Chapter 3 #3
“Peculiarities?” Simon’s brow arched as his glare fixed on Ben, who, predictably, remained unfazed.
“Former rogue, tragic history, lonely guardian of your siblings, vast and haunted country house . . .”
Simon’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “Haunted country house?”
Ben shrugged, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Tragic houses must have tragic ghosts, don’t you know, Simon? Everyone else seems
to.”
“And who, pray tell, is haunting my country house this time?” People were exhausting. And he threw Ben squarely into that
lot.
“I believe the latest rumor is that the ghost belongs to your mother.”
Simon ran a palm over his mouth, attempting to relax his ever-tightening jaw. “Well then, if Mother is haunting Ravenscross,
I do wish she would deign to offer some practical advice while she’s at it.”
Ben chuckled. “Ah, but that wouldn’t suit the Gothic narrative, now would it? A brooding viscount with a crumbling estate,
three unruly charges, and a reputation just scandalous enough to make you the toast of the town? Why, Simon, it’s impossible
not to find you utterly fascinating.”
Fascinating, indeed. Simon rolled his gaze skyward. Reality and fiction chronicled two vastly different tales. He was well
aware of his new reputation: “The Raven of Ravenscross,” they called him. Some of the gossip was close to the mark: ruinous
debt, a dilapidated estate, and a viscount whose disposition leaned toward the surly. Other rumors, however, bordered on absurdity.
Haunted houses, murdered mothers, and—most ludicrous of all—that he was some kind of vampire. Simon gave his head a slight
shake. What a bunch of rubbish. “Am I supposed to thank you for that summary of my shortcomings?”
“I live to serve.” Ben bowed with mock humility. “Besides, as Nora put it, one of these prospects should prove savior to Ravenscross,
so what harm could a curated list do?”
Simon sighed, tugging at his cravat. A “savior” for Ravenscross.
Heaven, help me. The very idea of marrying for wealth and convenience, rather than affection, struck far too close to the unhappy union of his parents.
Perhaps that was why he had clung to harmless flirtations and fleeting connections until . . .
His attention flitted to the dance floor, chest tightening at the sight of her. She would not be on the list. No wealth, no status—nothing society deemed suitable for a viscount.
But for him, the man?
A wry laugh escaped before he could stop it. He hadn’t even known he wanted someone like her until she’d come into his life.
Witty, kind, companionable—dare he say, a friend?
Yes, a dear friend. And more. A sliver of longing clawed its way up his throat before he crushed it. You must push her from your mind, Simon. Emme isn’t an option.
It was time to bury any fanciful notions of a match with her. He no longer had the luxury of marrying for himself.
He dragged his focus back to Ben, a deep sigh pulling at his shoulders. “Who would your sister suggest first?”
Ben nearly stumbled in surprise. “Pardon?”
“No doubt you’ve seen the list.” He gestured toward the room. “Which of the ladies do you think I would have the most possibility
of winning with the best financial remuneration?”
“Well, that does cut out the frills, doesn’t it?” Ben drew in a deep breath and surveyed the room with exaggerated deliberation.
“Miss Algerton?” he announced at last, gesturing toward a brunette in pale blue. “Nora’s words, mind you: ‘Tell Simon she’s
well tried—third season, you know.’”
Well tried? Simon’s eyes slipped closed. “How delightful.”
“But between us, though”—Ben leaned in conspiratorially—“I suspect there’s one name on the list you’ll want to avoid.”
“Do I dare ask?”
Ben gestured toward Simon’s jacket, as if referencing the list. “Selena Hemston.”
Simon resisted the urge to retreat outright. “Let me guess. She still believes Ravenscross should be hers?”
“Determined as always, I’d wager.”
“It’s the always bit that keeps me up at night,” Simon countered, stilling a shiver at the thought of the woman. “I’m certain Mr. Hemston
would like nothing better than to have his daughter permanently connected to the land adjacent to his own.”
“He makes no secret of his wish for it, I’m afraid,” Ben admitted. “A title and influence over the extensiveness of Ravenscross through an heir. Just imagine . . .”
Simon’s jaw twitched from sudden tension, and he almost turned and left the ball altogether, but that would succeed at nothing.
If he failed to secure a bride soon, Ravenscross itself might be lost. Would it fall to auction? To Mr. Leo Hemston’s hands?
The thought turned his stomach. Simon would not fail at this.
He couldn’t.
Though Miss Hemston brought a dowry the size of which would restore Ravenscross and care for his siblings, she proved as boorish
and arrogant as her father. Most likely she wished to remake Ravenscross and Simon too.
Six dances and a mounting headache later, Simon wondered if selling Ravenscross to a tradesman might not be preferable. Just
as he sought solace in a drink, a pair of dark brown eyes locked onto his. Her lips curled into a predatory smile, and she
began weaving her way through the crowd like a cat stalking its prey.
Miss Selena Hemston.
“Dash it,” Simon hissed under his breath. He’d thought for certain Selena was still abroad.
Oh, how the past brought claws with it. Long, feminine-looking claws.
He’d made many mistakes in his life, usually involving women or horse racing. But encouraging any acquaintance with her had been the worst. Indulged, determined, without any comprehension of the word no, she took his harmless flirting and massive estate as her personal challenge to gain.
And now? With a title to win? She’d prove intractable.
“Lord Ravenscross.” Selena’s voice, one he’d learned to locate in any crowd in order to avoid her, cut the room like a knife.
He turned, intending to escape, but she intercepted him with envious speed.
“It’s been too long. Two years?” She blocked his forward retreat, thrusting her amply revealed neckline in his direction.
“I thought you may have forgotten about me.”
He inclined his head and averted his eyes. “I believe that would be impossible.”
“I’ve been told I make quite the impression, by you even.” Her fingers wrapped around his arm, nails pinching just a bit as
if to literally make an impression. “You’ve been back two months and not once called upon me. I feared you were avoiding me.”
“I fear that may also be impossible.”
A fire lit in those dark eyes of hers. “You could just make everything easier on both of us and marry me. Clearly, your little
flirtation two seasons ago failed to satisfy, and whatever you’ve been doing since hasn’t led to matrimony.” Her gaze roamed
over him with shameless intent. “It must be a sign.”
“A sign?”
“That we would be a most advantageous match.”
Dropping all pretense of civility, he replied, “Whose advantage?”
Her smile never faltered. “For us all, of course. I conquer you and gain a title, which would be immensely gratifying. My
father gains access to Ravenscross, which he desires. And you, my dear Simon, gain the funds to restore your family’s estate
and live as a gentleman of leisure.” Her brow rose in triumph. “A perfect situation.”
“Conquer me?” He straightened to his full height, heat rising to his neck. “You mean to exact your revenge for a perceived slight years ago?”
“It doesn’t have to be a punishment.” Her smile turned razor sharp. “In fact, it could be delightful—if you would temper that
iron will of yours.” She took a deliberate step closer. “Your father was always rather nasty to my father, and I must admit
to a small bit of Hemston pride in knowing I could secure the old man’s estate as recompense.” Her tone was silk, her brow
arching higher. “I am quite determined, my lord.”
The sheer audacity of her ambition left him momentarily speechless. The very thought of Ravenscross in Hemston hands was an
affront he could not abide. The threat hit his pulse. And as far as his will was concerned, she’d only ensured that it remained
ironclad.
Before he could voice a scathing retort, his name rang out to his right, saving him from further engagement. A lady approached
with a train of companions, their bright eyes alight with purpose. Another called from his left. A third followed suit, her
entourage not far behind, all eager for “a conversation,” “a little more information,” “tell us about your sister . . .”
Simon bit back a groan. He needed escape. Now.
The throng of women surrounded him, asking after his family, his plans, his very existence as though he were some prize bull
at market. As the clamor grew, he spotted salvation—a set of glass doors leading outside, he hoped. And to escape.
Taking advantage of the ladies distracting Selena, Simon ducked into the crowd, but their voices pursued him, with Selena
at the helm. Mr. and Mrs. Craven appeared at his left, calling his name to introduce him to their daughter. Mr. Lund did the
same. He’d never experienced such a quest before, except when in pursuit of a rather muddy Sophia through the garden on a
rainy day with the dogs in chase.
Did becoming the landowner of Ravenscross truly produce such pandemonium?
As if on cue, Ben stepped out of nowhere, garnering the attention of the throng with some redirection at just the right time for Simon to turn the corner of a pillar in the room, duck down behind a nearby plant, and slide out the doors.
Ah! A balcony.
Fresh air. Freedom.
Veering left, he pressed himself into the shadows of the stone wall, another step away from the door. Relief surged—until
he collided with something soft.
Not stone, like the railing he’d expected.
“Oh!” A feminine cry pierced the night.
Simon’s arms instinctively wrapped around the woman to steady her, her precarious balance sending her teetering toward the