Chapter 4 #2
She braced a hand to the balcony railing, her body suddenly weak from neck to knees. How on earth was she going to survive an entire season with the possibility of seeing Simon Reeves at any moment?
“Bina said you left the ball early without telling her.”
Emme looked up from her place in the window seat, morning light spilling over her open book and scattering across the loose
papers she’d been attempting to write upon. She tucked the pages into the book nearby, her futile attempt at creativity weakened
by her weariness. Most of the house still slept, and she’d hoped for some quiet time to write before the day began in earnest.
But her thoughts betrayed her, stubbornly circling one man who deserved none of her attention.
True, she had managed to jot down a few scandalous lines about a kiss—one inspired all too easily by memory—and readjusted
some of her prose, which in the light of day appeared too harsh on the hero of the story. But she couldn’t seem to write beyond
that moment and the warring emotions it had inspired. Not yet.
“Aunt Bina said it’s good taste to leave a party early rather than late,” she replied, attempting to keep the conversation
light.
“Hmm . . .” Her father stepped closer, the faint scent of damp earth and rosemary clinging to his crinkled clothes after his
morning visit to the garden. “Not as early as last night for you, dear girl. And without discussing it with your aunt?”
Emme flushed, thankful he hadn’t mentioned her leaving without a chaperone. No need to add another social transgression to
the growing list of her failings. “I left a message with Aster that I wasn’t feeling well.”
Father lowered himself to the window seat. “I know your aunt can be trying, but she has good intentions . . . and she knows
far more of society’s puzzling rules than I.”
Emme drew her knees up beneath her, leaning her head against his shoulder. “You know of things that matter far more than matchmaking, Father.”
“If only your mother were here.” His sigh ruffled her hair. “She’d know best how to guide you in these matters—and your heart.”
She shifted to look up at him. “My heart?”
“Aster told me of some of the people who attended last night.” He looked out the window, his lips pinching enough to display
his discomfort. “I may not speak of it, but I know you cared for him.”
Him. Emme stilled against the familiar ache the reference stirred. No need to say his name. Her father knew.
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” She spoke quietly, her words laced with a bitterness she hadn’t entirely banished. “He’s
gone on to find more tempting options—ones who will, no doubt, make him happier in his newfound position.”
Even saying it aloud stung, an old wound reopening.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “But Aster said the man looked rather lost.”
Lost? That’s the look she’d noticed last night too, when her thoughts weren’t split between her anger and his devastating kiss.
She shook off the thought and looked up at her father, eager to change the subject. “What happened to the previous Lord Ravenscross?
I know both he and the current viscount’s father died at sea, but . . . there are other rumors.”
Her father cleared his throat, shifting in discomfort. “It is not polite or helpful to dwell on such matters, Emme.”
“But there has to be more,” she pressed.
She had conjured all sorts of lurid scenarios in her mind after Simon dropped her, some of which had made their way into her novel.
If her father knew even half of what she’d written, he’d be scandalized.
“The sudden deaths of the former viscount and Mr. Reeves, the whispers of ruin they left behind, and then Mrs. Reeves—Simon’s mother—passing not long after.
” She tilted her head, feigning innocence.
“They say she was either murdered or overcome with grief when she learned of her husband’s rumored debts and indiscretions. ”
“Idle gossip,” her father said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Mrs. Reeves was a woman of great dignity and
kindness. Whatever her husband’s failings, it is unseemly to indulge in such speculation. Grief and disappointment may well
have taken their toll, but to suggest foul play is ridiculous.”
And her father knew all too well the jarring responsibility of a single-parent household. She almost quieted her curiosity
at that thought, but the ideas that had been swirling around in her head all night required some answers.
“Then what of Arianna Reeves?” Emme continued. “The rumors about her are far worse.”
Her father’s frown deepened. “What rumors?”
“That she was taken against her will. Or worse, that she met some grim fate—”
“Emme, it doesn’t flatter you or assist in your own healing to indulge in such rubbish.” His steely look curbed any further
questions on that topic. “Speculation is a dangerous sort of guessing game that, many times, ends in hurting people.”
Emme fell silent, her fingers tracing the edge of her book. “But the new viscount,” she ventured after a pause, “with his
travels and liaisons, doesn’t seem as affected by it all.”
Her father gave her a measured look. “You don’t believe that.”
And he was right. If Simon was anything like the man she’d known, he’d care. Deeply.
“I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted. “He reappears in society as though nothing has changed, yet whispers follow
him wherever he goes. And now it seems he’s looking for a wealthy bride.” Voicing the phrase hurt much worse than she’d expected.
“Lord Ravenscross is a young man bearing the weight of a title he never expected to inherit,” her father said quietly. “His circumstances have changed and so have his choices. It is a hard truth, Emme, but one he could not have avoided.”
“And yet he could have said as much,” she countered, her voice betraying the hurt she had worked so hard to conceal. “Instead,
he left me standing on that veranda with nothing but a note and no explanation.”
“Perhaps he thought it kinder to let silence speak for him.”
But wouldn’t the truth have been kinder coming from him instead of some gnawing silence where speculation ran rampant? “Or
he was acting the part of a coward.” She turned away, the sun’s glow from the window almost too bright now. “To disappear
from his troubles and indulge in who knows what across the country. It’s as if I didn’t matter—”
“Emme.” The way Father spoke her name felt like a reprimand. “Many a reputation and, might I say, friendship have been ruined
over unchecked imaginations.” He patted her knee. “Lord Ravenscross’s father was not a good man, but his eldest son doesn’t
suffer from the same reputation. Unchecked in his youth, perhaps, but none of those accounts are recent. The fact he secured
even some of your admiration proves the type of man he truly is at heart. You are a clever girl, even if you do allow some
of those more fanciful novels too much space in your mind at times. You always come around to your logic.” He stood and tapped
his temple. “Think with your head, not your hurt. The world is filled with enough people who parade irrationality as intelligence.”
She pulled her knees up against her chest as her father exited the room. Simon had hurt her, and she’d created a whole host
of horrible reasons just to spite him. She’d even written a novel out of her hurt. A pain squeezed behind her rib cage. Perhaps
she’d spent so much time nursing her own heartache, she hadn’t considered the possible reasons he left her alone that night
on the veranda. But for the first time, a flicker of doubt crept into her certainty about his character . . . his motives.
What had his words been last night?
“I have nothing to offer you, Miss Lockhart.”
She shook her head and slid from the window seat, brushing the thought aside. Regardless of his reasons, Simon Reeves, Viscount
of Ravenscross, was not her future.
He needed wealth, and she had none to give.
And she had no interest in getting her heart broken again.
So until she could get the memory of his kiss out of her mind, she’d simply have to avoid him.
Emme closed her book with a resolute snap. And she was very good at hiding.
Simon hadn’t slept at all.
Which proved advantageous, as it meant he was alert enough to catch Lottie attempting to sneak out at dawn. She claimed she
only wanted a morning ride, but Simon doubted it, given the mischievous curve of her lips.
Lately, he doubted everything.
Saving Ravenscross.
Providing for his siblings.
Finding a bride who wasn’t Emmeline Lockhart.
He drove the hammer into the board with more force than necessary, the reverberation jolting up his arm. The stables were
in dire need of repairs, and though his skills weren’t exceptional, he could at least manage to hammer a nail and replace
a broken fence post.
He exhaled sharply. He had to conquer this affection for Emmeline Lockhart.
Time had done nothing to strip even a hint of his feelings for her.
Last night, he’d entered the ballroom determined to avoid her altogether. He’d even gone so far as to suggest to a few gentlemen that they ought to ask her to dance—anything to keep her occupied and far away from him.
For a time the plan worked. From across the room he tracked her movements like a moth mesmerized by a flame, his resolve weakening
with every glimpse. She glided gracefully in her deep green gown, the fabric catching the candlelight with an ethereal glow.
At times she followed an older lady—her aunt, most likely—who seemed intent on speaking to every person in the room.
He’d kept out of her line of vision, minimized situations that brought him near her.
And then, like a fool, he’d kissed her.
Kissed her.
Tasted forbidden fruit.
He picked up another nail and beat it until the wood splintered.
The one woman he could see himself spending a lifetime with, and she was entirely out of reach. Not only because she didn’t