Chapter 20
Good heavens, he’d nearly kissed Emme. In her own garden.
When he knew perfectly well that he had no freedom to pursue her.
Not yet.
He could blame the spectacles, but that would be a lie—and he despised liars, especially when the truth was so painfully clear.
It was her. It had always been her. No amount of logic or time could diminish the pull she had on him. Every other option,
every other path, seemed pale and lifeless by comparison.
And it was driving him mad.
Mad enough to nearly ruin her reputation in broad daylight. At her own home. What in the devil was wrong with him? How had
he let himself become so utterly undone?
He was a cad. A heartless rake.
Turning back to Emme to beg her forgiveness, a movement in the shrubbery caught his eye. Charlotte rose, her grin utterly
unrepentant as she picked a stray leaf from her skirt, her dark hair in disarray.
“What on earth are you doing hiding in Miss Lockhart’s garden?” he demanded, striding toward her with barely contained exasperation.
“I came to learn how to plant strawberries,” she replied, brushing off her sleeves with a flourish, sending him a knowing
look that no thirteen-year-old sister should ever dare to flaunt to her utterly flustered elder brother.
Imp!
Then a thought struck him. Had Lottie meant for him to follow her to Emme’s in order to . . . he shook his head. Surely not. His sister wouldn’t concoct some sort of plan like this, would she?
Simon had little time to consider it because just then another figure emerged from the shrubbery, her honeyed hair gleaming
in the sunlight.
His face went cold. “Miss . . . Miss Aster?” The words came out strangled, choked by his own surprise.
“It seems wrong to allow Lottie all the fun,” Aster said, shrugging a shoulder as if entirely unaffected. “So I joined her
and”—her brows wiggled—“it was quite the show.”
“Aster!” Emme’s hand fluttered toward Simon, her gaze catching in his for a moment, heat rising back into those lovely cheeks,
before she snapped back to her sister. “This was not what it should have been. And I would hope”—she threw an almost matronly
look at the girls despite the chirp of her pitch—“that you would keep this private exchange to yourselves. Spying is hardly
an appropriate pastime for a lady.”
“We weren’t spying,” Aster corrected, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We were . . . observing.” She smiled just slightly,
and Simon realized for the first time that second-born daughters may be creatures unto themselves, no matter what household
they abided. “There’s a difference.”
Lottie nodded solemnly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable excuse. “Precisely. Observing. For . . .” She paused, glancing
at Aster for an answer.
“Horticultural inspiration,” Aster supplied with a wink.
“Ridiculous.” Emme crossed her arms over her chest as she moved to Simon’s side to create a united front, he supposed. “At
your age.”
“Horticultural endeavors are excellent at any age, I hear.” Aster gave her sister a syrupy smile that did nothing but tighten Emme’s posture.
“In fact, sister-dear, I’d always heard that a white rose meant love,” she continued.
“And a red chrysanthemum as well.” She paused with a deliberate shrug, her eyes twinkling. “And even—”
“Aster.” Emme stepped forward, thrusting the bouquet of flowers into her sister’s hands with remarkable finality. “Take these
inside.” Her brows rose, her lips pinched. “Now.”
Love? Had Emme been avoiding saying the word to him? Despite the absurdity of the situation, Simon couldn’t suppress the slight
tilt of a smile.
Aster offered a sweeping curtsy, taking the flowers with an exaggerated air of graciousness before disappearing through the
path.
With arms still folded, Emme turned to him, brow raised in expectation.
He’d almost kissed her. Catastrophic, really. Dangerous when there was no understanding between them.
He’d already been the rogue. The unintended rogue, but one nonetheless. He would convince Aunt Agatha to allow him time to
choose a bride, and then—then he’d marry Emme and kiss her whenever and however often he wished.
With a quick turn, he faced Lottie. “Am I to think that you dragged me to Thistlecroft under false pretenses?”
“Drag you here?” Lottie blinked up at him with wide eyes, all mock innocence. “Me? You mustn’t give me so much credit. You’re
the one who followed me.”
“Followed you?” he repeated, his voice rising.
“And I’d been invited,” she added. “Miss Lockhart invited me to teach me how to plant strawberries, as I’d mentioned in my
letter.”
Simon let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “But you knew I’d follow you.”
She smiled all the more, not an ounce of remorse in her expression.
“Lottie, we will discuss this later. At length.” With a resigned sigh, Simon shot her a hard look before turning to Emme.
But the tender look she’d given him a moment ago had vanished, replaced by a wariness that made his chest tighten. And he hated it. He hated that he had caused it.
“I apologize, Miss Lockhart,” he said softly, searching her face, pressing his deeper meaning into his expression.
Sorry for nearly kissing you again, for wordlessly promising something on which I could not deliver just yet, for losing control
of my senses and nearly wounding you all over again. His eyes searched hers, trying to convey the depth of his regret. It was a silent apology for the unspoken promises he had
made in his mind, ones that he knew he could not yet fulfill. “Please,” he began again. “I would be grateful for the opportunity
to speak with you—properly—at another time.”
Her gaze flicked to his lips for the briefest moment before returning to his eyes, her expression shuttered, those faint traces
of warmth now veiled. He nearly groaned from the wound.
“Emme, forgive me.”
Her brow creased, and she took a deliberate step back. “I believe,” she said, her voice steady but with an undeniable quiver
beneath the surface, “that particular conversation may not be the most fitting for me, my lord.” Her eyes held his for a heartbeat
too long before darting to the ground. “But I am certain there is another lady more suited to it.”
No!
He couldn’t lose her again.
And at his own hand.
If only she knew what he intended, how he planned to resolve this madness. His family, his obligations—they would all fall
into place soon enough. And then—then he could pursue Emme properly, without shame, without guilt.
But she didn’t know that, and he couldn’t tell her until there was some hope to offer.
“Emme,” he began, his voice rougher than he’d intended, “please don’t—”
“I’d better bid the two of you good day.” There was a finality in her words, a decision to retreat, and Simon hated it. “Perhaps Lottie can return at another time.” She glanced toward the cloudy sky. “But I believe we may have lost our opportunity today.”
The door to retreat was being closed—and she was locking him out.
He wanted to protest, to stay, to explain the confusion and the rush of emotions that had nearly made him act as a fool in
front of her. But there was nothing he could do now except to accept it.
“I understand.” He paused, waiting for her attention to shift back to his. He had to promise something. “But I will attempt to remedy this. You have my word.”
“Emme, I’d wondered about his feelings from the start, but the ball last night and his behavior in town yesterday morning
only proved my suspicions.” Thomas shook his head and sank into a nearby chair. “He is still in love with you.”
Oh, she knew. This afternoon in the garden had only proved it. Her face grew warm at the memory of how close his lips had
come to hers, how gently those same lips had skimmed across the skin of her fingers.
And she, no less at fault than him. Hadn’t she all but begged him, in her silent way, to bridge the distance between them?
His words as he departed to remedy things still echoed in her mind. Remedy what? His situation? Her heart, which had broken
in so many pieces? Or perhaps it was his little sister, the budding matchmaker, who had forced this all into motion.
She tucked her dress around her as she drew her knees onto the window seat and looked away from Thomas, unwilling for him to witness the effect his declaration had on her. The way her heart had twisted with those very words he’d spoken.
And though she should have felt a sense of triumph at the knowledge Simon still cared for her, she couldn’t embrace it. Yes,
knowing his heart had remained the same somehow confirmed her greatest hopes and worst fears. They were both as trapped as
ever.
Simon’s needs and expectations hadn’t changed.
Her dowry and social status hadn’t changed.
“I know you may object,” Thomas continued, his voice a little too knowing, waving a hand as if to dismiss her likely protestations.
“You may argue that the faithfulness of a man’s affections is of little importance in fiction, but I dare say, Emme, you must
admit—that man’s heart may prove as constant as yours.”
If only that were cause for joy. If only it could be enough.
For heaven’s sake, they had nearly kissed in her garden. Kissed!
Reality doused the sweet flutterings the thought sparked. The prospect of loving him without any assurance, without any notion
of securing her future, terrified her. If she loved him—if she truly loved him—and if she respected herself . . .
“I’m leaving, Thomas.” Her voice broke the silence, almost defiant as she wrapped her arms tighter around her knees. She met
his gaze across the room. “I can’t stay.”
Thomas raised a brow. “That’s not usually the way romance goes, my dear cousin. Not to gain a happily ever after.”