Chapter 17 #2
Her brows knitted together. “I’ve given you a perfectly acceptable suggestion in Miss Clayton. Surely she deserves better
than a suitor so easily distracted during a performance.”
He wasn’t distracted by Miss Hemston.
“If this is your idea of courting, Lord Ravenscross, I’d say you’re in dire need of instruction.”
On instinct, he reached for her arm, stopping her mid-stride and drawing her closer. “I recall a time when you found my courting
skills more than satisfactory.”
Her eyes widened, her breath catching as her cheeks flushed deeper. “That . . .” She hesitated, her gaze imploring him for
mercy. Tugging her arm free, she whispered, “Everything was different then.”
She turned and resumed her walk, her pace brisk, leaving him no choice but to follow.
“If Miss Clayton is not the conversationalist you desire,” she said, her tone deliberately light and her smile as thin as
parchment, “perhaps Miss Perkins might suffice?”
“She’s barely sixteen.”
“And men your age have married sixteen-year-olds before,” she retorted, waving a hand. “She has some spirit—perhaps like Marianne
in that novel you’re reading?”
“I am not as old as Colonel Brandon,” he huffed, “though I do admire his character. But sixteen and eight-and-twenty is far
closer than sixteen and five-and-thirty, wouldn’t you agree?”
Her eyes lit as she paused her walk and turned to face him again. “You must be enjoying the story to have remembered such
details.”
“I am, but I’m afraid business has slowed my progress.”
She resumed walking at a more leisurely pace, her face tilted toward him. “Good business, I hope?”
“Very good.” His expression softened at her sincere interest. “Every small, sound decision matters.”
“Indeed. An excellent life motto for anyone.”
His gaze narrowed in mock suspicion, which only deepened her grin.
If he were truly keeping his aunt’s stipulations in mind, he would end this conversation and suppress the pull of her presence.
But her sunshine—the pure, uncalculated brightness she brought to his life—felt like the only thing tethering him to sanity.
Her.
Ben’s words came back to mind. “Perhaps she doesn’t need to save your estate, Simon. Perhaps she only needs to save you.”
A dangerous idea unfurled in his mind, nudging aside his fears and the prescriptive future he had resigned himself to. His
trials had shaped him—his cousin’s negligence and debts, his father’s ruin, his mother’s death, and Arianna’s disappearance—all
forging his courage in ways he’d never expected.
Could choosing right for his heart also lead to what was right for everyone else he held dear?
“And what sort of business?” she asked, breaking the silence. “With wheat prices as they are, have you sought alternative
sources of income?”
Trust her to dive straight into the heart of practical matters. She’d become her father’s confidante after her mother’s death,
and her aptitude for sensible discussion was just another admirable quality.
“Besides implementing your suggestion about the tenants, I’ve acquired sheep, sold some timber, and leased some larger buildings
to Mr. Arden for his expanding mill.”
“Oh, that’s an excellent choice,” she said brightly. “His opinion carries weight among the tradesmen. Have you approached
Mr. Jenkins? I know he’s seeking more space for his fringe and lace business. And Mr. Leeds’s warehouse is nearly bursting.”
The urge to kiss her surged again, stronger than before. He was clearly losing his mind—and his battle with restraint.
When he failed to respond immediately, she took a cautious step back, a fresh rush of color highlighting her cheeks. “I’m
sure these aren’t the most ladylike topics to discuss, but—”
“They’re excellent suggestions. And I thank you for them.” He split the distance between them, taking her gloved hand in his. “Truly, Emme. Your kindness is . . . overwhelming.”
A pair of ladies approached, and Simon released Emme’s hand, doffing his hat and offering a welcome smile as the women passed.
The younger of the two nearly turned all the way around as she walked, her smile anything but demure, but the fan she had
in her hand took on new speed.
Emme chuckled softly, drawing his attention back to her. “You have quite the effect on the ladies, Lord Ravenscross. I daresay
she nearly swooned at your smile.”
“Did she?” He turned his focus to her, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. “Does my smile induce swooning from you,
Miss Lockhart?”
There it was—he’d danced far too close to the line, and he knew it.
Despite the momentary redirection of her gaze, she rallied her response. “Well, besides being undeniably handsome, you do
have a certain dashing quality. Rather like John Willoughby as I imagine him in your current reading.”
“Ah, I see.” His confidence wavered. “I should much prefer to be viewed as honorable. Like the colonel.”
“Oh dear, but wouldn’t the combination of the two make the most delightful hero in a novel? Dashing and devoted?” She sighed wistfully, her voice dipping as though she spoke to herself. “Imagine scripting such a character.”
He studied her profile as they resumed walking, the haberdashery now distressingly close. “You speak as though you’ve plans
to create such a hero yourself.”
She faltered slightly but recovered. “Why not? You’re reading and enjoying a novel written by a woman, are you not?”
“I am. And the author’s talent is beyond reproach. But she is wise to keep her anonymity. A lady taking to writing as a profession
is often viewed . . . poorly.”
Her expression hardened slightly as she turned her attention ahead.
“What an unfortunate reality. Gentlemen inherit fortunes by virtue of birth, yet ladies cannot earn honest money without their reputations suffering.” She turned her gaze back to his, her look piercing.
“Does that not strike you as terribly unfair?”
“There are many injustices in the world, I’m afraid.”
She tilted her head, her expression adorably stubborn. “Perhaps. But in our small part of it, I think we ought to make things
right. Even in the everyday choices we make for the people we love.”
For the people we love. The words echoed in his mind, a pang of longing sharpening his awareness of her. Would that I were one of those people.
“Which you do so naturally,” he said, his voice softer now. “In that, you remind me very much of Elinor Dashwood.”
Her smile bloomed again. “Oh, I’m not so levelheaded, I’m afraid. But I do hope my heart is as compassionate as hers. She
has a strength of character I greatly admire.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree with you on the matter of strength. You’ve borne your share of heartache with exceptional grace,
and I’m ashamed to say I’ve been part of that.”
She looked down but did not respond.
“As for characters,” he continued, returning to a lighter refrain, “my confidence in Mr. Willoughby is waning considerably.”
Her brow arched slightly, her expression teasing. “Oh? And what has brought on this sudden concern?”
They were now within sight of the haberdashery, where Aster lingered in the doorway, watching them with obvious anticipation.
Still, Simon longed for just a few more moments. “I find myself impressed by Colonel Brandon’s steady nature, and Mr. Willoughby’s
relentless criticism of him has begun to grate on my nerves. Something about it feels . . . off. And then there’s the matter
of Lucy Steele.”
Emme’s laugh bubbled out, warming him like fresh sunshine. “Is there?”
“You know precisely what I mean. She’s a meddlesome young woman with a silly sister. I had high hopes for Edward Ferrars,
but I’m finding myself increasingly vexed by his inconstancy. In fact, I’m much angrier at him than Elinor appears to be.”
Her expression sobered, forehead crinkling with her frown. “Perhaps she understood him in ways others didn’t. Believed in
the man she’d come to know.” She drew in a breath and looked up at him. “She must have realized a deeper reason for his apparent
inconsistency of character, don’t you think?”
Was she speaking of Elinor and Edward or of him and her? “And . . . and she forgave him?”
They were only a few steps from the haberdashery, but he couldn’t end the conversation without knowing her answer. Without
understanding her. One touch to her arm paused her steps, and when she turned to him, her eyes held a quiet intensity.
“I . . .” She hesitated, a watery sheen filming over those eyes. “I don’t agree with the way Edward handled things. That he
didn’t explain, didn’t trust Elinor to understand. But as she gained hindsight and the story offered her more perspective,
I believe she saw that the heart of his character never changed. Only his circumstances did.”
She did know. She saw it. Felt it. Believed in him—and forgave him in ways he had not dared to imagine or ask.
Aster moved at the edge of his vision, but he seized the moment, refusing to let it slip through his fingers. “His feelings
were constant, Emme. Elinor came into his life so unexpectedly, and once he began to care, he never stopped. How could he
stop? She was perfect for him.”
“Not quite perfect.” Emme offered a small, wistful smile. “Not enough.”
The words struck him like a blow. Not enough. No. She was more than enough—always had been. Blast the money. Blast society’s insufferable expectations. Didn’t love matter at all?
“Emme—”
“Pardon me!” Aster approached, her tone playful as she glanced between them, her smile just shy of teasing. “I’m so sorry
to interrupt your conversation, but you did promise to help me choose a hat. And Thomas has quite finished indulging me.”
Emme pulled her gaze from his, nodding to her sister before returning her attention to him, smile sad. “Good day, Lord Ravenscross.
I do hope you enjoy finishing the book—particularly to see what becomes of dear Colonel Brandon and Edward Ferrars. I think
you’ll be pleased.”
With that, she stepped into the shop, leaving him standing on the street, her words and their implications echoing through
him.
She’d forgiven him.
She’d seen past his failures and his missteps, and she believed in him despite them.
And he knew now that his next choice would be the one either to keep her in his life—or lose her forever.
He would take every ounce of courage he’d learned from the past two years and fight for her. For them, if he had a chance
to win her. He just had to make a plan.
He’d made it halfway down the street back toward his horse when Selena Hemston emerged from around the corner of Rosewood
Tea Rooms, her determined steps aimed directly at him. He dipped his head with the full intention of a quick greeting and
escape, but she stepped directly in his path.
“What are you doing?”
Simon attempted to bypass her, but she slipped in front of him again. What was she playing at? “Walking to my horse.”
“You do realize, Lord Ravenscross”—Selena narrowed her eyes—“that it would be folly—utter folly—to reintroduce that attachment.”
“That attachment?” He arched a brow, his patience fraying at record speed.
She gestured back toward the haberdashery, her meaning clear. Had she been following him? Watching his interaction with Emme?
What absurd game was she playing?
“To which attachment are you referring, Miss Hemston?” he asked. “The gossips have been rather industrious with my name of
late. I’d like to ensure I’m addressing questions about the proper lady.”
“Don’t play coy with me,” she retorted, her tone clipped. “You know perfectly well to whom I refer. Or has your memory become
as unreliable as your judgment?”
Simon’s mouth twitched, though not with amusement. He forced a mock smile that bordered on a grimace. “Your concern is noted,
Miss Hemston. However, I assure you, my affairs—whether social or financial—are entirely mine to manage.”
Selena took a measured step closer, her voice lowering, almost taunting. “Then be responsible, Simon. Think carefully about
what you’re throwing away—what you and your family stand to lose.” She tilted her head, her tone honeyed yet edged with steel.
Her words grated against him, but Simon held her gaze without flinching. “And you, Miss Hemston, need to understand that not
all things can be claimed by mere assertion. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
But Selena didn’t step aside, her lips curving into a smile that was all calculation. “Miss Lockhart may present herself as
innocent and charming, but I suspect there is more to her than meets the eye. And rest assured, I will uncover it. I only
hope it is before you make an unalterable mistake.”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “Jealousy, Miss Hemston, is a poor companion to civility. I suggest you dismiss it.” He barely kept his tone measured.
“Your insinuations do not reflect well upon you, and I have no intention of forming an alliance—of any kind—with someone who behaves in such a manner. I must insist you refrain from involving either myself or Miss Lockhart in your future schemes.”
Selena’s smile barely wavered. “I’m not going anywhere, Lord Ravenscross. And neither are your problems—until you begin making
wiser decisions. This is not a difficult one, but sentimentality could cost you everything.”
Simon exhaled slowly, his mind clearer than it had been in days. The certainty of what he needed—and whom he needed—settled
over him with newfound resolve. Yes, it was time to revisit his plans, adjust his estate’s financial strategy, and above all,
convince Aunt Agatha that his choice was the only sensible one for Ravenscross, the children, and himself.
For a moment his gaze locked with Selena’s in a silent battle. She, no doubt, was accustomed to winning such exchanges within
their social circles, leveraging her father’s influence and her own cunning. But she held no power over him—not truly. Her
threats were hollow, her confidence built on sand.
With a crisp touch to his hat, Simon stepped neatly around her, his tone polite but final. “Good day, Miss Hemston.”
As he strode away, determination replaced the frustration Selena had stirred. Now it was time to focus on how to make Emmeline
Lockhart his bride.