Chapter 6
Emmeline Lockhart was going to drive him mad!
Simon marched from the library, his neck still tense from holding Emme so close without succumbing to his rather rebellious
thoughts.
For all his good intentions, he couldn’t seem to evade the woman. Each meeting tortured him anew with what he could not have—her
scent, her conversation . . . and now the taste of those lips. An evening of uninteresting or completely inappropriate conversations
from the most eligible of St. Groves’ ladies, coupled with a few dodges from less appealing suitors like Selena, had only
made those few minutes sequestered behind a curtain with Emme feel like a dagger to his resolve.
He had to make a better effort at avoiding her, or his thinly held control might snap, and he’d find himself right back on
the balcony, his lips against hers . . .
“Lord Ravenscross?”
God, help me. Who was this approaching? Tall, athletically built, dressed in the latest fashion. Hadn’t this been one of the suitors who
occasionally danced with Emme, one of the few to earn her genuine smile?
Simon braced for the art of pretense.
The man had the most alarming green eyes—unsettlingly so—and his gaze flicked from Simon’s face to over his shoulder, back
toward the library door. “I hadn’t expected to meet you here. I was searching for . . .” His voice trailed off, then he shrugged nonchalantly. “Are you coming from the library, perchance?”
How to respond? Especially with Emme in there alone, and not knowing this man’s intentions. “The Ruthtons boast quite the
collection. Always worth a perusal.”
Vague was best.
The man raised an eyebrow, sending another glance toward the door before focusing back on Simon. “Forgive me. We’ve not been
introduced.” He offered a slight bow. “Thomas Bridges, the new rector of Greenleigh Chapel in Lemmingston.”
Simon paused. He’d just prayed for divine assistance, and here was a clergyman. Odd. Was God listening after all? Simon cast
a look heavenward. He could use some divine intervention to save his family and his estate, and to find a suitable bride.
So far, God had been silent. “I have heard of your arrival. How do you find St. Groves?”
“I’m enjoying the new situation.” His expression eased. “I find I prefer country living to the bustle of the city, and the
quiet of the rectory to the busyness of town.”
Laughter erupted from the hallway leading to the ballroom.
“Quiet, is it?”
Mr. Bridges grinned, and he gestured back with his chin toward the way he’d come. “At the rectory, but I must admit the enthusiasm of . . . welcome, especially from the single ladies, is unmatched here.”
Simon’s eyebrow arched. “Enthusiasm is one way to describe the battlefield of the ballroom. Tedious and infuriating are a
few others.”
“Without a doubt, I can attest to those descriptions as well.” He chuckled. “The . . . vigor at which matrimony is pursued
here”—he appeared to choose his words carefully, the glimmer in his eyes only proving he might choose differently but for
sheer tact—“is truly astounding.”
“I have heard you meet the basic requirements of the ladies.”
Mr. Bridges’ brows rose. “And those are?”
“Male, alive, and able to provide a living?”
“Ah.” Mr. Bridges smoothed his palms down the front of his jacket and nodded. “As the third son, I’ve always been fond of
low expectations, for I am certain to exceed them.”
Simon’s laugh burst out, surprising them both. “Better than the impossible expectations of the firstborn, I assure you. You
will have much freer choice.”
Mr. Bridges’ attention snapped back to Simon, and then he grinned. “I’m in no hurry to be ensnared.” He placed a hand on his
chest as if in pledge. “I apologize. Marriage is a holy affair, meant for the mutual enjoyment of all involved, of course.”
“Spoken like a dedicated clergyman.” Mr. Bridges’ ready wit set him apart from his predecessors, not that Simon had known
a great many of them well enough to fully say.
“And I stand by it, my lord, especially when it proceeds in all the right ways between the right people.” There was a knowing
look in his eyes. “With the mutual respect of both parties’ futures and reputations.”
“Well spoken, again.” Simon’s smile faltered. What was Mr. Bridges hinting at?
“If you enjoy those sentiments, Lord Ravenscross, imagine how compelling my sermons could be.” His steady green gaze didn’t
waver, but his mouth twitched in amusement. “All are welcome, even the most wretched . . . of the aristocracy.”
Simon had expected the sentence to end predictably at “most wretched,” but the twist amused him. Then, catching the look in
Mr. Bridges’ eyes, he swallowed his laughter. Ah, so Mr. Bridges knew the rumors too? Typical man of the cloth to rush to
judgment.
“I’ve not been greatly impressed by your predecessors. They were quick with brimstone rather than mercy, especially for those
who needed it most, including the wretched aristocracy.”
A glimmer lit Mr. Bridges’ eyes. “I haven’t been impressed either, but it means the bar is set low enough for improvement.” A shadow fell over the man’s countenance for a brief moment. “And we all have feet of clay, my lord, rank notwithstanding.”
Simon gave a nod, noting the man with renewed interest. “A soured reputation certainly leaves a great deal of room for improvement.”
“Humbling too, I should think.” The man rallied a crooked smile. “For those clearheaded enough to learn from it.”
A rector who was not only astute and personable but clever too. An interesting addition to Greenleigh. “My mother often said
humility was the best soil for wisdom to take root.”
Mr. Bridges studied him. “A shrewd observation.”
“Learned from trial, I suspect.” The memory sobered him. His mother, who’d lost heart and fortune yet kept her smile for her
children. He’d never treat a woman as his father had. Better never to give his heart at all than to trifle with another’s.
“Most wisdom is, I hear.” Mr. Bridges’ hand rested on his chest, as if the words were personal. What trials had this man faced?
Some secret lingered behind that smile; Simon would bet on it. “I hope you take such advice seriously.”
The man did know something. “I would not claim to be a paragon of virtue, Mr. Bridges. I believe you may be very aware of
that.” He raised an eyebrow, holding the clergyman’s gaze. “But I am certainly wiser now than I was two years ago, through
the very means my mother suggested.”
Mr. Bridges’ eyes narrowed a moment. “Should you be in search of a balm of comfort”—his grin crooked anew—“or wish to critique
my expositional abilities, I hope to see you in church, my lord.” He took a step back. “I have it on high authority,” he said
as he glanced upward, “that church can be a place for those seeking a new direction and fresh start. One must, however, be
humble enough to admit it.”
Simon glanced back, seeing Mr. Bridges look past him toward the library doors again.
Could Mr. Bridges know of Emme’s presence there?
Surely not! Unless he was one of the suitors from whom she hid?
But even in their brief acquaintance, Simon found nothing to fault in Mr. Bridges, who would be a fine match for Emme in wit and reputation.
She deserved more than a dull companion.
And Mr. Bridges carried himself with dignity, another point in his favor for Emme, er, Miss Lockhart.
But surely a rector wouldn’t partake in a secret rendezvous.
“I look forward to the opportunity, Mr. Bridges.”
“Good evening, my lord.” Mr. Bridges bowed and turned back toward the ballroom without another word.
Simon followed at a slower pace, contemplating an escape from the bustle of the ballroom to leave altogether. He paused at
the threshold, the room as grand as any in London, perhaps even grander. And it was packed.
Full of the crème de la crème of the town, down to the lesser gentry.
“She’s on the shelf and we all know it,” a woman’s voice hissed to his right.
A large fern obscured his view but did nothing to muffle the words.
“Except her, of course,” another lady replied, her voice laced with laughter. “With her younger sister married only last spring
and her elder expecting a child soon, it’s clear which daughter is not the favored one of the Hemston family.”
Hemston? Simon raised his attention to the room, his gaze landing on Selena, who stood too close to Mr. Banbury, her lavish
gown accentuating all of her luxurious curves. She came with a sizable dowry and the Hemston name. Surely some desperate buck
would take her, infamous temper and all.
Simon’s shoulders tensed at the thought. Even in dire straits, he wasn’t that desperate. Her temper and emotional volatility were legendary in town, though it couldn’t be easy watching one’s younger sister marry before oneself.
He recalled her challenge.
Her determination.
Could her threat truly have nettles? His own situation was far from enviable. Indeed, he was more vulnerable to losing everything
than he had ever been.
Finances were perilously low.
His family teetered on the brink of anarchy.
And his estate stood on the precipice.
He couldn’t move fast enough with his plans to salvage it.
Except through marriage.
A warning twinged through him, pricking at his pulse. How desperate was she, and how desperate did she think he was? If Hemston
or his daughter was aware of even a fraction of his predicament, could they maneuver him into a marriage or the loss of his
estate?
“Today’s lesson, my dears, is one of utmost importance,” Aunt Bean announced as she seated herself in the drawing room, her
gown spreading around her like a conquering flag.
Emme and Aster exchanged a humored glance. Rather than resist these absurd lessons from Aunt Bean—to no avail—they had agreed
to treat them as the entertainment they’d become. The sunlit room, with its floral wallpaper and cheerful morning light, seemed