve already done that, Simon, and I survived.”
The words seemed to hit him with the same force she’d felt moments ago. He blinked, then softened his expression into one of such unguarded adoration that she very nearly did swoon. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Strong enough to survive, care for my siblings, and even help me find a bride. Emme . . .”
She’d never heard him cradle her name as he did in that moment, half in plea, half in reverence. With all of his struggles, of which she knew only part, he also carried this affection for her, which he’d beautifully confessed. An affection that held him back.
“I think the real problem is that you’re willing to break your own heart. I see you struggle with what you want to do and what you must do. And that hurts me far more than your leaving me ever could.” Their turn came again, drawing them back together. “Any woman would find a generous-hearted, intelligent, and witty husband in you. Whoever you choose, Simon, if you determine yourself, you can have a happy marriage. And the children will be happy to see you so.”
He completely stopped in the middle of their turn, tightening his hold on her waist. “I want you, Emme.” His gaze burned into hers. “I’ve always wanted you.”
She only stared, barely believing her ears. Or eyes. Or every other sense.
The next couple nearly stumbled into them as they paused mid-step, forcing Simon to resume the dance, but Emme barely understood how her feet worked. Why did he have to make it so hard to leave? She’d determined her heart. She’d accepted it all last night. She’d grieved the loss of him again. And now, to have him express such sweet affections, such passion for her. It was too painful.
But at the next available moment, as she searched for words to say, he continued, “From the first moment you startled me with your wit, I was captivated. You walked into my world with charm, light, and beauty. I went from finding joy in your company to seeking you out—and finally to needing you as if you were the air itself.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“And you loved me as I was,” he said, his tone thick with emotion. “You loved my family. And I will not forfeit a future with you. No matter what I must do or sacrifice, you are the best choice for me.”
She had read about men going mad for love, but Simon had never struck her as the type to lose his senses completely. Yet here he was, defying reason and reality all at once.
“But your family?” It was the only thing that came out of her mouth. A hundred things danced in her head, a hundred objections, but this one emerged first.
“My family”—his lips curved into a smile—“would gain far more from having you in our lives than any wealth could provide.”
Why did there have to be so much space between them? It was barely two feet, but it felt like a mile. She wanted to be close to him to try to understand. After months of attempting to accept a future where he married someone else, was he . . . changing everything?
“Emme, I will not be Willoughby. Not anymore. I will not be ruled by others’ expectations or the fear of financial ruin. Not if I must give you up.” He drew her back into a turn. “But . . . but you must know, it’s not going to be easy. I can only offer you the simplest life for now. But with hard work, solid investments, and time, I know we can move beyond my current menial funds to restore much of what my cousin and father lost. And then I can give you more of the life you not only are used to but deserve.”
He was speaking as if he intended to marry her. Her. The daughter of a country gentleman with a modest two-thousand-pound dowry.
“What . . . what are you saying?” Her breath shook out the question.
“Marry me.” The words burst through his smile. “Marry me, my darling. Allow me to love you freely and openly before the whole world. To care for you. To laugh with you. To grow old together.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Simon . . . we can’t. I won’t destroy your dear family. You’ll come to resent me when life is hard and we are poor. I can’t bear that thought.”
“My family is accustomed to struggling with our finances at this point, but it is unanimous among the entire household that we’d rather have you, with all your sunshine and joy among the walls of Ravenscross, than make sure the carpets are new. Even Aunt Agatha has agreed to maintain the allowance to enable us to marry . . . well, because she likes you. And she knows you and your family bring with them a reputation that can only strengthen Ravenscross.”
The warmth that had been brimming through her chest and into her face suddenly stilled, a painful icy shroud dousing the internal glow. Reputation. Everything hinged on her reputation?
Never had her secret as an authoress shot through her with such searing pain. Right here, right now, she had the prospect of a future with the man she loved. He’d asked her to marry him—the words she’d longed to hear two years ago.
“Simon—”
“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Emmeline Lockhart?”
The music came to a stop, along with her hope. “Simon, I will not . . . I cannot continue this conversation in the middle of a ballroom. It’s . . . there’s too much to say.”
“Yes.” He nodded, looking up to search the room as he linked her arm through his and led her toward the edge of the ballroom. “We need privacy.” His grin flashed wide again, so much joy dancing in those beautiful eyes of his that her heart ached all over again.
Perhaps she didn’t need to tell him about her books. In fact, she could stop writing altogether if it meant being with him. She loved him, as much as ever, and if he was willing to sacrifice the money for her heart, couldn’t she sacrifice her talent for his?
She could still write, for herself and the children. Tell them the stories, couldn’t she?
But how long could she live with the shadow of this secret looming over them in the form of what she’d already published? Even if he shared in the secret, there was no guarantee the truth wouldn’t come out someday—and then . . . what?
He’d have no escape from being linked to her. No way to salvage the damage her profession might do to his name. No, no, no. She’d lost him once by no fault of her own.
