Chapter 16 #2
was far too great to either help or see him. When he’d been gone those two years, she had almost moved beyond her affection
for him.
Almost.
So it was proof enough that time and distance could help remove him from her heart—and hopefully, though the thought was a
painful one, her from his.
It was truly time to leave St. Groves.
“Bina means well, you know.”
Emme turned from her writing desk to find her father standing in the open door, his arms crossed and a pipe resting at the
corner of his lips. Society may have spurned pipe smoking in public spaces, but in the privacy of their home, it was a familiar
comfort.
She smiled in greeting, and he stepped farther into the room, removing his pipe with a small, indulgent sigh. “She will be gone soon. Her daughter is nearing her time of confinement, and then you will not bear the brunt of her goodwill any longer.”
Emme’s grin stretched wider. “I must admit, there are few people who bestow their”—she raised a brow—“goodwill with such fervor.”
Her father chuckled low, the sound filling the room as he leaned against the mantel, the firelight catching his blond hair,
now speckled with silver. “I should have encouraged her to leave sooner,” he mused, his gaze softening with the memories.
“But your mother always offered such charity to Bina, despite all her idiosyncrasies. She was the most generous of ladies.”
His voice grew tender, and Emme felt that known ache in her chest at the mention of her mother. It had been ten years since
her death, yet her father still spoke of her with such reverence, as if his heart had never moved away from its devotion.
Nor would it, she imagined.
Theirs had been a love match and a sweet example of what could be.
His gaze shifted to the envelope on Emme’s desk—the one she’d just finished addressing. Her mother’s sister’s name and address
marked the front.
Father raised a brow in silent inquiry.
“I was going to ask you about it before posting the letter.” She sighed. “I’m thinking of distancing myself from St. Groves
for a while.” Emme tapped the envelope lightly. “Aunt and Uncle have wanted me to visit for some time, and I never have.”
“Distancing yourself from St. Groves?” He nodded slowly, his gaze holding hers. “Or from a particular someone in St. Groves?”
Why she sometimes mistook Father’s reticence to talk about things as a disinterest or unawareness humbled her. He rarely spoke
of matters of the heart, suitors, or future marriages, yet this one observation told her he had watched, and understood, far
more than he’d ever voiced.
Emme looked toward the window, the long shadows of evening noting the late hour.
But she had much more to do. More words to write on this new story that kept pulling at her heart more than any other she’d ever written.
“I don’t want to love him, Father. Not at all.
It’s been terribly inconvenient to love him. ”
He gave a low laugh, though there was no mirth in it. “There are few people I know whose love came in a convenient way. Not
real love. It usually sweeps in like a gust of wind, knocking you off your feet.” His voice grew distant with his gaze, and
then he turned back to her. “Does he return your affections?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I can’t give him what he needs, and I’m no viscountess.” She gave her head a little shake, swallowing
through the painful admission. “But I do want what’s best for him.”
“As your father, I would attest that you would improve any man, and you are certainly intelligent enough to take on such a
role. In fact, you’d only improve whatever house you enter, my dear, pauper or king.”
“Thank you, Father.” A puff of a laugh escaped her lips. Her father’s faith in her was insurmountable. “But deeply caring
for someone doesn’t make money suddenly appear. And I fear his heart may turn from me soon enough when the needs of his estate
prove too great.”
His entire expression softened, and he lowered himself to the settee at the end of her bed. “Emmeline.”
His gentle use of her name pricked her heart. “I will be fine, Father. I just think some distance will help the process along.”
“Even after everything, you still care for him?”
“I don’t agree with the way he ended things between us—not telling me why.” She sighed. “But I believe he is still every bit
the man I thought him to be. Perhaps even better now, after all he’s endured. And in the throes of affection”—the memory of
the balcony kiss flashed to her mind—“it would be easy to forget what is best.”
“What is best for whom?”
Emme looked away, the question so pointed that it pricked at her heart.
Father stepped closer, his gaze falling to the papers scattering her desk with her newest manuscript. She rarely hid them
in her own room in the evening because no one, except Aster, usually visited her there, and Aster never showed any interest
in what Emme had on her desk. But Father’s gaze sharpened.
“Working on the next novel, are you?”
Emme’s bottom lip dropped. “What?”
He smiled, eyes alight. “I’ve read them all, you know. Every terrifying adventure.”
Emme blinked a few times, absorbing her father’s words. “You . . . you know about my novels?”
He shrugged as if his admission hadn’t just shocked her senses. “Just because I’ve never mentioned it doesn’t mean I haven’t
noticed. I supposed you’d tell me when you were ready for me to know.”
She struggled to collect her thoughts. “All this time, you’ve known?”
He gave a calm nod, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
After all her worry over his response? “And . . . and what did you think?”
Her father raised an eyebrow, clearly amused at her response to his revelation. “Well, you’re certainly an excellent writer.
You always were, even as a child, constantly spinning stories for the rest of us.”
An excellent writer? A sweet warmth pooled through her. Oh, how long she’d wanted to tell him. How much she’d craved to have
him approve. And now—he had known all along. Not only had he known, but he thought her an excellent writer. Tears stung her
eyes. “And the stories?” Her voice wavered a little. “Did you like them?”
His hesitation was slight but enough to temper her rising elation.
“Stories of pirates and haunted castles are not my usual fare, though I must admit you wrote them exceptionally well. I prefer tales that reflect more of what I know, but”—his lips twitched in a teasing smile—“they certainly held my attention.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, though his words reminded her of Thomas’s. Her gaze fell to the papers on her desk, and a small,
unbidden idea took root. Carefully, she lifted the corner of a page left out to dry before glancing back at her father. “I’m
. . I’m working on something new,” she said, her voice dropping as though others might overhear in the privacy of her room.
“Something different from what I’ve written before.”
Father inclined his head. “Are you now?”
She nodded, hesitating before her courage finally overcame her. “Would you . . .” She took a breath, steadying herself. She’d
never shown anyone her work before she’d finished it. Not even Thomas. “Would you like to hear a few pages?”
For a moment he simply looked at her, his blue eyes infused with a warmth that soothed every lingering uncertainty. Then,
with a broad smile, he gave a firm nod and moved to a chair near the fire. “Indeed, I would.”
He tucked his pipe into the corner of his mouth and offered her a most encouraging smile. “Begin whenever you’re ready.”
He should be happy for Emmeline Lockhart.
It would be the noble, self-sacrificing thing to do.
If she’d formed a new attachment, even if it were to the newly installed rector, Simon should feel nothing but contentment
at her chance for happiness—just as she appeared to wish the same for him.
But blast it all, he wasn’t.
Crossing his arms, he stared out the window at the cloudy afternoon.
A sheen of rain lingered on the grass, and the air carried a sharp coolness, foretelling the turn of seasons.
Not that he cared for the weather. Autumn might as well rage into winter if it pleased.
The only thing weighing on him now was the truth pressing against his chest.
He loved Emmeline Lockhart.
He wanted to marry Emmeline Lockhart.
And up until Selena Hemston planted the idea of Emme having feelings for Mr. Bridges, he’d thought she may still harbor some
affection for him. He lowered his fist to the windowsill. But why? Why should he seek her attention? He had nothing to offer
her. He’d broken her heart once. He had no money to marry her now, or at least not enough to save his estate and marry her. No, Emmeline deserved someone unencumbered by financial woes or family scandals. Someone like Thomas Bridges—witty,
intelligent, wholesome.
Unshackled.
Blast!
His interview that morning with Miss Lane for the governess position only kept Emme even more forward in his thoughts. Miss
Lane had impressed him with her intelligence and disposition, meeting every qualification he sought in a governess. She was
sharp-witted, good-humored, and precisely what his siblings needed. He’d hired her immediately.
And she was set to begin within the week!
One task checked off Aunt Agatha’s infernal list.
One month remained to secure a bride.
He frowned. He already knew who he wanted for a bride, but Aunt Agatha’s standards—and his own circumstances—rendered Emmeline
unsuitable. Perhaps, he thought grimly, the word suitable needed redefining.
A glance at the copy of Sense and Sensibility on the side table deepened his mood. Willoughby’s character only grew more suspect with each chapter, and Edward Ferrars
seemed to be teetering on the brink of some wretched secret. The steadfast Elinor Dashwood and dignified Colonel Brandon were
the only reliable souls in the narrative. Everyone else was as unsettling as Simon’s own predicament.
Why did he care so much? Yet he couldn’t put it down. It felt too familiar—the tension, the longing, the quiet suffering.
It was as if he were peering in on the inner workings of St. Groves. Perhaps that was it. The story felt real. Especially
right now. With Emme possibly making a connection with someone else. He felt very much the plight of Colonel Brandon, except
Simon deserved his disappointment. Brandon didn’t.
“Still brooding, are you?” Ben strolled into the room, heading straight for the drinks tray.
Simon spared him a look.
“Oh, indeed.” Ben poured himself a glass, his tone dry. “That furrowed brow of yours could frighten the rain away. Or is it
a certain someone troubling your thoughts?”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t brooding until you barged in.”
“Ah, of course.” Ben took a deliberate sip. “Nothing to do with the fact that your heart and your head seem to be engaged
in a duel, I’m sure.”
Simon glared. “It’s just—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s just—it’s so blasted infuriating.”
“I can imagine.” Ben leaned casually against the table. “But perhaps you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
Simon let out a weary sigh. “What do you want me to say, Ben? Yes, she’s . . . everything. But Ravenscross needs more than
affection. It needs funds, repairs—”
“You’re not destitute, Simon.” Ben waved his glass toward the Great Hall.
“If you fail to resolve Ravenscross’s finances through some neat marriage contract, you may have to endure a few lean years, but you won’t be utterly ruined.
And as for the ancestors’ dour faces glaring at you from their gilded frames—well, they’ve had centuries to perfect their disapproval.
I daresay you’ll survive it.” His tone softened as he straightened, setting down his glass.
“My father married for money and status, and I grew up in a home where my mother neither respected nor cared for my father or her children. We endured years of quiet misery, especially Father. Wealth isn’t worth a lifetime of regret. ”
Simon arched a brow. “Wasn’t it you who delivered your sister’s infamous list of potential suitors at the season’s first ball?”
Ben shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I’ve said many things I’d never act upon. You, of all people, should know me well enough
to ignore my worst advice and enjoy my best mischief along the way.”
Simon rolled his eyes heavenward.
“There is no guarantee that my efforts with tenants and businesses will make the needed difference for this estate without
a rich wife, Ben.” His hard work had proven successful so far, but he had much more work to do to become independent enough
to not rely on Aunt Agatha’s help. “I need to know I’ve secured the estate and my siblings’ futures.”
“And you need more than a convenient marriage,” Ben interrupted, his tone pointed. “There’s more to a family’s future happiness
than ready cash and a title. What would it look like to have a wife who would stand beside you—not just in the ballroom, but
here, in the work? A woman willing to help you save this estate?”
Simon began to shake his head, but Ben pressed on.
“You’re stubborn, but you’re not blind. I’ve seen how you look at her. It’s not mere admiration. It’s something more.”
Simon’s chest tightened, warmth threatening to betray him. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. She deserves better than to be tied to a man drowning in debt. I won’t deceive her into believing our marriage could fix what is broken here.”
Ben was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. “Perhaps she doesn’t need to save your estate, Simon. Perhaps she only needs
to save you.”
Simon’s breath caught. Ben’s words struck deeper than he cared to admit. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine it—Emmeline
at Ravenscross. Not merely as a comforting presence for his siblings but as a partner, a force of strength and steadiness.
Could she bear the strain of rebuilding alongside him? Would she shoulder the inconveniences of a salvaged estate, the gradual
work of making Ravenscross whole again? A part of him believed she would. Yet he couldn’t allow himself the indulgence of
hope. Not when she might have already turned her heart toward another.
He forced her smile, her laugh, from his mind. “She’s not an option,” he muttered, almost as if convincing himself.
Ben stepped forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder, his voice low. “I think the real question is, do you want her to be?”
Simon didn’t answer. His gaze returned to the rain-slicked lawn, the droplets sliding down the glass panes like his own thoughts—scattered,
relentless. Want and need were two very different things.
And yet, for the first time since he’d returned to St. Groves as Lord Ravenscross, he began to wonder if the best hope for
him and Ravenscross was the one person he’d been refusing to consider all along.