Chapter 5 #3
“Ah.” She raised her chin. “Are you a praying man now? I’ve heard it’s a sign of wisdom.”
“Or exasperation.”
She offered her sweetest—and falsest—smile. “Well, I suppose God uses everything.”
His lips twitched as if to smile but flattened into a frown. “Why are you here?”
“Same as you, it seems. Fleeing unwanted company.” His musky scent invaded all the air around her, so she tried to breathe
through her mouth. “Though I’d wager your admirers are more persistent.”
As if to confirm her words, the door opened, spilling a burst of laughter into the room. Emme covered her mouth with her hand
and edged deeper into the curtains.
“He’s not here,” a shrill voice declared.
“Mr. Thompson,” came another female response. “You promised we’d find Lord Ravenscross in the library.”
Emme raised a brow at Simon, who grimaced.
“I thought for certain he walked this way” came Mr. Thompson’s smooth reply.
“Caroline has already had a chance to dance with him, but I’ve not, and don’t you think I’m the prettiest of the three of
us?”
“The Levering triplets?” Emme mouthed.
Simon’s glare may have felled a lesser woman.
Or a woman who knew him less.
The internal admission hinged on her thoughts for only a second before she dismissed it. She must simply feel sorry for him,
that was all.
The triplets—well, except Caroline—were known as the loudest and crudest young ladies of the town. Not even their vast dowries
thus far had won them matrimony after two seasons.
“I’m determined to win him.” This from . . . Frances? “Conquering a rake has long been a goal of mine.”
Emme lost all control of her grin then.
He sent her a warning look.
“Not if I win him first,” Margaret answered.
“Any man would be honored to have such fine ladies as prospective wives.” Mr. Thompson’s voice took on the weight of his arrogance.
“If I were still a single man, I can’t imagine doing any better.”
Emme cringed at the very idea of the sixty-year-old man flirting with these young ladies. Preposterous.
“We should search the gardens,” one of the ladies said, with the others giving their hearty agreement. And within the next
moment, the door closed.
Emme’s chuckle shuddered free into the quiet, leaving nothing but the yawning silence behind to sober her. Simon shifted behind
her, rustling the curtains as he moved to give her a bit of space.
The silence crackled with memories, unspoken words, and myriad questions. But rather than succumb to them, she chose a safer
topic.
“If you’re going to select among the triplets, I’d recommend Caroline,” Emme whispered, careful not to look his way. “She’s
the least insufferable.”
He growled under his breath.
Her lips crooked a little. “Imagine Ravenscross filled with that laughter all day long.”
“I thought I saw you enjoying Mr. Potter’s company earlier,” he countered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Am I to congratulate you on an impending match with the charming octogenarian?”
“Certainly not!” Emme turned toward him then, just so he could see her annoyance. “Marriage is usually between two people,
so there is no room for anyone else except Mr. Potter and his eternal devotion to his dead wife.”
His lips quirked, the faintest flicker of amusement that she resolutely ignored.
“And who are you avoiding tonight, if not Mr. Potter? Mr. Marshall again?” He studied her with those blue eyes of his. “Mr.
Armstrong, perhaps?”
Emme folded her arms across her chest. “You seem remarkably well informed about my associations.”
“As I said, I’ve been attempting to avoid you to keep any possible rumors from starting.” He looked away, his jaw tightening.
“Not that it would matter, should someone find us now—”
The creak of the door interrupted him. Instinctively, they pressed deeper into the curtains. Emme’s shoulder brushed up against
his chest, her foot colliding with his. Soundlessly, he steadied her with a palm to her waist, and her breath hitched, betraying
her.
She froze.
Simon’s arm tightened for a fleeting moment, as if to reassure her, before he eased them both farther into the folds of fabric.
The quiet click of footsteps sounded across the wooden floors, nearing their hiding spot. Simon’s chest moved with his breaths
against Emme’s back, soundless, the rhythm easy, in complete contrast to her clutched air.
The footsteps paused.
“Mr. Rushing!” came Aunt Bean’s familiar voice. “Ah, there you are! I’m certain my niece is elsewhere. Thomas thinks she may
be enjoying a glass of lemonade.”
Emme stiffened, her breath shallow as though Mr. Rushing might hear her through the curtain. A shiver coursed through her at the thought, and Simon’s arm briefly tightened again, this time almost protectively. For an unguarded moment, she leaned back into his hold.
The footsteps retreated, and the door closed with a soft thud, leaving silence in its wake.
Neither of them moved.
Or spoke.
The tension in the air swelled to a nearly unbearable level, the unspoken questions between them louder than the music drifting
from the ballroom. They were too close, and yet she had to fight the urge to turn to see his face. What was he thinking? Feeling?
Surely, a rake would have taken advantage of his position at this point.
She drew in a deep breath. “Why didn’t you write to me?”
His body stiffened against hers, his response slow in coming. “I . . . I didn’t know what to say. Everything changed overnight.”
That wasn’t the answer of a rake. She turned to look up at him, her body much too close to his as they stood encapsulated
by the curtains. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand? That I didn’t care enough to try and understand?”
He looked away, but not before she saw an expression in those eyes of . . . pain?
“And so you ran away in your grief to live a profligate life in Scotland or America or wherever?” She searched his profile,
her stomach squeezing from the need to know the truth. “Or was it something else, Simon?”
His gaze fell to hers, a flicker of raw emotion warring across his features, before his entire expression hardened. “Your
notions are quite romantic, even for a romantic sort of man.”
The chill in his tone struck her, and she stepped back, arms folding defensively.
“But you’re right, Miss Lockhart,” he continued, his words clipped, his cold gaze unswerving. “I’m sorry to state the facts so bluntly, but you seem determined to hear the truth.”
Perhaps she wasn’t as determined as she thought. She took another step away.
“There are other ladies who took precedence over you and will continue to do so.”
The words sliced through her chest. She squeezed her arms tighter, refusing to bend, to wince. Something in his eyes, in his
struggle, resurrected every doubt she’d been concocting. She would not allow him such ambiguity in his answer, even if it
ripped open her healing heart.
“Which ladies?”
He blinked, clearly not expecting her directness. She internally apologized to Aunt Bean. This time he moved away from her, reaching for the curtain’s edge.
“Have you suddenly lost your desire for directness, Lord Ravenscross?” She pushed more force into her whisper, refusing to
back down. “Which ladies?”
He looked away from her face again, almost as if collecting himself, and then returned his cold stare. “Let it alone, Miss
Lockhart. Believe the rumors. It will be better for both of us if you do.”
He hesitated for the briefest moment, as though tethered by some invisible force. Then, barely above a whisper, he added,
“Let it all alone.”
And with that, he pushed through the curtain, his footsteps following the pattern and direction of Mr. Rushing out the door.
Emme braced her hand against the wall, lowering her body to sit in the small window seat within her hiding spot. The murmur
of distant voices and music seeped into the room, but she barely registered them.
“Let it alone,” he’d said. Emme pressed her palm against her chest and stood. Oh no. His avoidance only fueled her doubt. He’d called out the rumors too. Not giving them the validity of truth. Why? It might
break her heart all over again, but letting it alone was the last thing she planned to do.