Chapter 22
He’d asked her.
The words had been clogging Simon’s throat for almost two years. Now, he’d finally voiced them. He felt as if he could vault
the room, his grin entirely untamable as he approached his friend. Ben stood back, surveying the dancers with the air of a
man contemplating his next chess move—or perhaps his next victim.
Simon knew exactly who he’d be asking for the rest of his life.
“Well, what sort of mischief has you looking like the cat who got the cream?” Ben raised his glass, one brow quirked in mock
suspicion. “A certain dance partner, I should guess.”
“And you would be correct.” Simon took a glass from a passing tray and tipped it slightly forward, as though to toast the
entire room. “You once told me, in one of your more sentimental moments—”
“I have those?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure it was me?”
“Entirely.” Simon grinned, his gaze flicking to the doorway leading to the garden. “In one of your rare lapses into wisdom,
you advised me on the matter of marriage. You quoted your father, who said to at least find someone you could stand to be
in the same room with.”
“Ah, yes. That sounds like him.”
“And then you added, in your own words, no less,” Simon continued, his smile widening, “‘But I’d say it is even better if you can find someone who makes you forget there’s a room at all.’”
Ben pulled a face of exaggerated disgust, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed him. “I said something that maudlin? I must have been foxed.”
“Foxed or not”—Simon raised his glass to his lips again—“you were right.”
Ben sent a glance toward the garden doors and gave his head a disappointed shake. “Well, you certainly danced with her as
if you’d forgotten everyone else in the room. We all had to bear witness to your unveiled expression of love—and her startled
realization.”
Startled? Simon’s smile faltered a little. Perhaps he had been a bit too . . . direct. He’d fairly attacked her with the relief at finally voicing what he’d been fighting for months.
He should have given her the courtesy of privacy. But when he’d walked into the ballroom and noticed Mr. Rushing hovering
near her, all his carefully laid plans had evaporated. He’d been able to think only one thing: Rescue her.
Once she took his hand, once he drew her close, every ounce of restraint had abandoned him. “Ben,” Simon said quietly. “I
love her.”
Ben sighed, lowering his glass. “I know.” His tone remained devil-may-care, but his expression softened. “And I daresay the
two of you will give Ravenscross a fresh start in ways money can’t buy.”
The mutual affection. The partnership. Something the estate and its tenants hadn’t seen in generations. “It’s a good start.”
“It will have to be,” Ben teased, “since her smiles will need to sustain you while the Viscount of Ravenscross mends fences,
negotiates with tenants, and haggles with tradesmen, instead of leading the ton in fashionable diversions.”
“One of the easiest trades of my life.” Simon handed his glass to an unsuspecting Ben, adjusted his waistcoat, and sent his
friend a wink. “Wish me luck.”
Ben snorted. “Just don’t scare her off by quoting me again.”
Simon laughed and strode toward the garden doors, his pulse quickening with each step, but just as he reached the threshold, someone grabbed him by the arm.
He turned, his smile dissolving as he met the sharp gaze of Miss Selena Hemston.
She stood poised in her green gown, arms crossed, her frown so pronounced that it threatened to wrinkle her otherwise flawless chin.
“What a display!” she hissed.
“Display?” Simon raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the ballroom before returning his attention to her. “Do you mean the Ruthtons’
decorations? I quite agree, they’ve outdone themselves this evening.”
“You can’t be serious, Simon,” Selena snapped. “Not even you would throw away your security for some nobody who—”
“I have no interest in discussing my private affairs with you.” Simon held a fragile hold on his voice. He tipped his head
in a polite nod. “Good evening.”
“You’re allowing your interest to blur your vision and putting your entire future in jeopardy over”—her voice squeaked—“a
country gentleman’s daughter with only two thousand pounds?”
The door was tantalizingly close, his future just beyond it. “There are many things in this world far more valuable than money
or titles, Miss Hemston.”
“And what about reputation?” she countered, her tone unyielding. “Surely, a man with your family history wouldn’t wish to
further sully the tattered remains of your title. Especially by marrying a woman with a . . . past.”
Simon released a slow breath in an attempt to control his rising fury. “Miss Hemston, you are a woman of some means and intelligence,
and though I’ve not desired your company or good opinion, I never expected you to resort to slander, especially toward someone
of Miss Lockhart’s character.”
“Slander?” Selena’s lips curved into a saccharine smile. “Oh no, Simon. I wouldn’t dare fabricate something so . . . delicious.”
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve seen the evidence myself. Her books, published under
a pseudonym. I’ve even read a letter—to her publisher, no less.”
Simon stiffened. Books? Letters? Ridiculous. “This is absurd. Mail is private. You can’t expect me to believe such nonsense.”
“I have many friends in many places, dear Simon. Friends who, with the proper incentive, are quite eager to share what they
know.” She tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “But consider what a scandal it would be—a lady of society secretly writing
Gothic novels. Such behavior would hardly endear her to the ton, or your wealthy aunt.”
A chill passed through him. Surely, it couldn’t be true. But even as he fought against the thought, memories of conversations
with Emme teased alive a hint of doubt. No. Surely not. Wouldn’t she have confided in him?
Simon shook his head, refusing to let her poison his mind. “Miss Lockhart would never—”
“But she has,” Selena interrupted, much too pleased with her revelation. “It may not be common knowledge now . . .” She drew out the word like a threat. “But once it is, and if you’re aligned with her, any unwelcome attention would
only deepen Ravenscross’s blemished reputation and, if rumors can be trusted at all”—she slid a finger over her lips—“cripple
any benevolent funds provided by wealthy family members.”
How did Selena know these things? Emme wouldn’t have divulged the information, and he would trust Mrs. Patterson with his
life. Could it have been a stable hand? Another servant overhearing private conversations? His blood heated beneath his skin,
rising up his neck and tightening his jaw. “You’re lying.”
“What would I have to gain by making up such a story? You must know me well enough to suspect I would have chosen a tale much
more interesting than novelist.” Her light laugh oozed with false mirth. “But this will do quite nicely. And I’ll be happy
to keep it a secret in exchange for a small favor.”
It couldn’t be true, could it? And . . . if it were true, how . . . how could he move forward with their future? “A favor?”
“Marry me.” One manicured brow slipped high. “And I will ensure none of this unfortunate gossip reaches the wrong ears.”
“Never,” he replied firmly, stepping around her, but she moved to block his path once more.
“It’s all very romantic, isn’t it?” Her smile tightened into a snarl. “But love doesn’t pay debts or shield one from scandal.”
Her sentence paused his steps and turned him back around. “Miss Hemston, I seriously doubt what you’ve said is true, but even
if it is, there is no amount of blackmail or persuasion that would ever induce me to marry a woman who finds pleasure in creating
pain in others. You are right to say that love cannot pay the bills, but it can certainly create a better future than one
built on the vindictive poison of a frightened woman who seeks her security in manipulation, gossipmongering, and demoralizing
those she perceives as beneath her. I will not be your puppet, so no matter what you do with the information you think you
possess, you will not gain what you want from me.”
Selena’s smile twisted into something cold and brittle, her eyes narrowing. “So noble,” she murmured. “But nobility won’t
save you when whispers turn to headlines. Let us see how long your aunt’s generosity lasts when she learns of the company
you keep.”
At that, Simon broke away from Selena and skirted the edges of the room, avoiding anyone else who might have overheard fragments
of their conversation. He needed a moment to think, to steady himself. Surely there had to be some mistake. If what Selena
claimed was true, then . . .
No. He wouldn’t entertain the thought. Not when he and Emme were so close to a future together.
His aunt’s insistence upon the need to avoid scandal at all costs drifted back to him. He’d assured Aunt Agatha that Emme’s
character was beyond reproach. But now . . .
Simon shoved the doubts aside and quickened his pace, pushing through the garden door into the cool night air. The garden stretched before him, bathed in faint moonlight and the softer glow spilling from the ballroom windows—a tranquil scene entirely at odds with the storm inside him.
He’d barely reached the first hedgerow when Emme stepped out from the shadows, her golden curls spilling over the deep red
of her cape. His heart calmed at the sight of her, as if her very presence could mend the cracks in his composure.
“I thought . . . I wasn’t certain if you’d—”
“I would never leave you without a word again.” He captured her hands in his, drawing her close. “I’ve learned to trust not
only your strength but my own a little more since then.” His earlier joy flickered back to life as he gave her hands a squeeze.
“I’m afraid my excitement at finally being able to ask for your hand may have taken you by surprise.”