Chapter 12 #2
a smile. “You’ve placed me in a difficult position, Miss Lockhart. How can I refuse?”
“Excellent.” She turned to the children’s smiling faces.
“Shall I send my carriage with the children to collect you at your home?” His brows rose, a teasing light in his eyes.
Ah, so he still had a way of steering situations to his advantage. Clever man.
“That would suit perfectly,” she replied, moving toward the door. Beside her, Thomas shook his head, as though still baffled
by her conduct, and . . . perhaps the conduct of the smaller people in the room. She braced herself for a lecture all the
way home.
“And I shall join them,” a voice interrupted from the secondary doorway. Mrs. Thornbury stepped into view, stately in her
unrelieved black, her presence as imposing as ever. “If the invitation extends to me?” One arched brow challenged Emme to
refuse.
Emme forced her best hostess smile. “Of course.”
“It is far more prudent,” Mrs. Thornbury declared, “for the children to have a family chaperone until the governess arrives.”
Emme flicked a glance to Charlotte, wondering if her aunt’s eavesdropping abilities had rubbed off on her niece.
“Quite so,” Simon agreed, his tone studiously neutral. Yet, when his gaze met Emme’s, it lingered for a fraction too long.
Had he been admiring her? The notion was absurd. She brushed it aside, though her face grew warm.
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.
“Very well.” Emme bathed the room in a smile she hoped predicted the future of a glorious outing. “I shall expect to see you
tomorrow.”
“I still can’t believe you offered to help him find a bride,” Aster settled on the couch in the parlor and opened her sketch
pad, sparing Emme a raised-brow look. “Him, of all people, Emme.”
Truly, the idea of helping a man she’d once loved find a bride who wasn’t her was one of the most preposterous schemes she’d ever conceived.
“If you’d stared into the eyes of those children like I did, you’d have understood.” Emme glanced down at her forgotten embroidery,
though her stitches were a disaster—unsurprising, given her thoughts had been anywhere but on her needlework. The last thing
she needed was another lecture on how preposterous the scheme was. Thomas had given her a rather lengthy, sermon-worthy speech
all the way home from Ravenscross. They’d had an understanding, he’d said. She’d diverged from the plan, he’d said.
“Your compassion overrode sound judgment?” Aster didn’t even look up for that reprimand.
“Perhaps.” Her voice barely broke a whisper. “And perhaps I know all too well the life of a motherless child.”
Aster’s gaze shot up, the edge in her expression faltering.
“You know as well as I how difficult it was for us, especially as girls, until Mrs. Lane came to Thistlecroft.”
And the governess had become a motherly surrogate, providing not only structure but also an affection and understanding that
their dear father had struggled to provide, especially in his own grief.
“I’m certain Lord Ravenscross can find his own bride, Emme.”
The sentence pricked at Emme’s conscience. Of course he could. But Emme knew the ladies of St. Groves and could provide practical
guidance. How could she not help Simon choose the best match from his limited options? For him and for those children. Love
could grow in time, couldn’t it? The thought stirred an ache in her chest, but she pushed it aside. What they all needed now
was hope.
Hope for a world that had been turned upside down more than any Gothic novel she’d read recently.
Or written, for that matter.
“His life is in shambles, Aster. He could use a . . . friend to help him.”
“Friend?” Her brow jutted up again. “I saw how his friendship broke your heart. As wholesome as your compassion is, you grieved as thoroughly as any heroine in a novel.”
A line of worry wrinkled her sister’s forehead, and Emme pushed up a smile. “Unlike last time, I go into this choice aware.
This time, I harbor no hope of being with him.”
But Aster’s reference to story shifted Emme’s thoughts and her gaze wandered from the hallway—where Aunt Bean was removing
her shawl in preparation for the morning lessons—to the novel she’d chosen for the afternoon: Pride and Prejudice. She had read it for the first time a few months ago and again last week. Something about its beauty and the vivid authenticity
of its characters captivated her heart far more intimately than any Gothic romance had enchanted her imagination.
These epichoric tales pricked her emotions in ways that left her eager to reread and savor them. When she’d first begun writing,
she believed only mysterious stories or those tinged with the supernatural could enthrall a reader, but novels like this one—and
those by Fanny Burney—had taught her otherwise. Their simple beauty, their exploration of real life, love, danger, and loss,
were rooted in truths more deeply than any fantastical adventure ever could be.
Her attention snagged on the stack of papers peeking from beneath the novel—her newest manuscript—an attempt to emulate these
stories she’d grown to adore.
“Ladies, I must impress upon you the single most important aspect of your success in society,” Aunt Bean declared, sweeping
into the morning room like a galleon under full sail—or at least what Emme presumed a galleon under full sail might look like.
Not that she’d ever seen one.
But she’d written about them.
Several times.
“Your choice of suitor,” Aunt Bean continued, “will dictate not only your future comfort but also your legacy. Therefore, it is imperative that you are both strategic and shrewd. The wrong man could ruin you entirely.”
Aunt Bean ensured the full potency of her stare landed securely on Emme.
Emme needed to break the hypnotizing hold. “Define ‘wrong,’ Aunt.”
Aunt Bean sniffed, as if the very question carried an offensive odor. “Wrong, my dear, is any man without title, wealth, or
influence. And ideally, he should possess all three in abundance. However”—she added another meaningful look at Emme—“as you
have so unfortunately learned from life experience, securing such a man is not as simple as it appears. You may have to settle
for two of the three.”
“Of course,” Emme retorted, ignoring the critique. “For what is love without an estate to house it?”
Aster smothered a laugh behind her hand, her sketchbook angled away just enough to reveal a caricature of Aunt Bean dressed
as a red-coated soldier. How fitting.
“Precisely,” Aunt Bean said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Now, allow me to elucidate the five types of gentlemen you must
avoid at all costs.”
Emme sat back, fully prepared for the performance. Aster turned her sketchbook over entirely. Truly, this production was too
much to miss. And Emme was fully prepared to be slighted by her aunt in at least three of the five “unsuitable gentlemen”
listed.
“The first,” Aunt Bean began, holding up a gloved finger, “is the pauper pretender. He may possess a charming face and a fine
wardrobe, but his pockets are as empty as his promises. You’ll recognize him by his penchant for extravagant flattery and
his reluctance to discuss anything of substance—such as property holdings or income.”
“Ah.” Emme tilted her head in thoughtful pretension. “So we are to ask after his finances in the same breath as the weather?”
“No, of course not.” Aunt Bean’s brows soared upward in indignation. “One must be subtle. You inquire about his family seat
or the state of his tenants. A man with nothing to hide will boast freely. One can learn a great deal about a man while letting
him boast unchecked.”
“Whereas a pauper pretender will feign modesty,” Aster added helpfully, sending Emme a grin.
“Exactly,” Aunt Bean said, pleased for once. “The second type”—she raised another finger—“is the libertine. He is rakish,
untrustworthy, and altogether too appealing. You’ll know him by his devilish smile, his penchant for waltzes, and his tendency
to whisper compliments that are just shy of improper.”
Simon’s teasing smile flashed to mind, heating Emme’s cheeks to the teary point. Oh, heavens, he did wear a rakish smile far
too well, though it had been terribly absent since his return to St. Groves. She desperately needed a distraction and quickly
cleared her throat. “So, any gentleman who waltzes is suspect?”
“Not every waltzer,” Aunt Bean replied impatiently. “But the ones who waltz too well. A proper gentleman is slightly awkward in such
a dance—it shows he hasn’t been practicing excessively.”
But she knew many gentlemen of good rapport who waltzed exceedingly well. Thomas, Aunt Bean’s very son, was at the top of
the list, and he was no libertine.
“The third,” Aunt Bean continued, her tone growing graver, “is the eccentric. He may have means, but his peculiarities will
prove unbearable. Collecting beetles, speaking to plants, or—God forbid—writing poetry.”
“Not poetry, surely!” Emme gasped, looking to her sister for company in the faux horror.
“Is it as dreadful as all that, Aunt?” Aster’s features arranged in an artfully contrived look of concern.
“My dear, it is worse,” Aunt Bean replied with a dramatic sigh. “Only the worst kind of man believes his thoughts worthy of immortalization in verse. Beware of poets, Aster-dear. They are not to be trusted.”
Emme dared not look in her sister’s direction for fear of losing all control of her laugh.
“The fourth,” Aunt Bean continued, oblivious to their amusement, “is the brute. Wealth and title are no excuse for uncouth
behavior. You’ll recognize him by his lack of manners—interrupted conversations, loud laughter, or a tendency to overindulge
at dinner. There is no revulsion as acute as a man who speaks with his mouth full or drinks to the point of delusion.”
Well, Simon didn’t really fit into any of these categories. Of course her heart knew that. She’d forgotten beneath the hurt
of his rejection, but his current predicament paired with the memory of their time together . . . well, perhaps the only two
dangers he posed most of all were to himself and to her vulnerable emotions.
“And the fifth?” Aster’s grin crooked for the game of it all.
Aunt Bean’s expression took a tragic turn, and she placed a palm to her chest like the most dramatic of all thespians. “The
reformer. He is the most dangerous of all.”
Emme shot Aster a look and then turned back to Aunt Bean. “A man who . . . seeks improvement?”
“Precisely,” Aunt Bean declared with a solemn nod, before she jolted back to attention. “These are the gentlemen who fancy
themselves philosophers or philanthropists. They will expect you to share their lofty ideals, dragging you into all manner
of schemes—educating the poor, abolishing taxes, or some other nonsense. Such men make their wives miserable.”
Aster leaned forward, her look of genuine curiosity an automatic warning. “But wouldn’t abolishing taxes and educating the
poor be very good reforms?”
The room fell silent. Aunt Bean froze mid-gesture, her eyes widening in absolute shock.
“Aster!” she cried, as though her niece had just proposed eloping with a footman to open a pie shop in Covent Garden.
“Good reforms? It is not a lady’s place to entertain such radical notions, let alone voice them!
Clearly, my next lesson must address a woman’s proper concerns—running a home, subduing a husband, and extracting critical information regarding local society. ”
Oh, good heavens. Uncle Geoffrey likely died of exhaustion at having such a wife.
“We shall be sure to avoid anyone with ambition or moral integrity,” Emme offered, turning the direction away from Aster’s
outrageous independent thinking.
“See that you do,” Aunt Bean replied, unamused.
Emme decided it was best to end the conversation before Aster’s wit tipped the balance. Rising from her seat, she offered
a placating smile. “Thank you, Aunt. Your lessons are always enlightening.”
“Indeed, almost like . . . poetry to my ears,” Aster added, her tone as sweet as honey. “I feel quite transformed already.”
As Aunt Bean swept from the room, Emme turned to Aster.
“Well, that narrows our options considerably. Perhaps we should take holy vows and live as nuns.”
“Or poets,” Aster said, grinning.