Chapter 3 #2
“Well, these books by the anonymous lady are laced with real life and humor. They still include the romance you adore but
with, dare I say it, a subtlety of heart?” His smile crooked in an encouraging way. “I believe your wit and clever observation
of the world around you would fit a similar style.”
Write of real life? Emme frowned and looked back at The Heroine in her hands. She readied an argument on her tongue for how uninteresting such a book would be, but then her disagreement
died when she reflected on both Pride and Prejudice and her most recent read, Sense and Sensibility. They’d held her interest but also left her with the most glorious sense of happiness at the end. As if she could step right
into that story, meet the characters, and engage in conversations.
Could she write something so . . . familiar?
“Clearly, your current novels are doing well, but perhaps you could think about broadening your skills. Many ladies of your
acquaintance are more likely to live lives similar to a country gentleman’s daughter than”—he gestured toward her—“your mysterious
Arabella Somersby.”
He referenced the heroine of her latest book and the poor woman’s plight from housemaid to stowaway to captive in a castle before finding her dashing romance on the far side of the sea.
“I’ll think about it.” She raised her book to him, nodding toward the envelope. “And thank you for this. I suppose if I am
to catch a husband, having a new gown or two would meet Aunt Bean’s approval.” And perhaps help Emme stop pairing each of
her current dresses with an event in time associated with Simon. “And Aster would delight in some new things.” She breathed
in the plan, especially if it meant promoting her sister. “She captures the room wherever she goes, even when she doesn’t
want to. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not swept up into a lasting romance long before me.”
Thomas’s hand rested briefly on her arm. “Lord Ravenscross does no credit to his sex, so do not measure yourself by his standards.”
Her throat tightened as she absorbed his words all the way down to her wounded heart. How could she have been so blind? Surely,
not having a mother to guide her had led to some weakness on her part, but she had been such a fool. In fact, she’d written
about such cads in her novels. How had she failed to recognize the signs in real life?
She paused on the thought. Perhaps there was some benefit in writing real life after all. She knew heartbreak. Knew scandal,
unfortunately. Could those elements inspire an engaging story that reflected the loves and losses of a regular life?
“I can’t imagine there being a great deal more marriageable options than last year, Thomas.” She forced lightness into her
tone. “It’s not London.” With the envelope in hand, however, the heaviness of the daunting task lifted a bit more. “But at
least I have options. Marriage isn’t the only path forward, which is always an improvement over feeling desperate.”
“Undeniably.”
“And I’ll play the part for Aunt Bean.”
He grinned. “Though I expect you’ll disappear from every ball as quickly as decorum permits.”
She raised her brows in mock innocence. “A lady is expected certain allowances, cousin-dear.”
“Hmm.” He shook his dark head, his grin growing. “Now you’re taking advantage of being a woman, are you?”
She ignored his sarcasm and stared ahead, a sweet sense of opportunity dangling before her with each book she published. Though
she adored the idea of a family of her own, perhaps marriage wasn’t her only option. Her shoulders pinched at the thought.
But if a man couldn’t accept her as an authoress, would she be willing to give up writing?
If he loved her.
Her jaw tightened. Yes. Only love would induce her to marry.
“If I can use writing to become independent, then I can earn a choice very few women of my station or reputation have.” She
turned to him, drawing in a freeing breath. “I will hold out for love or become an independent and happy spinster. Either
way, I’ll settle for nothing less.”
Lights and music spilled into St. Groves’ illustrious Assembly Rooms, the premier setting for the season’s most sought-after
balls. Simon Reeves paused at the threshold, tugging his cavalier vest into place beneath his tailcoat. Doing so allowed a
few more moments to compose himself before stepping into the fray.
The last ball he’d attended, he’d arrived with the single purpose of proposing.
And she’d looked radiant that evening—utterly spellbinding in her pink gown, her hair a crown of golden curls, and that ever-present
quirk of her lips always ready to deliver a teasing remark at his expense. He almost smiled at the memory, before the low-lying
ache that accompanied every remembrance of Emmeline Lockhart quashed it before its taking root.
He’d wronged her. Treated her poorly. Like a coward.
Left her standing on the veranda waiting for him.
He’d almost made it to the garden, barely a few steps behind her.
Almost voiced his desire to make her his.
But a servant had rushed toward him, delivering news of the shipwreck that had claimed both his cousin’s and his father’s
lives. And he hadn’t known what to do. How to think. What to say.
So he’d written the simplest of notes and left.
Their deaths had not been an uncomplicated tragedy; it had been the unsealing of Pandora’s box. Stories of his father’s misdeeds
surfaced, each more sordid than the last. Debts came crawling out of hidden ledgers, dragging their talons through the estate’s
fragile coffers. One wound after another created more and more distance between his failed proposal and an explanation to
Emme.
Until he didn’t have any heart to confront her at all.
So he’d run away.
He had justified it to himself as the distraction of responsibilities and funerals and a search for Arianna. But he knew the
truth.
He’d been a coward.
Not only of coming face-to-face with Emme, but of embracing the mantle of Viscount of Ravenscross. But time and relentless
hardship had forged in him some semblance of strength and wisdom—perhaps even a bit of courage.
Until now.
Until this moment, standing on the edge of a crowded ballroom, his gaze fixed on the gilded chandelier while his courage threatened
to desert him altogether.
The sound of familiar laughter drew his attention to the dance floor, and the din around him blurred into silence. Emmeline
Lockhart danced with a gentleman Simon didn’t recognize. She wore a confection of deep green, her golden hair spilling from
her coiffure. His breath caught. Had she become more beautiful in the span of nearly two years?
Without thinking, he stepped behind a nearby pillar, shielding himself from view but not from the ability to observe.
That smile—he’d welcomed it into his dreams more times than he could count. Sometimes it felt as though he lived off the hope
it gave him, foolish as the notion might be. She held kindness and strength in her countenance, and so many times he’d needed
both.
Even if only in a dream.
Yet now, she was smiling up at her partner in that same way she had once smiled at him—wholly engaged, her bright gaze sparkling
with unspoken wit.
His eyes closed, shutting out the sight and the ache that accompanied it.
Another loss. Another piece of his shattered world he had no power to reclaim.
“Lord Ravenscross.” Benjamin Northrop appeared through the crowd, his grin as irrepressible as ever. In fact, he looked like
he wanted to laugh, which for some reason tightened Simon’s posture from toe to forehead in defense. “The hunt begins in earnest
now, does it not?”
Simon had the sudden desire to hit his best friend in the chin. “If you’re referring to my search for a wife, Ben, perhaps
we could discuss it without the theatrics?”
“Theatrics?” Ben raised his brows, feigning innocence. “I’d never. I’m merely the messenger tonight.”
Simon didn’t trust the gleam in Ben’s eyes, but it proved a helpful diversion from his attention roving back across the room.
“What message, precisely?”
“Well . . .” Ben’s grin widened. “Since you’ve been away from St. Groves’ society for a while and rather occupied—what with
your heroic efforts to salvage Ravenscross and raise your siblings—my sister has taken it upon herself to assist.”
Simon’s face went cold as his fingers balled into fists at his side, almost teasing him to act out his desire to place a dent in Ben’s grin. Nora Northrop—now Chawley—blew into people’s lives with the purpose of a hurricane. Oh, her intentions were good, but her methods . . . “What have you done?”
“I’ve done nothing.” The man had the effrontery to raise both palms in the air in declaration of his innocence. “But my sister,
as I said”—Ben exaggerated his repetition—“has compiled a list.”
“A list?”
“Indeed.” Ben pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, offering it with all the flourish of a courtier presenting a
royal decree. “Allow me to clarify: This was entirely Nora’s doing. I am but the delivery boy.”
“And yet you’re enjoying this far too much,” Simon muttered as he accepted the paper.
“You wound me, truly.” Ben smirked, palm to his chest with continued theatrics. “In fairness, Nora claims she’s saving you
from wasting time and effort on unsuitable matches. A noble gesture, don’t you think?”
Simon shot him a withering look. “I think meddling is the favorite pastime of women with too much leisure.”
“And my sister is quite at her leisure, so I assure you, she was most thorough. This list”—Ben tapped the paper now tucked
into Simon’s coat—“could rival the naval records for precision.”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what am I to do with this . . . gift?”
“Why, use it, of course!” Ben gestured to the room. “You’re in desperate need of a wife with a dowry that could outshine the
Bank of England. The ladies on Nora’s list meet all requirements: wealth, family connections, and presumably some tolerance
for your peculiarities.”