Chapter 5 #2
what I can?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, it’s a topic far more interesting than the weather, though the food is very
good.”
He gaped, as though she’d just proposed they invade the dance floor with artillery. Emme’s satisfaction at her retort was
short-lived; Aunt Bean’s disapproving glare snuffed it out like a candle in a gale.
She sighed. “I’m sure the gardens at Thornton House are resplendent this time of year.”
And with that, Mr. Marshall launched into a description so detailed that she could nearly smell the primroses. As he droned on with the most effusive praise any collection of flora had ever known, Emme caught sight of a very familiar figure on the far side of the room.
Simon—impossibly handsome in a forest-green velvet cutaway tailcoat and those infernally fashionable trousers—danced with
Miss Amelia Godspey. His confident gait, swath of dark hair, and strong jawline, along with the elegance of his movements,
were simply maddening.
Oh, why did he have to be so handsome? Emme was certain that if he were a little less handsome, he’d prove much easier to
ignore.
She glimpsed Simon twice more—once while enduring a dance with dear old Mr. Trundle, who fancied himself in want of a bride
but would do better with a loyal hound, and again while paired with Mr. George Armstrong, Aunt Bean’s favored suitor of the
evening.
Simon had danced with serpentine Selena Hemston and cheerful Miss Croft. Well, Emme wouldn’t mind Miss Croft so much for the
brooding man. He could do with a bit of sunshine, and Emme’s particular brand of radiance clearly hadn’t suited him.
She frowned at the idea as she took a sip from her glass. If he weren’t so irritatingly captivating, she might have spared
herself the trouble of caring at all.
“You’re being too obvious, Em.”
Emme spun around to find Thomas lounging against the wall near her, looking every bit as polished as most of the other gentlemen
in the room.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” She turned her gaze in any direction but Simon’s.
Thomas drew in a deep breath, casting a glance skyward as if for divine intervention. “I wasn’t here during your first season
to witness firsthand, but if he treated you as you claim, why must you persist in courting him with your eyes?”
“Courting him with my eyes?” Emme’s voice squeaked most unbecomingly, so she lowered it at once. “I am not courting him in any respect, eyes or otherwise.”
Thomas arched a skeptical brow.
A flush crept up her neck. “He did treat me poorly,” she admitted. “But not until the very end. I had every reason to believe
he cared about me before then.”
Thomas studied her, narrowing his eyes as he shifted his attention from her face back across the room. “His reputation as
a flirt precedes your . . . time with him.”
“I know.” She nodded, trying to clench her hurt a little tighter to fight against the growing uncertainty. “And at first,
he seemed every bit the sort, but then . . . well . . .” She shrugged. “He changed. Nothing like what I’d heard.” Saying it
aloud sounded so unconvincing, and she’d nearly gone dotty wondering how she’d misjudged his character so thoroughly, but
after seeing him again . . . after speaking with Father, maybe she’d not been shortsighted after all.
Maybe.
“He became my friend, Thomas.” How to explain? “There was a sincerity in our conversation, an authenticity, to truly show
me who he was, or who I thought he was. And it shifted my affections from a simple flirtation to . . .”
“Hmm.” Thomas tilted his head. “You wrote him as Frank James in The Castle, didn’t you?”
Heat flooded her face, and she glanced away. Writing had been her solace—and her revenge. In the pages of her novel, she’d
poured all the fury and hurt her broken heart could muster.
“There was no redemption for Frank James, Emme.” Thomas squinted, lips tipped. “In fact, I believe he ended up at the bottom
of the English Channel.”
She winced and tossed him a glare. “Frank James didn’t deserve redemption, but that’s fiction.”
“And Simon Reeves?” Thomas asked, his brow as pointed as his tone.
Her lips parted, but no answer came. Instead, she worried her bottom lip, her gaze drifting back across the room. “I don’t
want another chance with him,” she said at last. “I just want the truth.”
“And if the truth still leads you to wish him at the bottom of the English Channel?”
“Thomas!” Emme laughed despite herself. “I’d never truly wish such a thing on anyone. Besides, you, as a clergyman, should
encourage charity and goodwill about this whole thing, should you not?”
His lips quirked and he straightened. “As your cousin, and without an elder brother to protect you, I find my charity . . .
tested.”
Emme’s smile flashed wide. “I wish you’d been here that first season. I could have used your wisdom.”
“Well.” He sighed. “I’m here now and, in the spirit of charity, I shall do a bit of poking about to see what I can learn of
your infamous”—he narrowed his eyes—“Frank James.”
“Frank who?” Aunt Bean sidled up to Emme’s right. “Is he from the James family of Newcastle?”
“No, Mother.” Thomas’s eyes lit with their resident humor. “A fictional rogue, from one of those dreaded novels you abhor.”
“Then why mention him at all?” Her expression puckered like a withered plum. “Someone might overhear and think you read such
drivel. You, a clergyman, of all people.”
“Perish the thought.” He threw Emme a wink.
Aunt Bean ignored him, turning her sharp gaze on Emme. “I was quite pleased to see you dancing with Mr. George Armstrong.
He seemed thoroughly engaged. I do believe my lessons are making their mark.”
Gratefully, Mr. Armstrong was a reader and rider, two things Emme enjoyed discussing with anyone.
And he was a good sort. The cheerful, lapdog type of man who put everyone at ease except for the most introspective or morose.
“Mr. Armstrong is a lifelong acquaintance, Aunt. I should hope I can hold a conversation with him.”
“Well, he’s not in infant’s gowns any longer.” She huffed, sending an appreciative glance across the room as George spoke
with Miss Wilcox. “Eligible, affable, and wise enough to avoid the likes of Miss Gloriana Wilcox.”
Emme exchanged a quick glance with Thomas but held her tongue. Despite being an almost-nonexistent conversationalist, Gloriana
Wilcox was a pleasant enough woman and possessed a far better dowry than Emme’s. Surely Aunt Bean, who valued social astuteness
above all, would approve of her silence.
“She’s placed her beauty spot on the wrong cheek, poor girl.” Aunt Bean raised a brow. “A woman of consequence would know
better.”
Emme closed her open mouth with a little snap and refused to look Thomas’s way for fear of losing complete control of her
laugh, but in facing forward, she made eye contact with the disconcerting Mr. Arthur Rushing.
A chill skated down her spine.
Last season, he had begun to show her attention after what society deemed a suitable mourning period for his third wife. This
season, his intentions were no secret.
He was hunting.
And Emme, unmarried and of respectable lineage, was prey.
From the gleam in his eye as he prowled the ballroom, his interests had not waned since the prior season. Some women called
him a dandy, but Emme could not ignore the arrogance that clung to his every movement. His meticulously tailored attire and
genteel manners only emphasized the hawkish intensity of his gaze, as if assessing not just a potential partner but a prize
to be won.
“Oh, I see you’ve caught the attention of Mr. Rushing.” Aunt Bean hummed her pleasure. “A worthy conquest, Emmeline. He is
wealthy, handsome, and has experience in matrimony.”
“How is being thrice married an advantage?”
Aunt Bean conveniently ignored her. “Oh, look, he’s coming this way.” Her fan tapped Thomas’s arm. “Introduce me, won’t you?
Then I can assess him properly.”
Thomas frowned and shot Emme a look. She responded with an emphatic shake of her head.
“Mother,” Thomas began, taking her by the arm to steer her toward the approaching Mr. Rushing. “Let us not be hasty.” Giving
a gesture with his chin—an unspoken command to flee before Aunt Bean’s plans solidified—he turned his mother’s attention in
the opposite direction.
Emme loved Thomas.
And needed no further encouragement.
The arched doorway leading to a side hall caught her eye. With a knowing glance to her sister, she slipped through the crowd,
pulse hammering in time with her feet. She knew exactly where to go.
The Ruthtons’ library! Its towering shelves and thick drapes had offered refuge on many past occasions.
She entered the dimly lit room and pressed the door closed behind her with the faintest click. The welcome scent of leather
and books offered an immediate calm to her nerves. On the far wall, the flickering fireplace cast shadows over the rows of
books and the empty room, so she allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
Until she heard the approaching voices.
Who were they? Ladies’ voices? Her face cooled. And a gentleman? “Drat!” She hissed, immediately remorseful for using the
word she’d learned from her father.
Pushing off the door, she darted toward the window-covered wall of curtains and flung herself into those thick velvet folds
only to run directly into a very solid form. With a little yelp, she pushed back to find herself face-to-face with Simon Reeves.
“What?” He barked the word in time with her gasp.
“Are you following me?” she whispered fiercely, stepping back but not far enough to leave the curtain’s concealment.
“Following you?” He voiced the question like an oath. “I’ve been trying to avoid you all evening.”
Well, that was incredibly rude. “I’ve been doing the same with you,” she shot back.
“Clearly, we’re both excelling at avoidance.” He ran a hand through his hair and took another step away, the cool air from
around the windows sending a chill over Emme’s warm skin. “God, help me.”