Chapter 12
“What?”
Both Thomas and Simon jerked their heads toward Emme, staring at her in unison.
And her resolve floundered entirely.
Of course the very barriers that had caused her to second-guess their fledgling connection two seasons ago were now even more
insurmountable. A newly titled viscount, laden with debt, did not marry a woman of middling fortune and modest social standing—especially
not one who scandalized society by writing shocking novels under a pseudonym. A viscount needed wealth, position, and an impeccable
reputation.
It was how the world worked. She’d accepted that.
Her body sagged with a sigh. Until Simon had swept into her life and made her believe in more.
She nearly laughed aloud. Thomas was right; she wasn’t living in one of her stories. She should have held fast to her resolve
not to meddle, to avoid Simon Reeves at all costs.
Then she’d seen Simon’s reluctant gratitude, and she’d caught sight of Charlotte peeking shyly from behind a shelf at the
back of the room—a much more experienced eavesdropper than Emme had ever been—and she realized something simple yet undeniable:
She was uniquely positioned to help Simon secure a “suitable” happiness for his future.
But as the two men stared back at her, both wide-eyed and slack-jawed, she warred between backing out of the plan or forging ahead into the madness of it. One look into Charlotte Reeves’s large round eyes secured the decision for her.
She had to help him.
No, them.
“I am in a unique position to offer my assistance,” she said firmly, summoning confidence she didn’t wholly feel. “I know
most of the ladies of the ton and have the freedom to converse with them in ways gentlemen cannot.”
“Emme, we never discussed you offering to—”
“For example,” she said, ignoring Thomas entirely, fixing her gaze on Simon. There was no turning back now. “Miss Lanard,
whom you danced with at the Ruthton ball, is the very picture of poise in the ballroom. However, she’s an inveterate gossip
in private, a trait that would bring untold misery to your household.”
“Emme, this is not your—”
“And Miss Pool,” she pressed on, “is generous with compliments in public and makes conspicuous visits to the sick, but she
treats her servants abominably and the poor even worse when there is no one to witness her ‘charity.’ Did you know that?”
Thomas sighed audibly, but Emme refused to be deterred. She held Simon’s gaze, searching for a flicker of understanding. He
stared at her as if she had grown horns from her head.
Sadly, it wasn’t the first time he’d looked at her that way.
“I don’t presume to know you . . . intimately,” she added, clearing her throat. That kiss lingered in her mind, undermining
the statement’s veracity. “But I do understand your situation better than most, and”—her voice softened, her heart panging
for the lost man before her—“I know more of your character than you might suspect.”
His attention flickered to hers and then held.
“I cannot say it is the most prudent conclusion, Miss Lockhart.” His tone was neutral, his expression impassive.
But his eyes—they betrayed something deeper, an unspoken connection that surged through her like a silent plea for what neither of them could give.
So, she told herself, she would channel her emotions into a safer, more acceptable direction.
Friendship. Nothing more.
It would have to suffice.
Her newest heroine—a woman separated from her beloved by war only to return and find him married to another—would undoubtedly
appreciate the authenticity of such anguish. Research, indeed.
Authentic research, indeed.
She was mad.
“It’s a simple start, really.” She stood, backing away from him to give her emotions some distance. “In fact, if you’ll note
from this short list, my first suggestion is Miss Eliza Clayton.” She pulled a piece of paper from her reticule. “She’s well
bred, has a respectable dowry, and she’s perfectly amiable. I would even suggest you invite her to the theater this Thursday.”
Another puff of exasperated air came from Thomas at her left.
Simon’s mouth dropped open as he stood. “You’ve . . . drafted a list?”
“Of course. You haven’t much time.”
“Emme, have you gone mad?” Thomas stepped forward, between her and Simon. “What are you doing?”
She stiffened her resolve and met his incredulity with a steady gaze. “Not mad,” she said, willing her expression to reflect
her sincerity. “Just . . . sensible. And good.” Sidestepping Thomas, she placed the envelope in the gift basket she’d brought.
“Speaking of sensibility,” she added with a bright smile, “I’ve included some light reading for you in the basket.”
“Apart from the list, I presume?”
Ah, Simon had found his voice again. She much preferred this version of him to the one gaping at her as though she’d lost all reason.
“Indeed. To broaden your appreciation for novels. You may find it hits rather close to the mark of reality.” Reaching into the folds of the basket, she withdrew a copy of Sense and Sensibility.
Before she could present it with dramatic flourish, the door slammed open, and Sophia Reeves charged in.
Today the girl wore a little red dress instead of the blue one from the other day, though the mud splattered across it remained
a consistent feature.
“Blast! Come back here.”
Sure enough, a frog darted through the door and hopped at a desperate speed toward the shadows beneath the couch.
Everyone froze except Charlotte, who began to rise slowly from her hiding spot.
“Blast-It-All!” came another frustrated cry as Sophia dashed forward, heedless of the adults in the room, her hair as wild
as her pursuit.
William appeared next, stumbling into the doorway, clearly giving chase. He stopped when he noticed the audience and retreated
into the shadows of the hall.
The chaos of the moment only solidified Emme’s decision. This family needed help—whether Simon asked for it or not.
“Sophia!” Simon stepped forward and scooped the girl into his arms. “A lady doesn’t use such language.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows arched nearly to her curls. Emme pinched her lips against a smile, while Thomas’s gaze flicked from Sophia
to Simon to the frog, now hidden beneath a bookshelf.
“But you use the word all the time,” Charlotte piped up, her voice ringing out with all the clarity of an accusation.
Every eye shifted to her.
“Have you been hiding back there this entire time?” Simon’s tone was part exasperation, part disbelief as he strode toward
his sister, still holding Sophia.
Fia sent a toothless smile over her brother’s shoulder toward Emme. “I caught a snake today, Miss Emme.”
Emme’s face cooled several degrees. “Oh!”
“He got away before I could keep him, so you won’t be able to hold him.”
Thank heavens.
“I thought Aunt Agatha was watching after you.” Simon scanned the room, finally setting his attention on Charlotte, who took
a few steps back. “What did you do to Aunt Agatha?”
“Nothing.” She shook her wild curls. “She fell asleep while reading Little Red Riding Hood to us, so we left her undisturbed.”
“She doesn’t do the voices like you do, Simon,” Fia added with a pout, leaning close to her brother’s face. Something in Simon’s
expression softened, and Emme’s heart puddled entirely.
That vision nearly overruled the pond scene.
Nearly.
“She was a horrid wolf,” Fia continued. “Will does a much better wolf—he even bares his teeth.” She made a face showing what
little teeth she possessed, supposedly in imitation of her brother.
From the doorway, William’s serious expression broke into a rare grin, evidently pleased with this accolade.
Emme’s heart squeezed further. These children might be untamed, but their affection for each other was undeniable. If her
sister and brother had been in such dire circumstances, she would have wanted a good friend to step in—even with something
as unconventional as matchmaking.
“It seems Miss Lane cannot arrive fast enough,” Thomas muttered, earning a sharp look from Simon. He shrugged regretfully,
waving vaguely at the room as if to say case in point.
“Blast, Simon!” Fia suddenly grabbed her brother’s face with both hands, her urgency palpable. “We must find him before he’s
squished.”
“Who?” The poor man blinked, utterly at sea.
“Blast.”
“Fia, I already told you, you cannot use such lan—”
“It’s the frog,” Emme interjected, stepping forward to spare him further confusion, though her smile threatened to escape.
She extended a hand to Fia, who squirmed free from Simon’s grasp. “The frog’s name is Blast,” Emme explained, fixing Simon
with a look of mock matronly disapproval. “Since it appears to be one of your preferred expressions.”
He opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but no sound emerged. Seizing the opportunity, Emme led Fia to the bookshelf. After
some coaxing and an unladylike amount of kneeling, she succeeded in retrieving the errant amphibian.
Fia beamed, holding Blast far more carefully this time. Smart girl.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Charlotte’s hopeful inquiry broke the moment, earning a cough from Simon.
The look on the girl’s face nearly swayed Emme, but good sense prevailed. “I’m afraid not, but I would like to invite you
and Fia to join me at the Sutherlands’ strawberry patches tomorrow—if your brother allows it. My sister and I have been invited,
and I’m sure they’d welcome more hands to ensure their fine produce doesn’t go to waste.”
“Strawberries?” Fia exclaimed, clutching the frog with renewed excitement. “Blast loves strawberries!”
Doubtful, but Emme smiled anyway.
“Do you mean it?” Charlotte’s voice came quick, her gaze darting between Emme and Simon. “Truly?”
Before Emme could reply, she caught sight of William lingering in the doorway, edging closer. “William is welcome to come
as well,” she offered. “We shall need a strong lad to help carry the baskets.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, but then he drew a deep breath, the corners of his mouth twitching as if to suppress