Chapter 21
Clearly, possible scandal was not enough to deter some men from their unwanted pursuit.
Emmeline’s shoulders stiffened at the thought of Mr. Rushing.
He was relentless.
And unnerving.
And completely dismissive of her disinterest.
She had managed to avoid dancing with him for the first half hour of the ball, even going so far as to accept the offer of
the septuagenarian widower, Mr. Roth, who’d mistaken her attempt to hide behind him as a subtle request for a partner. The
smile on his face had been her reward, and despite the social faux pas in the elegant Assembly Room, she couldn’t truly regret
it. The elderly gentleman may have been several decades her senior, but he was nimble on his feet, and his attentions kept
her safely on the opposite side of the ballroom from Mr. Rushing.
The latter had already secured one unpleasant dance, gripping her far too tightly. Each word he slurred was laced with whiskey,
and he made certain to lean in so close that Emme felt as though she were being swallowed whole by the overpowering scent
of alcohol. She had no idea what the dance must have looked like from an observer’s perspective, but she’d leaned back so
far at one point, she thought she’d almost gone horizontal.
Oh, if only Thomas were here to rescue her! He had come to her aid at two previous balls, but he’d been called away to visit a sick family. Most of her other dance partners had already been claimed, and she could hardly blame them.
And Mr. Marshall, who had clearly heard of her intent to refuse an offer from him, had only regarded her with glares from
the opposite side of the room, which meant he would not be a possible partner to escape Mr. Rushing.
She sighed, resolutely avoiding Mr. Rushing’s gaze. At least this would be her last ball in St. Groves for a while. In her
absence, she hoped he would find someone else to unnerve. Most likely at this point in her third season, he thought her desperate
enough to succumb to his . . . charms.
She hoped never to be that desperate.
But where to hide now? She glanced around the ballroom for any route of escape. The lights flickered in the grand chandeliers
above, casting a glow over the swirling couples, but her focus was locked on the man moving toward her with single-minded
fervor. Perhaps finally, she’d found a perfect time for a solid faint.
Her pulse quickened as he closed the distance. She scanned the area around her, looking for a soft spot to land should she
decide to take such drastic action.
Mr. Rushing’s grin twisted with ruthless interest, the glimmer in his eyes promising the verbal battle ahead.
Before she could summon an excuse—or muster the courage to swoon—a dark figure stepped in, cutting through her view of Mr.
Rushing. The air around her shifted, warmed by the sweet leather and fresh cologne that heralded only one man.
Simon.
He looked maddeningly handsome, dressed to perfection in a black tailcoat and matching trousers, with a dark blue waistcoat
that almost matched his eyes. But what truly disarmed her was the way he looked at her—not with the gawk of Mr. Marshall, nor with predatory intent, like Mr. Rushing—but with something infinitely more dangerous.
Tender, warm, and so full of unspoken emotion that she dared not meet his gaze for too long, lest fainting become a genuine possibility.
“Miss Lockhart.” His voice was low as it wrapped around her name like a caress. “I believe you promised me this next dance.”
Simon smoothly extended his hand as he cast a cool, dismissive glance at Mr. Rushing.
And, as if her body and mind took a sudden disconnect from each other, she placed her gloved hand in his. The man truly shouldn’t
hold such power over her mental faculties.
But something in his demeanor, in the secure way he drew her onto the dance floor into one of the triple minor sets, proclaimed
a confidence she’d not seen since . . . her face grew cold.
Since when she’d thought their futures aligned.
But not now! Dancing with him could only invite gossip, and gossip could ruin everything for him.
What was he thinking?
“What are you doing?” she whispered as they took their positions, grateful they were the third pair in the set, affording
them a measure of privacy. “This is not a good idea, Lord Ravenscross.”
“Saving a lady from that walking cask of brandy is always an excellent idea.” The teasing quirk of his lips failed to match
the man she’d spoken with in the street only a few days earlier.
It fit the man in the garden, though. Too rash. Too unguarded for his own good.
Had he lost his senses again?
And she wasn’t certain whether to very unfashionably run from the room or reprimand him for being so unguarded. Well, since
it would cause a greater scene to leave the dance floor, she acquiesced to the moment. Perhaps this could be her goodbye—a
memory to carry with her as their paths inevitably diverged.
“You’ve taken to heroics this evening, then?”
“Heroics?” Their turn came, drawing them into the steps, away from each other for only a moment and then back together, his gaze finding hers at every turn. “Oh yes. I have my sights set on being a hero, Miss Lockhart.”
His palm warmed her waist through the fabric of her gown. No other dance of the evening had her responding in such a breathless
way, no matter how intricate the footwork. “And is there a reason for this sudden devotion to gallantry, my lord?”
The strong muscles of his arms tensed at her back as he steered her through the steps, their bodies closer. Kissing-close
with just the right angle.
What a thought! Her cheeks heated. And yet, her attention dropped to his lips as if to ascertain the exact trajectory.
Have mercy! Perhaps she should leave the room straightaway! She stumbled a moment, barely noticeable, but Simon noticed.
“I’ve finally gotten the proper perspective, Miss Lockhart. And I must say, it’s been difficult to put my transformation on
display for you because you’ve been in such high demand tonight.”
“Hardly,” she countered, averting her gaze from the intensity in his eyes. What was he doing? He seemed almost . . . giddy.
“One persistent suitor is scarcely a testament to my popularity.”
“A persistent suitor?” His lips twitched up on one corner as they drew close again. “I suppose then that you could say the
same for me.”
“You?” She nearly missed her next step. What did he mean? He was certainly no Mr. Rushing. The heat in her cheeks clearly
attested to that fact. “Except, unlike Mr. Rushing, you would not risk propriety in front of an entire ballroom.”
His grip tightened subtly, almost as though he were pulling her just a fraction closer, his eyes darkening with something
unspoken. “Perhaps I’ve grown reckless.”
Her breath hitched. There was something in his tone—something simmering beneath the surface. She could feel the warmth of his body acutely now, the rhythm of their movements a magnetizing force with every step.
“Or perhaps,” she ventured, her voice barely audible, “you’ve forgotten what’s at stake.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Miss Lockhart. If anything, I’ve realized what truly matters.” His gaze trailed over her face as though
committing every detail to memory. “Or rather, who.”
Her heart trembled at the intimacy of his words. For a fleeting moment, she forgot everything—his aunt’s stipulations, their
differing social standings, the curious eyes around them. Even the music faded into a distant hum.
What was he saying?
They parted again, allowing the other two pairs a turn as they stared across the short distance between them. His smile faded,
replaced by an expression so earnest that it left her more unsettled than ever. Then the dance brought her back to his arms.
“I know I hurt you, Emme.”
And as strange as it sounded, the music gave them an intimacy and freedom little else could. Distracting others. Crowding
over their conversation so that only they could truly hear each other as the others danced their part. She studied his face,
trying to make sense of his behavior. She read his expressions and lips as he continued, “I was lost and afraid. Overwhelmed
by responsibilities I hadn’t expected. And I failed. I failed everyone, but most of all, I failed you. I should never have
acted on my feelings in your garden without being able to offer you a future. Forgive me.”
Their turn came to an end again, and she hesitated to follow the dance rules, her mind reeling.
He stood only a short distance across from her, dancers framing them on either side, but only his eyes communicated with her, inspiring a hope she didn’t fully understand.
Finally, with a quick step and a touch of hands, they drew near each other again.
“I did little to discourage the rumors about my romantic exploits because I thought, in time, they might lessen your regrets.”
What? He’d wanted her to hate him in order to protect her? What an idiot! She fixed him with a glare. “So you thought turning yourself
into a rake would help me?”
“I’ve been a fool in many parts of my life, Emme.” Simon’s voice dropped as his hand steadied her through the allemande turn,
his gaze never leaving hers. “But this reluctant, misguided, cowardly fool has never stopped loving you.” He was so close
that his breath fanned lightly against her cheek. “You alone have always held my heart.”
Every word fled her. Breath evaporated from her lungs. She would have stopped entirely if his hands hadn’t guided her seamlessly
into the next steps. Her emotions splintered—love, frustration, and longing all battled within her. Why was he confessing
this now, when they could do nothing about it?
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, let alone your affection,” he said as they danced toward each other again. His words
pulled her in as much as his arms did. “But you have shown me nothing but grace, even when I gave you every reason to despise
me. You should not have a man who has been so careless with your heart.”