Chapter 9 #2
“It is not,” Simon replied firmly.
“Hmm . . .” Mrs. Thornbury’s skeptical hum lingered.
With a rustle of skirts, she finally settled into a high-backed chair near the fire.
“If that is the case, then I shall speak plainly. I intend to offer you a monthly allowance. Not a great sum, mind you, but enough to provide remedial support as you continue to improve your situation.”
Simon’s shoulders eased. He took a seat opposite her. “I cannot express my gratitude enough—”
Mrs. Thornbury raised a gloved hand to halt him. “There are three conditions to this arrangement,” she interjected. “The first
is immediate and likely the simplest. You must hire a governess posthaste to create structure for those children.”
A governess? Simon didn’t have one already? Emme’s brow furrowed as she ducked back away from the doorway, her mind racing.
How many siblings was Simon looking after? She’d only met two today, but there was also Miss Arianna Reeves, whose striking
resemblance to Simon was impossible to miss. And Mr. Theodore Reeves, whose reputation for rakish behavior could scarcely
have been worse.
Was the lack of a governess due to cost? The very thought deepened her awareness of Simon’s predicament.
“Of course,” Simon answered. “I shall begin inquiries first thing in the morning.”
“The second stipulation is that you acquire a suitable bride by the end of the season.”
The outlandish declaration pulled Emme back to the door.
“What?”
Emme’s thoughts echoed Simon’s exclamation. Suitable. Her stomach dropped. Suitable for whom? And by what standards?
Surely Mrs. Thornbury must mean a woman with wealth and status, possibly even a title.
She pulled herself back away from the door, her frown deepening.
Certainly not an eavesdropping gentleman farmer’s daughter with barely two thousand pounds to her name—and a secret, slightly
scandalous occupation to boot. No, Emmeline Lockhart was anything but suitable.
She stepped away from the room, steadying her resolve with a tip to her chin. Why should the thought of him marrying someone else unsettle her? She’d already grieved the loss of a future with him.
Her chest squeezed at the internal admission.
Besides, she had no desire for an aristocratic life. Or the responsibility of caring for a gaggle of siblings. Or a brooding,
novel-hating, dangerously infuriating, and impossibly handsome man.
Her cheeks warmed. She sighed. No, she was entirely unsuitable.
“Pardon me, miss?”
Emme jumped back, her heart leaping as she turned to find a petite woman with a disapproving gaze and impeccable posture.
A raised brow added silent reprimand to the tableau.
The woman’s plain black dress and white cap marked her as one of the household staff.
“Yes, hello, Mrs. . . .” Emme grasped for the name she’d overheard earlier. “Patterson?”
The other brow lifted, joining the first. “Yes, miss.”
“Miss Lockhart,” Emme provided, keeping her voice low. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Mrs. Patterson inclined her head, though her expression remained cool. “If you’ll follow me, I shall escort you to a more
suitable part of the house.”
Ah, suitable. That word again.
Emme glanced down at her soaking gown, suddenly aware of the clammy fabric clinging to her skin. In her momentary lapse into
eavesdropping, she had completely forgotten her damp discomfort.
Her face heated.
Yet more proof that Emmeline Lockhart needed to keep her romantic entanglements confined to fiction, and certainly not attached
to a viscount. When Simon had been merely a gentleman’s son, she could have fit a little better into his world. Besides, a
second heartbreak at the hands of the only man she’d ever dreamed of marrying was entirely out of the question.
Marry by the end of the season?
Simon stared at his aunt as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Finding a “suitable” bride was daunting enough without a
timeline, but to strangle his choices into a few months? Impossible.
And yet, not entirely impossible.
His thoughts strayed, unbidden, to two seasons ago. He had met Emme Lockhart by sheer chance, and by their second encounter,
he had already considered her as his bride. By the third, he had known it.
She had unraveled everything—his plans, his expectations, his carefully constructed future. Her regard had redirected his
very existence . . . until that future had spun entirely out of his grasp.
“You need funds and stability, Simon,” Aunt Agatha continued, her tone unyielding. “And perhaps some favorable gossip for
a change, which brings me to my final stipulation.”
As if the bride requirement wasn’t vexing enough?
He squared his shoulders, meeting her stare.
“No scandals.”
“What do you—”
“At the first hint of a scandal, I will withdraw my support.” She drew in a breath as she stood, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle
in her gown. “This family has suffered enough disgrace to last a lifetime. If we are to rise above the ruin your father and
cousin left behind, your every step must be unimpeachable.”
Simon’s jaw slacked. Most of the scandals plaguing his life were caused by others, not him. True, he had indulged in the occasional
youthful folly, but he had hardly destroyed estates or eloped in secret. How was he meant to enforce a scandal-free existence?
“I understand you cannot control the actions of others,” Aunt Agatha continued, stepping closer.
Her sharp gaze swept over him from brow to boot.
“But I will be watching yours. Should you follow in your father’s disgrace or your cousin’s extravagance, I will cut all support and seek custody of your younger siblings. ”
The blow landed with the force of a cudgel. “You haven’t the right—”
“I have friends in very high places, Simon.” Her brow arched with imperious finality. “But make no mistake—I take no pleasure
in the prospect of removing your siblings from their home.” Her voice softened, her expression searching his. “Or from you.
However, I will not have the youngest three tainted by association if you waver. We have already seen the effects on Theodore
and Arianna.”
“It wasn’t just Father’s actions,” Simon muttered, his voice low. “When Mother . . .”
The words faltered. Saying them aloud made the truth raw, too visceral. Even now, the memory of his mother’s decline into
grief and apathy choked him. She had faded into a shadow of the vibrant woman she had once been, retreating from life until
nothing remained but absence.
Aunt Agatha’s eyes closed briefly, her own grief at the loss of her sister evident. When she looked at him again, the fire
within her eyes still flared but less brightly. More in line with the woman who had been a presence and help since Mother’s
death. “Precisely why the younger children must be protected. They need examples of fortitude, compassion, and strength.”
Everything within Simon surged to the defense. He was not his father, and he couldn’t have stopped his mother’s decline, no
matter how hard he tried. And he had tried.
Yet his pride yielded to the weight of his responsibility. He had failed to save his mother, failed to shield Arianna from
her own spiral. But he would not let that legacy touch the others. Even if it meant swallowing every barb and binding himself
to a woman he did not love.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to Emme. He saw her as she had been, golden curls tumbling in disarray, her wide eyes searching his own for . . .
He exhaled sharply, as if the thought itself had teeth.
His heart squeezed . . . and then released. “I accept your terms.”
“Very well.” She studied him once again with those perceptive eyes and then extended an envelope to him.
With a careful look to her, he slowly opened it to reveal a note marked with a considerable sum.
“This will support your current endeavors and enable modest improvements to prepare Ravenscross for your new viscountess.”
Whoever she might be.
Aunt Agatha turned toward the door, her posture regal. “More will follow as I see how you manage the first installment.” She
paused on the threshold, slipping off her gloves with brisk efficiency. “My room?”
Simon blinked at the note in his hand, then shook himself free of his thoughts. He followed her into the hall just as Mrs.
Patterson appeared, descending the staircase.
“Mrs. Patterson, would you be so kind as to take Aunt Agatha to her room so that she may prepare for dinner?”
The woman’s genuine smile unfolded, and she curtsied to Aunt Agatha. “Always a pleasure, madam.”
Aunt Agatha had already taken two steps toward the stairs when she turned back, her expression softening—just slightly—with
what could almost be called a smile. “And Simon, do hire at least one footman. It really won’t do for a viscount and his butler
to haul baggage to his own doorstep.” Her shoulder lifted in a delicate shrug. “Though I must admit, the exercise may nurture
humility. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing after all.”
Simon stifled the glare threatening to escape and instead offered her a placid expression. A futile effort, it seemed, for a sound suspiciously like a muffled chuckle followed her as she ascended the stairs.
Beneath Aunt Agatha’s steely exterior, he recognized a deeper purpose. She grieved, like all of them. She wanted to set things
right—just as he did. Her manner may have been unyielding, but her support was steadfast.
Simon looked down at the note in his hand, wishing the money relieved the ache in his heart with as much ease as it did the
hole in his purse.
Choose a bride?
His gaze trailed back up the staircase.
Emmeline waited somewhere within those rooms.
He would have made her his bride on that night so long ago.
But that was before.
He bowed his head, his chest heavy. Despite the fanciful notions spun in Emmeline’s beloved novels, reality often had little
patience for dreams.
Dreams surrendered. Hearts mended.
Eventually.