Chapter 15 #2
“Ah, the requisite disparity in rank,” Emme said dryly, though she felt the words to her heart.
“Precisely. Aunt Bean, of course, refused his attentions. He eventually turned them toward someone more amenable.”
“Agatha Bennett,” Emme supplied, trying to imagine a younger Mrs. Thornbury. She must have been a great beauty—she still retained
a certain elegance despite her stern demeanor.
“Exactly. Mrs. Thornbury spoke of him with such fondness today. It’s clear she adored him, and from all accounts, the feeling
was mutual. With no children to occupy them, they seemed to have poured their affections entirely into each other. It was
quite moving, really.” Aster’s face softened. “If Captain Thornbury once harbored feelings for Aunt Bean, it only proves love
can happen more than once in a lifetime.”
Emme studied her sister. What had drawn Aster to her room at this hour? Was she trying to comfort her? To remind her that,
despite Simon’s absence from her future, love was not an impossibility with someone else?
“I’m sure it can, though not all novels are inclined to admit it.”
Aster’s gaze drifted to the window, where the moonlight painted the panes in silver. Emme knew that look well—a quiet longing
for something far beyond the edges of St. Groves. Her sister’s dreams often strayed to exotic lands and distant adventures,
not the parlors and polite dances where eligible matches were expected to be made.
She turned back to Emme and took her hand. “There is someone out there for you, Emme. A man who could hold your heart with
the same devotion.”
Ah. So Emme had guessed correctly about her sister’s motives. “And I do hope to find him one day.” She forced a lightness
into her response she did not entirely feel.
For it was true, wasn’t it? Love could happen more than once in a lifetime.
“But there is no doubt in my mind Lord Ravenscross still harbors feelings for you.” Aster leaned forward, her eyes aglow in candlelight. “Yesterday, as he walked you to the door—”
“Aster.” Emme’s face splashed with a sudden warmth. “He is a friend. That is all.” She forced meaning into her stare. “That’s
all it can be. Put those thoughts from your mind for my sake, if not your own.”
Aster sighed and stood from the end of the bed, walking slowly toward the door. “I know we, as women, especially as women
of smaller means, have little choice in making our fortunes match our hearts, but I do wish money didn’t play such a large
factor in everything.” She leaned her head against the spine of the door as she lost her thoughts in a distant look again.
“How I would love to see the world.”
With Father so devoted to his land and still mourning their mother’s loss, Aster’s world had been a small one, apart from
her traveling through books and maps.
Emme offered a gentle smile. “Perhaps you will find a husband who wishes to see the world too.”
One of Aster’s brows tipped northward. “Not from our current options. Not one of them is touched by wanderlust.”
“For this season, but you are not even seventeen. There is still time for you.”
Aster held Emme’s gaze, brow perching high. “There is time for you too, Emme. Twenty does not make you an old maid.” Her frown
deepened, and she added hesitantly, “And . . . perhaps your heart is not so broken that you couldn’t find love with someone
other than Lord Ravenscross.”
Emme’s lips faltered, though she managed a nod. She did not share Marianne Dashwood’s dramatic views on heartbreak, after
all. Too many stories, both fictional and real, offered proof of hope beyond the loss of a first love.
But if love never came her way again?
Her chest squeezed at the thought. Independence would be a fine achievement, certainly. But the idea of a family—a home bustling with life and love—was as dear a dream as her writing.
“Then it seems we both have cause for hope, don’t we?”
Aster tilted her head, her small smile weakening. “Sometimes, don’t you wish life turned out as easily or as beautifully as
it does for women in novels?”
Emme almost revealed her own literary endeavors then and there, but instead she said, “The women in novels must endure a great
many trials before reaching the beautiful part, I think.”
Aster considered this, her gaze turning thoughtful. “I suppose love is worth it, if one can find it.”
Emme took a deep breath, her heart responding with an answer she wanted to be true. “I want to believe, Aster, that love is
always worth it.”
The theater hummed with busy tattle breeders and marriage seekers, who spent more time watching prospective suitors than the
thespians on the stage.
From his box seat, Simon surveyed the bustling crowd and the stage below, the entire room sizzling with the energy of “the
hunt”—whether for gossip, a match, or a possible scandal. There was no want for any, he was sure, and he—his frown deepened—likely
provided a solid amount of the fodder.
Miss Clayton sat at his side, her posture impeccably straight, while her sharp-eyed mother perched like a vigilant sparrow
just behind them, keeping watch.
The younger woman was, as Emmeline had so generously professed, “perfectly amiable.” A compliment that was entirely correct yet entirely uninspiring.
She was, no doubt, a handsome woman—her dark green gown offset her soft brown eyes and matching hair beautifully.
And she conducted herself with unflappable agreeableness.
In fact, her conversation and opinions were so obliging that the dialogue ended within two turns at most.
A desperate man might overlook such things. After all, Miss Clayton brought two thousand pounds a year to a potential marriage,
and he was, by all measures, a desperate man. But desperation did not erase memory, nor did it dull the sting of longing.
He had once tasted the rare delight of a match forged in shared wit, intelligence, and a generous heart. After that, even
the most mercenary arrangements felt unbearably hollow.
Besides, a certain amount of cleverness was necessary to survive or even outwit his siblings and probably, at times, himself.
Miss Clayton’s complacent temper and obliging nature might leave her thoroughly hoodwinked—or overwhelmed—before the week
was out.
About halfway through the first act, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched placed him on alert. Of course he shouldn’t
be surprised at garnering some attention. Besides the scandals around his parents’ deaths and his sister’s disappearance,
he was also the walking equivalent of a placard reading “Poor Viscount Needs a Title-Seeking Wife.” And from the many glances
he caught throughout the first of the evening, many unmarried women—or should he say, many mothers of unmarried women—found
him fascinating.
He turned his head away from the stage and scanned the crowd with practiced subtlety. Nothing seemed amiss until . . . he
caught sight of a very familiar silhouette, lovely in deep blue, and staring directly at him through a pair of theater glasses.
Emmeline.
He blinked, not necessarily at seeing her in the audience, but her not-so-subtle way in attempting to . . . spy on him?
A laugh tangled in his throat, so he coughed to disguise it.
“Are you unwell, Lord Ravenscross?” Miss Clayton inquired.
“Quite well,” he replied quickly, clearing his throat. “Merely a small irritation.” He sent the final word silently toward Emmeline, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. His lips twitched anyway, fighting another laugh.
Miss Clayton offered him a puzzled glance but thankfully refrained from further inquiry.
Simon, however, couldn’t resist looking across the crowd again. Sure enough, the moment their eyes met—well, the moment her
glasses met his eyes—she quickly lowered the glasses, feigning a sudden interest in the stage.
Another cough slipped from his pressed lips, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth, suppressing a smile. Miss Clayton resumed
discussing the intricate embroidery on one of the actress’s gowns with mild enthusiasm, though her words barely registered.
His attention strayed, unbidden, back to Emmeline. At his pointed stare, she lowered the glasses again and feigned innocence,
her expression a picture of surprise at having been caught.
His heart expanded with emotions he dared not acknowledge, pressing against his rib cage to the painful spot, threatening
to spill over into words and actions and completely irrational decisions.
He loved her . . . still.
The internal admission settled through him like a deep ache, a soreness that had crept into his bones, but no less real for
its quiet persistence. How could loving her but not having her be his future? Was financial success worth the devastation
of his heart?
Simon sighed inwardly, struggling to regain some semblance of control over himself.
And furthermore, why on earth would Emme want to be with him? He’d already slighted her once and then took her up on this
ridiculous matchmaking scheme of hers, when the very idea had him wanting to hit his head against the nearest wall. If she,
of all women, wanted to help him find a bride, then she’d clearly moved beyond any attachment.
And Emme had insisted on Miss Clayton as a choice, but instead of drawing his emotions further away from a very unsuitable match, the only thing it seemed to do was drive deeper the painful clarity of how no one else could ever be Emmeline Lockhart.
As the first act ended and the curtain fell, Simon turned to Miss Clayton. “Are you enjoying the performance, Miss Clayton?”
The woman turned her face to him, her smile already in place. “Oh yes. Quite.”
A turn of silence followed, and Simon prodded a little further. “And what have you enjoyed thus far?”
“The acting is fine.” She nodded. “And of course I have enjoyed the costuming.”
He pushed his smile wider just to try and encourage her to talk. “Yes, the embroidery, I believe.”
“Oh yes.” Her eyes lit. “I’ve been fascinated with embroidery since I was a girl. I’ve never been very good at it, but I do