Chapter 22 #2
“It did.” She nodded, the moonlight softening her features into something ethereal. But her smile faltered. “And I . . . I
don’t understand. How can you be free to make such a decision?”
“As I told you, Aunt Agatha and I came to an agreement on what constitutes a ‘suitable’ bride, and to my astonishment, we
agreed.” He laughed, still overwhelmed at the prospect of loving her openly and freely. “The money was only part of it. Your
sterling character and impeccable reputation were what truly convinced her.” He shrugged, adding with a teasing grin, “Though
I suspect my admiration for you played a modest role as well.”
“My reputation?” The growing smile on her face froze. “Simon, there is something I must tell you.”
The look in her eyes stopped his breath, and in that moment, he knew. Selena’s claims were true.
“You must understand, I never thought . . .” She pulled her hands from his and glanced away.
“It all started before I even met you. And then, on the night you’d planned to propose, I was going to tell you, thinking it wouldn’t matter if we kept it a secret.
” Her voice trembled, every word draining warmth from his body.
“But when you didn’t come, and I thought it was over, I didn’t see the point in confessing. ”
“No,” he whispered, stepping closer, though her words felt like a chasm opening between them. “You’re a writer?”
She blinked up at him, her expression raw. “I would never have kept it from you if I’d known—” Her voice broke, and she looked
down, twisting her hands together before meeting his gaze again. “Don’t you see? When I thought I’d lost you, my secret didn’t
seem to matter anymore. Writing became my solace. I never imagined . . .”
The impact of her confession struck him like a physical blow, shattering the future he had so carefully envisioned. After
all the heartache and loss and misunderstandings, he’d confidently projected the perfect scenario of revelation, proposal,
and consequent wedding, but now the unexpected news before him derailed everything else.
“You write what sort of novels?” The question spilled out before he could stop it, absurd and inconsequential under the weight
of everything else.
Her brow furrowed as if the question pained her. “Gothic novels. My first three were Gothic.”
“Three?” The word burst from him, disbelief mingling with something dangerously close to admiration. “You’ve published three
novels?”
Of course it made sense now. Her cleverness, her wit, her impassioned defense of novels and of women pursuing their own paths—it
had always been more than abstract principle. She had been defending herself.
“If I thought giving up writing would change our future, I’d do it without hesitation,” she said, her voice shaking. Tears
glimmered in her eyes as she stepped closer. “But if the truth of my authorship comes to light, it’s too late to undo what’s
already been done. I’ve published three, Simon. And I finished a fourth last night.”
“You’ve written another?” How could her words stir both pain and pride? Emme, like the author of Sense and Sensibility, had written books that the world read. “And . . . how have they been received?”
She blinked up at him, her brows squeezed together. “Received?” She gave her head a little shake, as if trying to collect
her thoughts. And rightly so—her confession derailed all his hopes for their future and he’d, like a fool, asked about her
writing? “Very well, from what I understand, but I hope to do better with my future trajectory, if given the chance. My newest
story is . . . is more like what you’ve been reading.” Her tears shimmered again as she searched his face. “If I’d known my
future held you, Simon, I might have chosen differently.”
Differently? Than writing?
His shoulders slumped under the weight of it all. Why should she have to choose? Blast the social rules that made her talent
a liability. Blast the expectations that threatened to destroy their hopes. And blast Selena Hemston for her meddling, for
her petty jealousy that had exposed Emme’s secret, likely already spread through the ballroom.
“I love you, Emme.” He reclaimed her hands, holding them tightly. “But I don’t know how . . . I don’t know what we can do.”
“You . . . you still want to marry me?” Her voice trembled with a hope that reignited his frustration at the absurdity of
society’s expectations.
“Of course.” He squeezed her fingers, offering her a smile he scarcely felt. “I’m not surprised that whatever cleverness comes
out of that remarkable mind of yours has turned a profit. You’ve always been extraordinary. This only proves it more so.”
“Oh, Simon.” Her voice broke, a tear slipping down her cheek like a silver thread in the moonlight.
“But,” he admitted, his voice dropping, “I don’t know how to fix this for us. In a few years, perhaps Aunt Agatha’s funds
won’t hold such sway, but right now . . . it’s an impossible position.”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice raw with resignation.
“Emme . . . do you understand, the future I’d hoped for us—it all hinged on avoiding scandal. And if Miss Hemston knows . . .”
“Then the truth is already out.” She squeezed her eyes closed, giving freedom to a few more tears, and then with a shivering
breath, she raised her gaze back to his. Something in her expression stilled him. “I must sever this association your name
has with mine, Simon. I must, for your sake and for your family.”
What was she saying? She pulled her hands from his and stepped back. “So the timing for my departure is quite providential.”
“What?” The word burst from him as her words made it to comprehension. “Departure? You’re leaving?”
“I planned to go before I ever knew there was a chance for us.” Her hand pressed to her chest as though it might still her
trembling. “I thought distance would free you to find a bride—someone without a secret that could harm your family. And now . . .”
Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. “Now my presence will only wound you by association. My profession will follow us
everywhere.”
“Emme.”
“You need the chance to find someone else,” she continued, a sob catching in her throat. “A woman who brings you security,
not scandal. A woman with wealth. I can’t be that for you.”
“No.” He caught her hand, holding it fast. “You are the woman I want. The only one. You’re the one I love, Emme.”
She sniffled but did not pull away. Another tear traced the curve of her cheek. “I wish love were enough, Simon. But it won’t
shield your family’s name or keep food on your table. I must leave.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to tether her to him. “There has to be another way—another solution.”
His voice grew hoarse as he studied her face, memorizing every beloved line, the curve of her lips, the shimmer of tears in
her eyes. Deep down, he knew the truth: There were no solutions. Not yet.
For one moment, she rested her head on his shoulder, her soft sobs blending with the distant murmur of the ballroom.
He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing in the familiar fragrance of roses.
The heat behind his eyes betrayed him, and he shut them tightly, his arms securing her close in a futile attempt to stop time.
With a wipe to her eyes, she pushed back from his arms, her watery gaze searching his face. If he’d ever doubted her love,
the look she gave him stripped away all uncertainty. “Goodbye, Simon.”
His shoulders sagged, his head falling forward as he exhaled a long, pained breath. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Her voice wavered, but her chin lifted in defiance of her tears. “You’ll find someone—someone who
can give you what you need most. Someone who won’t risk your future, who will love your family as dearly as—” Her voice broke,
and she stepped farther back toward the garden path.
She paused only once, her gaze lingering on him with devastating finality. And then, with a turn, she vanished into the shadows.
The silence of the garden engulfed him, pressing on his chest. He stared into the darkness where she had disappeared, his
breath ragged.
“There is no one else for me but you,” he whispered, his words lost in the night.
He raised his gaze to the starry sky, a silent cry clawing for release. Wasn’t love supposed to be enough?
But the answer mocked him, echoing in the void she left behind. Life was rarely so simple. Love couldn’t mend the burdens
of legacy, nor could it conjure wealth from empty coffers. And as the weight of reality settled in his chest, Simon realized
the bitter truth: Love alone was not enough to overcome the demands of duty.