Chapter 19 #2
And yet, the memory of her antics at the theater rose unbidden, warming him in a way that made rationality seem wholly overrated.
Add to it her veiled conversation, telling him she’d forgiven him? Well, there was nothing else to do but to attempt to ascertain
her feelings.
And if he had to use Lottie as an excuse to do so, well, so be it.
“You cannot be upset with him,” Aster announced, not looking up from her sketch. She lounged on a garden bench near the roses, her lap scattered with pencils and paper.
Emme had spent far too much time in the garden that morning. For some reason, her creativity had dwindled overnight, and unfortunately,
it seemed to begin and end at the theater and then the ball.
“I am not upset with him.” She clipped a full chrysanthemum, the shears in her hand as precise as her tone.
“No, of course not.” Aster’s attention flicked up from her drawing. “You’re merely sulking like a governess left out of the
nursery party.”
Emme spun around, spectacles nearly toppling from her nose. “I am not sulking!”
“Good, because it would be terribly hypocritical of you.” Aster raised one brow. “You’re the one who sent Miss Clayton his
way in the first place.”
“I did no such thing,” Emme countered, her voice lightening as she feigned detachment. Though, in all honesty, she did do
such a thing. “And I’m not upset. Miss Clayton is exactly what Lord Ravenscross needs.”
Aster studied her, a smirk tugging at her lips. Very unsisterly of her. “I’m so glad you didn’t take to the stage, Emme. You
would have failed miserably.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you’re attempting to look unaffected, you’re doing a poor job of it.”
Emme huffed, looking directly at her sister and snipping an aster bloom with more force than was strictly necessary.
“What do you expect me to say? That I’m pining for someone I cannot have?
That I wish the world worked differently?
” The conglomeration of floral scents wafted on the cool breeze, tousling tendrils of hair across her face.
She brushed them back with a sigh. “The truth won’t change the fact that he requires something I cannot provide.
” Her voice hitched as she turned back to snip another chrysanthemum, its rich pink hue and voluminous petals offering a charming distraction.
“All I can do now is leave to let nature take its course.”
“I understand why you’re leaving, but I don’t like it.” Aster harrumphed, a sound that did nothing to calm Emme’s mind—or
heart. “It’s not fair.”
“Not everything can be resolved as neatly as in a novel, I’m afraid. We must accept it . . . and move on.” Even as she spoke,
the words tore at her. Oh, she had wanted to assist Simon, but perhaps more selfishly, she yearned to remain close to him
just a little longer. What a dreadful decision! It only complicated matters further. She really should’ve let him alone from
the very beginning.
At least when Colonel Brandon asked Elinor Dashwood to talk to Edward Ferrars about a job as curate on his estate, Elinor
had possessed undeniable purpose in seeing and helping Edward. Emme had just thrust herself on poor Simon at cost to both
of them.
She inwardly groaned. How could she have been so rash? Good intentions without wisdom rarely boded well.
“Can’t there be another way?” Aster’s eyes, which could shift from blue to green with the hue of her gown, studied Emme with
evident disapproval. “He still harbors feelings for you. And I know you feel the same.”
“It’s not enough, Aster.” Emme averted her gaze, adding a rose to her bouquet. “Yes, I care for him. But we must accept the
reality.” She met Aster’s gaze, her voice dropping to a pained whisper. “We must.”
With a deepening frown, Aster crossed her arms. “Your plight almost persuades me to accept Mr. Todd, who only desires a pretty
arm ornament but promises to let me travel the world. Clearly, love need not be a priority.”
Emme’s lips tipped the slightest at her sister’s attempt at levity. “Mr. Todd is old enough to be your grandfather.”
“And yet, that does not detract from my point,” Aster retorted, her brows arching in challenge.
Before Emme could respond, the sound of the garden gate creaking open made them both turn. Simon strode in, his coat undone
and his cravat slightly askew—an uncharacteristic look for him, but not one she necessarily disliked. She swallowed. At all.
“Sim—Lord Ravenscross?” Emme corrected herself. “What are you doing here?”
“Pardon my intrusion, but I need to find Charlotte.” He strode toward them, his attention fixed on Emme in such a way that
her throat closed just a little.
“What do you mean?” Emme’s face cooled at the statement, nearly losing her grip on her bouquet. “Is she missing?”
Dear heavens! Like Arianna?
“You’ve not seen her?” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. And still, she didn’t mind the look. “She left
a note saying she’d come here to learn how to plant strawberries.”
“I offered to teach her, but I insisted she must ask your permission first.” She sighed, reading the worry on his face. “I
assume from your scowl and the desperate flight here, she did not follow my advice.”
The scowl softened considerably. “She isn’t very good at heeding instruction, I’m afraid.”
“Well, at least she’s among good company,” Aster quipped before casting Emme a pointed look.
“Is that so?” He dipped his head to Aster in greeting.
“How can you doubt it? You know Emme.” Her sister only tipped her brow higher, needling the reference to Emme and Simon’s
past. “She’s always been a little too opinionated for her own good, setting off into ridiculous rescue plans without thought.”
Aster’s implications, and in front of Simon of all people, were too pointed.
“You’re one to talk, sister.” Emme’s face grew sunburn hot, but she pushed up a grin for diversion, if nothing else. “It’s no wonder Charlotte felt a kinship to us then, is it?”
“No wonder,” Simon murmured, his gaze lingering on hers just long enough to set her pulse skittering before he shifted his
focus. “But if she isn’t here, where could she be? I came directly from the estate.”
“She’s likely on her way.” Emme was thankful her voice sounded much calmer than the tremor of her pulse. “Perhaps you traveled
faster than she anticipated.”
“Yes, that’s quite possible.” He exhaled with a nod, scanning the garden again. “I rode Zeus. Her mare is not the fastest
animal.”
“Given by design, I’m sure.” Emme allowed herself a small, teasing smile as she snipped another chrysanthemum, only to realize—too
late—that Aster had vanished, leaving her alone with Simon.
Her breath hitched. Dear heavens. Aster had abandoned her with the one man she had no business being alone with. What was her sister thinking?
“I apologize for interrupting your”—he gestured to the bouquet—“artistry?”
“Bouquet for the dining room,” she managed, adjusting the flowers as though they would shield her from the effect his nearness
had on her thoughts, pulse . . . emotions. Good heavens, all of her.
He didn’t stand terribly close, but her desire for him to step closer was a traitorous thought. It really wasn’t fair for
him to show up in her garden looking this handsome. And if it wasn’t incredibly inappropriate to tell him, she would have
said so. “Chrysanthemums are in such abundance this year, and they carry a lovely meaning of . . .” Her gaze settled on the
red one in her hand. Love. She hesitated. “Good fortune.”
“Good fortune?” He stepped nearer, inspecting a flower with a half smile that made her knees feel rather unsteady. “Is that
so?”
“Mm-hmm. An excellent flower for you, Lord Ravenscross, to inspire the best of luck.”
His lips crooked further, and her heart stammered rigorously in response.
She wouldn’t have to feign a faint at all if he kept this up. Heaven help her!
All she needed to do was make it through this week, and then she would be gone.
She turned back to her work to keep her face from his, taking the opportunity to pluck a late sunflower next, sending him
a grin over her shoulder. “Sunflowers for determination, in honor of Charlotte.”
His chuckle warmed the space between them, sending a lovely tingle up her neck, despite the high collar of her jacket. “Determination,
indeed. She has that in spades.”
Emme was certain she was disproving Aster’s assessment of her acting abilities with each moment she passed in Simon’s presence.
But whatever skills she did possess were beginning to weaken with each grin or look he sent her. Something new hid in those
eyes, and her heart nearly lurched from her chest attempting to seize it.
She shifted a step to the right, plucking a white rose. Relatively safe. “Gathering bouquets is one of my favorite tasks.
Not only do they make a room more cheerful, but the aromas sweeten any space.”
“Indeed.” His voice brewed low, nearer. “And what does the white rose signify?”
Her breaths grew shallower. She cleared her throat and then almost whimpered. Love, also. But she sifted through her mind
for a safer meaning. “Loyalty, actually.” How on earth were the plants even conspiring against her?
“Loyalty?” At this, he’d drawn too near, his presence entirely too much. Oh, why was he torturing her so? Hadn’t Miss Clayton
supplied ample distraction? Or Miss Thompson, for heaven’s sake?
To keep from turning toward him, Emme reached for another bloom without looking, but instead of a chrysanthemum, her fingers
closed around a sprig of nettles.
“Ah!” She snatched her hand back and dropped her shears altogether.
“Nettles?” Simon’s concern gave way to a wry grin, his brow arching. “What subtle message were you hoping to convey with those?”
Cradling her stung fingers, she glared weakly at him. “Perhaps ‘keep your distance’ would suffice.”
“Ah, but I’ve never been one to heed instruction well either.” His voice swooped low, reverberating somewhere inside her—the
teasing look in his eyes disarming her entirely. In fact, she hadn’t realized he’d taken her hand until she saw him lifting
her fingers for inspection.
They hadn’t been this close since the balcony—or perhaps his veranda at Ravenscross. And they certainly hadn’t been this close
since she realized just how much she’d never stopped caring for him. How bothersome feelings were—especially right now, when
her body wanted one thing, and her mind—bless it—proved entirely useless at forming a coherent thought, let alone mounting a defense.
Clearly, her sense was no match for a pair of familiar blue eyes, a velvety voice, and the gentleness of his touch. He studied
her fingers with care, his brow furrowing as if this small injury were of the gravest importance. Then, without breaking eye
contact, and with an infuriatingly tender slowness, he brought her wounded fingers to his mouth, brushing a feather-light
kiss over the reddened area.
Sweltering heat rushed to her hairline, her heart stopped, and the world shrank to this—the press of his lips to her skin,
the look in his eyes, and the brush of his breath over her wrist.
And she knew that as long as he was anywhere near, there was no escaping him.
Or this overpowering love she had for him.
“Blast it, Emme,” he whispered, her name slipping past his lips like a plea. His gaze traveled over her face with a look so
endearing, she stopped breathing altogether. “Why did you have to wear those ridiculous spectacles?”
A helpless laugh bubbled from her lips, barely a sound. He’d always weakened in some mysterious way when she’d worn her spectacles. Distracting, he’d called them, which, in truth, had caused her to wear them all the more.
Her free hand reached for his chest, an instinctive move to steady herself, but the quick rise and fall beneath her palm only
drew her nearer. His unoccupied hand slid gently to her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin in a way that unraveled her. How
curious it was to love and loathe the effect someone could have on her in equal measure. It never made sense, but at that
moment, logic was clearly irrelevant.
There was no mistaking their intentions this time. No hiding behind convenient interruptions from suitors or overbearing aunts.
This was madness, pure and unbridled.
Would he kiss her again? Here in her very own garden?
And what about Miss Clayton? And the money?
But as his head dipped closer, the world seemed to fade until there was nothing but him—his eyes, his touch, the heat of his
breath against her lips.
Dear heavens, who cared about Miss Clayton or the money?
And then—
A sneeze shattered the stillness.
They froze, heads snapping toward the shrubbery.
Simon recovered first, his jaw tightening as he called out, “Charlotte.”
Charlotte? What on earth was Charlotte doing hiding in Emme’s garden . . . witnessing a reputation-ending kiss?
Or near kiss.
And Emme wasn’t certain what was worse. Kissing Simon Reeves for the last time.
Or not getting the opportunity of another kiss at all.