The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 22

THE LONDONER

FROM A RIVALRY TO . . . LOVE . . . ?

Inconceivable though it may be, from the ashes of a rivalry has sprung . . . a courtship between the unlikeliest of pairs: Miss Gately and the Earl of Scarsdale.

M. FAIRPOINT

Over the next fortnight, Emma and Charles were a courting couple in every sense of the word: with their public strolls through Hyde Park with Seamus, the gossips had printed freely and spoken loudly about them, and the new and unexpected seriousness of Emma and Charles’s relationship.

They’d had ices at Gunter’s and visited the Old Corner Bookshop—also with Seamus.

In all, it was precisely everything she’d ever secretly dreamed of and wished for a relationship with him.

Or . . . almost.

There was, of course, the matter of interfering members of the ton, who’d begun gossiping once more about her.

As well as . . . interfering parents.

“This is . . . how romantics do things these days?” Her father’s noisy whisper sounded in the hallway.

Or if a lady wished to be technically correct on the whole thing . . . still interfering parents.

Over the tops of the two desks they’d placed across from one another, Charles and Emma picked up their gazes from the notes they’d been taking on their respective topics for their clubs and shared both a look and smile. “Perhaps if we are quiet, they’ll go away,” he whispered.

“Unlikely,” she said in hushed tones while her maid embroidered in the corner.

As if to prove that very point, her father continued on with his lamentations. “I almost preferred when I was having my weekly billiards visits with the boy to . . . to . . . this.”

“They are enjoying themselves,” Emma’s mother said, making less of an effort to disguise her voice. “And that is what matters.”

“In my day we managed to escape chaperones, and—” Emma and Charles collectively winced, and at the same time covered their ears.

“I hate when they do that,” she mouthed.

“I know. Vile,” he concurred, completely soundless.

They both remained seated with their hands locked in that position several moments, then lowered them back to the table.

From the other side of the door panel, her father continued with his bemoanings. “What is it, even? An academics session? As if they are two university students studying their Latin.”

Emma cupped her hands around her mouth and lowered her voice, her words intended for Charles only. “I despise Latin,” she confided.

“I as well, love.”

As if on cue, her father spoke: “That isn’t romantic, love . . .” There was a pause. “Perhaps we should speak to her?”

Emma recoiled. “Oh, God, no,” she cried out. “Absolutely not,” she reiterated, repeating that declination loudly toward the doorway so there could be no doubting on her parents’ part just whom she spoke to. “No. Talks.”

Alas, her horrified shock served also as her salvation. On the other side of the oak panel, there came a flurry of curses and the pattering of footfalls as her parents scattered.

Charles brought his palms together in a rhythmic, quiet clap. “Well done, love. Well done.”

Sweeping her right hand in a small circle at her brow, she dipped her head in acknowledgment of that credit.

They shared a smile before each returning to their work.

Or rather Charles did.

Click-click-click-click.

The frantic knock of his pen atop his page filled the quiet. Emma peeked over the top of her notes, and engrossed as he was, she simply observed him while he worked.

He’d caught the left corner of his lower lip between his teeth, and several curls hung loose over his brow as he wrote. He was a study of concentration, and she couldn’t have been any more enamored.

To the world at large, how she and Charles spent their time together here would never be considered romantic. And yet, never had she felt closer to another person. There was nothing more she wished to do than be here with him, sharing ideas and discussing the two similar ventures they’d struck.

His flourishing, while hers was floundering. That reality crept back in.

Just a short while ago, that realization had left her riddled with resentment. And though she felt regret and frustration now at the ways in which the society was struggling, she’d also come to see and appreciate that what Charles had created—whatever his motives had initially been—mattered to him.

She didn’t begrudge him his success. That didn’t, however, make the troubles the society now faced any easier to accept.

Her gaze slid over to the copy of The Londoner resting at the side of her desk. Even as she reached for it, Charles intercepted her efforts. “Don’t,” he said quietly and firmly.

The unfavorable words and, worse, the warnings about the Mismatch Society as an evil influence had persisted. Charles, she knew, had nothing to do with those words. Despite the misgivings still held by her friends . . . and sister.

Concern spilled from his gaze. “I didn’t—”

She cut him off. “I know you didn’t.” Even when they’d just been rivals, she’d still not believed him capable of what Owen professed he was guilty of. Emma threw down her pen, and abandoned all pretense of work. “I care less about who is responsible and more for the fact that the Mismatch Society is struggling,” she confided, and it felt so freeing and wonderful to have someone from outside of that sphere to commiserate with. Someone who’d also created something from scratch, and cared about it as she did.

“Perhaps . . .”

When he stopped, she dropped her elbows on the surface of her desk. “Yes?” she urged. She didn’t want him to have to measure words with her.

“Perhaps you’re worrying too much. Trying too hard.”

She wrinkled her nose. “How is it possible to try too hard?”

“Well, when you began the Mismatch Society,” he said, “did you worry about who would join your ranks and who would not?”

Emma’s brows came together. For in actuality, she hadn’t. It had been more about a place where she could go and meet with just the handful of fast friends she’d found . . . Only when it had grown, so had her expectations for what she wanted them to be. But what if he was correct? What if the reason for their recent struggles was because they’d gotten so very far away from what they’d started out as? A group dedicated to discussions that evolved in a natural way. In a way that wasn’t scripted or . . . in a way that they tried so hard.

Now, most of their meetings were spent worrying after their decreased numbers. Over the years, she’d spent so much time listening to society’s condemnations and worrying about them . . . even when she herself hadn’t realized as much. She’d prided herself on being boldly assertive, but all the while she’d listened to the critics: what they’d said about her betrothal. About her relationship with Charles. About . . . even the Mismatch Society.

Emma shoved back her seat as the truth hit her. She stared at him with unblinking eyes. “You’re right,” she said on an exhale. “We’ve been so focused on a competition with your club that we’ve failed to see the reason ladies were leaving was because discussions ceased happening. You provided what we’ve recently been unable to.”

His brow furrowed. “And what is that?”

Did he really not know? “A stimulating place where women can speak on topics that matter to them, while using literature as a vehicle to do so.”

He blushed. “I . . . It just evolved. I didn’t set out with that specific goal in mind.”

Resting an elbow on the table, Emma dropped her chin atop it. “It just came naturally to you, Lord Scarsdale,” she praised.

And then wonder of wonders . . . he blushed. “No! That isn’t what I was saying. Rather—”

Emma stretched her hands across the table and covered his ink-stained fingers with her own. “You didn’t say it,” she agreed. “I did. It is what you did.”

She’d always taken him as self-important and arrogant. He’d erected a flawless facade of a man so urbane and unaffected. Or mayhap it was simply that she had failed to look close enough to see the real man. And in that, he’d been entirely correct in some of those earliest accusations he’d hurled at her. Emma let her arm drop and leaned forward, erasing some of the space between them. “It comes naturally, and there is no shame to be found in that.” She stared wistfully down at her collection of crossed-out lines and failed lectures. “I would give anything to have a bit of that talent.”

“You conceived something from nothing, and are direct in your studies and devoted to your members. And I . . .”

His gaze locked on her face.

The door burst open, killing that declaration on his lips.

“Fraternizing with the enemy,” Isla muttered, stalking forward. “I never thought I’d see the day.” Close at their younger sister’s heels, Morgan and Pierce came trotting in. The two young men who’d always been enamored of the earl studiously avoided his gaze.

“Get up,” Isla said without preamble. “We have a meeting—”

Emma glanced down at her notebook. She’d been more dazed than usual, but she’d not yet resorted to confusing her days. “We don’t—”

“It is an emergency meeting. You remember,” her sister shot back. “When there are crises that merit us gathering as a society outside of our usual hours.”

“Oh.” And it was surely wrong to feel this rush of disappointment at having her time with Charles ended.

Emma’s father immediately stumbled into the room. “Billiards!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “If Emie is rushing off, won’t you join me for a match?”

Previously, that devotion to Charles had grated. Now, Emma had come to appreciate that mayhap her father’s taste in friendship with Charles had less to do with Emma and her betrothal, and more to do with the simple fact he enjoyed the younger man’s presence. Because in fairness . . . who didn’t?

“Alas, I must decline. I have important matters to attend to regarding my own club.”

“Important matters to attend,” Isla muttered. “Speak plainly and say, plotting further against the Mismatch Society, will you.”

Emma gave her youngest sibling a sharp look . . . which Isla ignored.

“Uh . . . yes, well.” Charles cleared his throat and returned his attention to the bereft bear of a man, who looked like a child who’d dropped his Gunter’s ice. “As I was saying, I’m unable to join today; however, if you’d welcome some company tomo—”

“I would,” the viscount boomed. “Bring your father—”

“And brother,” Morgan and Pierce said at the same time.

“Men,” Isla muttered with the vitriolic fury only a loyal, loving sister could manage. “Well, then, come along.” Alas, for all the ways in which Emma had proven happy, her sister had been far less easy to trust Charles. Nor could or would Emma ever dare violate his confidence. In time, her friends and the family not already besotted with Charles would see him as she did.

Emma hesitated, hating for this moment with Charles to end.

“Go; we will meet later.”

Seeming to realize she marched alone, Isla stopped in the doorway. “Well, then, you, too, brothers. You are part of the society,” she snapped. “Thanks to this one,” she added under her breath with a scowl for Emma.

Their twin brothers instantly fell back, their expressions abruptly a whole lot dourer.

A short while later, they arrived at Waverton Street and were shown to the parlor. Emma settled herself on the window seat overlooking the streets below, with her sister joining her on the upholstered cushion.

The room immediately quieted, with Annalee gaveling them in. “Emergency meeting, called to order.”

And it certainly was a testament to Emma’s distractedness that she’d no idea what the latest trouble to face the Mismatch Society in fact was.

“There have been . . . some concerns raised by several of the members, Emma,” Annalee said gently.

It did not escape her notice that Owen, Olivia, and her brothers directed their stares up at the ceiling—Emma narrowed her eyes—or that Isla stared angrily back. “Concerns?” she asked slowly.

“Because you are cared about, of course,” Valerie rushed to assure her.

Of course.

“You have been distracted, and you are not even caring about our sinking numbers and his rising ones,” Isla exclaimed.

And there it was.

Emma stiffened. This was the reason for the emergency meeting? Because of her relationship with Charles. Granted, her resentment of the gentleman in question was one of the whole reasons she’d found most of her friends and started the Mismatch Society in the first place. But this? This . . . felt like a betrayal. And yet she was as much responsible for the misgivings anyone had of Charles.

“It occurred to me just this day that we have worried entirely too much about who is leaving of their own volition,” she said quietly. “We are so focused on competing with Lord Scarsdale we’ve gotten away from what our mission is.” And yet so much of this was her fault. “I take responsibility for that,” she said to the room at large. “I have made this a competition, but it is not,” she implored, placing a slight emphasis on that last word, willing the women and men present to understand. “At least, that is not what it should be.”

“She is lost,” Annalee whispered.

“She is in love,” Lila and Sylvia corrected in time.

“And blinded because of it.” Those bitter words came from Owen.

“I am not blind,” Emma said, sailing to her feet. She clasped her hands about her, and as she spoke, she briefly held the gaze of each member. “At least not in the way you are thinking. Charles is a good man.” She spoke on a rush before anyone might seek to interject their own opinions—and erroneous ones at that. “He is clever, and he genuinely cares about what he has created as much as we do.” Emma drew in a deep breath. “My pride, however, was hurt, and because of that, it led me here, and it fueled the rise of the Mismatch Society, but then it also steered me down a path where I lost focus on what our mission should be.” Her gaze came to rest on the leader of their group, and in the other woman’s eyes was something missing from all but Clara and Lila—understanding.

They knew what Emma had just herself found out. She loved him.

Her heart jumped.

Love.

It was certainly what it was . . . on her part. But what of what he felt? Was it . . . the same? He’d of course not spoken those words to her, but his actions—

Crasssh.

Pandemonium erupted, shouts and screams going up from the members as the windowpanes broke, exploding in a spray of splintered glass.

Emma jolted, shock knocking her off balance.

Wait . . . no . . . that was not shock.

She touched a shaky hand to the back of her head; a sticky warmth oozed onto her palms. Dazed, she studied the near-black liquid. Nay, not liquid. It was . . . blood.

“Emma?” her sister asked haltingly, and she looked up to meet Isla’s eyes.

Or she tried to.

It was just too hard.

Impossible.

Her lashes fluttered, and her legs wavered, and Emma collapsed . . . remembering no more.