Chapter 9
The shivering in Emme’s body quelled at Simon’s nearness. If his gentle grip on her arms didn’t send a budding warmth through
her middle, then the look in those familiar eyes certainly did. Concern? Tenderness?
Her breath caught as he shifted a step closer, his hands sliding down her arms to pause at her elbows. She rested her palms
against his chest, the heat of his skin beneath his damp shirt seeping into her fingers, igniting another wave of warmth up
her chest and neck.
Oh, how wrong she’d gotten those romantic scenes in her books.
Well, not wrong. But not potent or vibrant enough.
Not like this.
Her fingers twisted involuntarily into the folds of his shirt.
His palms tightened on her arms, and the soft fluttering in her chest intensified to that of a veritable hummingbird.
She didn’t want to like him. Truly, she didn’t. He’d broken her heart. He’d tainted her name. And he’d insulted women and
novels alike.
She didn’t want to feel his lips on hers again, just to see if the second time would prove as delicious and memorable as the
first. And she certainly didn’t want to recall the way he’d emerged from the pond, dark hair curling and shirt clasped to
his skin in a way she felt certain wasn’t appropriate for her very appreciative gaze.
And yet here she was, leaning toward him on the steps of his house, inviting him—encouraging him—to wreak havoc on her heart and reputation all over again.
How had everything unraveled from a simple visit to Mrs. Dean’s house?
“Emme,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, almost pleading. “I need you to understand—”
But she didn’t understand. How could she? How could anyone comprehend why he had left her without a word?
“What is going on here?”
Emme flinched and turned. She’d only met Mrs. Agatha Thornbury twice. Once at the theater and another time during a garden
party. On both occasions, the woman had been stiff but polite, her serious demeanor softened only by the occasional witticism.
Now, however, there was no witticism to soften the severity of her expression or the steel glinting in her eyes.
As if compelled by the same invisible force, Emme stepped back as Simon released his hold on her. Oh, what was she doing?
This was not the way to protect her reputation.
Mrs. Thornbury muttered something too low to catch before turning with a decisive sweep of her black skirts and disappearing
into the house.
Simon cast one look at Emme—apologetic, pained, inscrutable—before sprinting after his aunt.
Oh, what a disaster!
Emme blinked, still trying to sort through the labyrinth of her emotions. After only a slight hesitation, and some encouragement
from a breeze hitting her already cold body, Emme followed.
Simon turned a corner in the hallway up ahead, and Emme moved in the same direction, pausing only long enough to take in the dimly lit hall.
Beyond the alcove, the ceiling soared into a vaulted foyer with a grand staircase to her left and two sets of double doors to her right.
The wood-paneled arches echoed faintly with the sound of voices.
“It is not what you think, Aunt Agatha.” Simon’s voice swelled from the nearby room, a plea in his tone that drew Emme nearer.
“Was there not an unmarried and—so far as I can tell—unaccompanied woman in your arms on the back veranda?” Mrs. Thornbury’s
sharp response echoed back.
“She arrived here entirely by accident.”
“So she is to blame then?”
Emme’s face went colder than it already was.
“No, not at all.” His exhalation took on more volume. “She saw Lottie stealing a few of our neighbor’s chickens and followed
her here.”
Certainly, that bit of knowledge would not endear Emme to Mrs. Thornbury. A gentlewoman would have alerted the authorities,
not ridden on horseback three miles to uncover the mystery.
“Charlotte stole chickens from one of your neighbors?”
Silence.
“She is positively wild, as are all your siblings,” Mrs. Thornbury declared. “My poor sister lacked discipline as a parent,
but in her absence, they have become feral. As, it seems, have you—judging by your current state.” Her voice reeked with disgust.
“Drenched from head to foot, and with an unmarried woman in your house. Have you ruined her?”
“Of course not!” Simon’s protest thundered. “She stumbled on the steps, and I was merely steadying her. Nothing more.”
Nothing more. Emme’s breath stalled. Of course. Why would she expect anything else from him? She was such a fool.
“Her horse spooked and threw her into the back pond,” Simon continued, his tone exasperated. “I dove in to assist her. That
explains our appearance.”
“It is still highly irregular,” Mrs. Thornbury countered. “And had I not arrived when I did, only imagine the impropriety of bringing a single woman into your house. You both chose poorly if you wish to preserve your reputations.”
A flush of heat crept up Emme’s face and neck. Mrs. Thornbury was right. This entire situation could damage not only her reputation
but Simon’s as well. She raised her gaze heavenward in silent apology. Her mother would be mortified.
“Based on my previous visits and your letters, I had seen your attempts to reform your previous reckless ways. I should like
to believe today’s display is not indicative of the direction of your life.”
“Of course not,” came Simon’s quick reply. “I have worked—am working—to redeem Ravenscross’s future, Aunt Agatha. I cannot change the reputation my father left behind, but I am attempting to
rectify the future my cousin seemed destined to destroy. I’ve plans to sell timber from the land, increase profits from wool,
and even reinstate some of the tenant farmers Cousin Rupert carelessly cast out when their rents weren’t enough to cover his
debts. I am not my father or my cousin.”
A chill skittered up Emme’s arms at the barely veiled fury in his voice, the hard-edged determination in his words.
Not his father.
Was he living in the shadow—and at the expense—of his father? His cousin, the previous viscount? And now, was he also the
sole guardian of his siblings?
If only men shared such matters with women instead of leaving them to draw half-truth conclusions in the name of “protecting
their sensibilities,” surely the world would have fewer misunderstandings.
And what exactly had the late Lord Ravenscross done to leave such a blight on the estate? And to drive tenants away? Emme’s
thoughts tangled around the questions, the word tenants snagging in her mind, though she couldn’t quite grasp why.
“You have yet to prove it to me,” Mrs. Thornbury replied crisply. “Especially given the spectacle I encountered between you and this . . . Miss Lockhart upon my arrival.”
“As I said before,” Simon replied, his tone tight, “there is nothing of consequence between Miss Lockhart and me. We are acquaintances—unexpected
ones today—and that is all.”
Nothing of consequence. The words lodged in Emme’s chest, sharp and unyielding. Of course there wasn’t. He’d made that perfectly clear two seasons
ago. Then why, despite her better judgment, did she keep tormenting herself with what-ifs?
Ridiculous heart. Ridiculous man.
“And I would hope,” Simon pressed, his voice low and steady, “that you still have some faith in me. I will do whatever is
necessary to protect the family I still have.”
Emme’s hand flew to her chest at the unguarded steel in his words. The family he still had? What did he mean? This conversation only reinforced how little she truly knew about the Simon she had fallen for two years
ago. About what lay beneath his charm, thoughtfulness, and . . . friendship.
But no—she had seen his protectiveness. He had always been considerate, even during their courtship. And today he had not
hesitated to dive into the pond for her or steady her on the steps. That part of him remained unchanged.
Something wasn’t making sense. Whether that something lay completely between Emme’s ears or not was yet to be discovered.
“I want to believe that, Nephew,” came Mrs. Thornbury’s frosty reply, “which is why I even proposed to help you in the first
place. I want to believe there is some trace of my poor sister in you—a commitment to your position and your family.”
A hush settled, and Emme edged closer to the door.
She caught their reflections in a gilded mirror angled in the corner of the room—Simon, drenched and disheveled, yet somehow still arresting, and Mrs. Thornbury, a vision of impeccable authority in her fine crepe suit and perfectly matched hat.
The woman rivaled Aunt Bean in both presentation and sheer intimidation.
Emme pressed back against the wall, guilt prickling. What are you doing? Eavesdropping, that’s what. Mother would be horrified. Truly, Emme should retreat to the hallway and allow Simon and his aunt the privacy their conversation
deserved, but her booted feet refused to heed her conscience.
“But I am not naive to your past, Simon. No matter your promises of reform, I will not contribute to your father’s failed
legacy.”
“Neither will I,” Simon replied without hesitation.
Emme’s breath hitched. Those words—and the quiet weight behind them—lingered. The rumors of Simon’s troubles had never hinted
at the full scale of his burden. She’d thought of debt as an abstract problem, something solvable through effort and strategy.
But this . . . this seemed near-ruinous. Ravenscross wasn’t just struggling; it was gasping for air. And Simon was clearly
in need of more than clever ideas. He needed help. And money.
Was this what faced him when he learned of his cousin’s and father’s deaths? When he realized his inherited title? No, he
couldn’t have known the full degree of it on that night so long ago. The breadth must have unraveled over months.
Mrs. Thornbury’s stare remained unwavering, her jaw as stubborn as his. “I am not given to fits of blind compassion, but I
am . . . hopeful.” Her words hung in the air, a deliberate challenge. “Hopeful that my faith is not misplaced.”