The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 8

THE LONDONER

CAUGHT

Miss Gately has been spied bullying the brother of one of her former club members. After she physically accosted the poor gentleman, it was only the intervention and rescue from one Earl of Scarsdale that saw her poor victim freed.

M. FAIRPOINT

That same day, alongside his brother, Charles collected and settled the young woman Derek had found into the household with Miss Lee and Miss Linden: two women he’d been linked to over the years. It was a residence he’d come to studiously avoid. If he were discovered at their townhouse, it would not only fly in the face of the plea his mother had put to him, serving to resurrect gossip-filled rumors about his wicked association with those women, but also would add further fuel to Emma’s ill opinion of him.

Mindful of the peril he’d find himself in, Charles adjusted the brim of his hat and quickly made his way out of the Regent Street townhouse.

Derek followed behind him. “Thank you,” his younger brother said quietly as they left.

“Do not thank me.”

“You paid a small fortune to secure her release, and I know what it will mean if you are discovered here . . . for your . . .”

Derek didn’t finish, nor did he need to. “His . . . Miss Gately” had been the way all his family and friends had come to refer to her. Even as she’d never truly been his. Not beyond a document that she’d wanted even less than he had.

They started across the street to the two lads holding the reins for their horses.

“Have you considered telling her?” Derek pressed. Telling Emma? Emma, who already believed Charles couldn’t be faithful to her, who believed only the worst of him . . . and that most of her reasons for doing so were entirely fair and accurate. “I believe if she knew—”

Charles stopped abruptly on the pavement and faced his brother. “That I’ve not been romantic with Miss Lee and Miss Linden, that she’ll suddenly think better of me?” he shot back. “What about the other women before them?” Because whatever she might think or discover or learn about the women whose townhouse he’d visited this day didn’t erase the sins he was truly guilty of. Or the mistresses he’d ultimately taken in his life. “Hmm? The ones whom I did carry on with in the very way she believes I conducted myself?”

His brother went silent, his gaze moving to a point beyond Charles’s shoulder. “Miss Gately—”

“Bloody hell,” he snapped. “Enough with—”

“No. Miss Gately,” his brother repeated, and pointed, bringing Charles’s focus across the street.

He squinted at the young lady in the midst of conversing with some gent who stood entirely too close. Surely not. “Emmmma?” Impossible. Charles rubbed at his eyes, and the sight remained. But Emma . . . with some bounder who had a hand upon her arm. Fury blazed to life, devouring Charles with a hungering for the blood of the fiend who dared touch her.

Charles was already striding across the street.

“Go easy on him,” Derek called after him, his voice indicating he attempted to keep up.

Charles, however, moved at a near sprint toward the pair. Emma . . . and the cad who’d lose a hand this day. Or his life. Likely in that order. Even with the paces between them, that fiery, bold challenge in the lady’s eyes was one he recognized all too well. Lord knew it had been turned Charles’s way enough. But this? Now, here, with a man who’d dare assault her?

He quickened his stride in a bid to reach her, cursing the cluttered streets that threw up barricades to his reaching her.

Charles wound his way around a pair of bucket-bearing boys, nearly knocking into the lads, keeping all his focus upon Emma. The cad took a step closer to her. “You there,” he barked, but his calls were futile in the din of the afternoon activity.

The cad twisted Emma’s arm slightly, a barely perceptible movement that Charles observed in his scrutiny, and his gut clenched, and with a shout he charged on ahead to save—

Emma brought up her knee deftly, and swiftly, catching the gentleman between the legs, instantly crumpling his form. The man cried out, and releasing the cane he held, he clutched at himself.

Slightly breathless from fear and shock, Charles staggered to a stop before the pair . . . just as Emma put a foot atop the bounder, locking him in place on the ground.

And Charles found himself breathless with something else: awe.

The pair looked Charles’s way. Surprise filled Emma’s eyes. “Charles,” she blurted with no small amount of surprise—a surprise he understood all too well. And with her foot adroitly resting atop the gentleman’s throat, where one forward press would kill the man, she would have ended any ill-timed movements on his part. “What are you doing here?” she asked, conversing as easily as if they met over tea and not with her in the middle of Regent Street, defending herself like some Spartan warrior woman of old.

He doffed his hat. “Uh . . . saving you?”

Emma widened her eyes.

“But not,” he was quick to add. Clearly not. Yet again, his former betrothed had saved herself, and quite nicely . . . first from an unwanted betrothal, and now, it would seem, from some bounder on the street.

There came an animal-like whimpering, bringing Charles’s attention back to the pale-faced lord. “Do I need to kill him?” he asked conversationally. “Or do you wish to see to the honor yourself?” The ghost of a smile danced on her lips, that beautiful tilt of her mouth so infrequently bestowed upon him that it sent his heart into an overtime rhythm.

The man moaned, turning his head slightly enough that Emma angled her heel down a fraction, halting any further movement. She hesitated a moment, then slowly removed her foot.

Charles leaned down, and taking the man by the front of his jacket, he drew him up by the lapels so the coward had no choice but to look him in the eyes. “If you ever go about handling Miss Gately, or any other woman, that way again, I will happily destroy you,” he said, adding an icy smile that sent the man in his arms trembling. “Only after she’s finished with you, of course. Is that understood?”

The cad frantically nodded, blubbering like a babe. Charles wasn’t finished with him. Not until he heard the words. “Is that understood?”

“Y-yes! Yeessssss!”

Except Charles couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let off so easy a man who’d ever put his hands upon her. “Make your apologies.”

His eyes darting over to Emma, the man swallowed visibly. “I’m s-sorry,” the younger man said on a rush.

“Assure her that it shall not happen again.”

“Never!”

“To any woman.”

The coward under him quaked all the more, and also hesitated. Charles brought up his fist, and the scared pup whimpered.

“To any woman! To any woman,” he cried, repeating that second promise all the louder.

Charles hesitated a moment longer, then released the whimpering fellow, lowering him back to his feet.

The moment he was free, the blubbering lord scrambled about, snagging the spectacles Charles, previously tunneled in on his fury, hadn’t even realized the man wore, and a cane. The cad made a beeline for his townhouse, tripping and stumbling over his legs as he took the steps two at a time.

The moment he was inside, he slammed the panel shut.

In the aftermath of the moment, the battle, Charles’s body continued to thrum. “You’re certain—?”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m quite unharmed.” She spoke quickly and with a greater steadiness and calm to her voice than he was capable of in this moment.

That would make one of them who was fine, then.

Emma glanced about, muttering to herself, and then her eyes lit. Hurrying up the steps, she collected a delicate white lace parasol and draped it at her shoulder.

Unlike Charles, who was unsteadied by the whole damned exchange, she was masterful in her strength. God, in her defense of herself, and in her absolute lack of need of Charles or any warm-blooded man, she was magnificent.

“Will you walk with me?” Charles asked.

Following the emergency meeting of the Mismatch Society, Emma had assembled all manner of words she had for Charles, and knew precisely how she intended to deliver them.

None of them had been warm.

None of them had even been remotely kind.

But then, all of them flew out of her head with that one question: Will you walk with me?

It was the first time he’d ever asked to do . . . anything with her.

Yes, they’d often danced at ton events, but only because his parents were standing over him, ensuring he remembered to ask for the next set.

But this? This was different.

This offering came with just the two of them together, Charles having rushed to assist her. Granted, she’d not needed assistance in that particular moment, but he’d let her handle all that—deciding on when her exchange with Lord Newhart was at an end—and that ceding of power was something she’d not expected of him. Or any man.

And . . . she didn’t know what to do with the moment or with him.

She was, once again, the besotted girl just out of the schoolroom, all tongue-tied around Charles, the Earl of Scarsdale, and she hated herself for that weakness. Granted, neither could she do anything to break herself free of that weakness. She’d focus on her anger with him later.

His brow dipped.

“Yes,” she blurted. “That . . . would be fine.”

And falling into step, they began their stroll in the most unexpected part of London, on their first, and unlikeliest, of outings.

Charles’s gaze went to the place Lord Newhart had touched Emma, and it was as though he sought to discover for himself whether that flesh, concealed by a cloak, bore bruises. She braced, expecting him to press her with questions about Lord Newhart’s attempted assault. “Why were you there?”

“Lord Newhart is brother to one of my dear friends, a fellow lady of the society,” she explained, without really explaining anything. “Miss Cressida Alby.”

“That man has a sister,” he said between clenched teeth.

She nodded. “He’s not a sibling like any of mine or yours.” Emma clenched and unclenched her fingers around the handle of her parasol. Equal parts pity and loathing for what the cad no doubt inflicted upon the girl sent rage rippling through her. “After Cressida broke her betrothal to a man chosen by Lord Newhart, he forbade her from attending the Mismatch Society.” Emma’s mouth hardened. “He took exception to her being a member, and severed her connection with the society.” As so many other men had done to their daughters and sisters.

“And you were there, attempting to change the gentleman’s opinion,” he murmured. His words, however, didn’t end with the upward tilt of a question.

It was a rule ingrained into women from the nursery: thou shalt not challenge a gentleman. Their egos were too fragile; women were warned of the perils of offending any man. Emma paused in the middle of the pavement, bringing Charles to a stop beside her.

“I trust you intend to lecture me on challenging guardians and brothers on behalf of their sisters.” And she didn’t make hers a question, either. “And venturing out without the benefit of a maid or footman?”

“Though I confess to wondering as to where your maid or footman might be”—his lips pulled in a crooked devil’s grin that did funny things to her still unordered thoughts—“I’m hardly the one to go about lecturing anyone on anything.” His smile dipped into a wistful, sad little smile. “And certainly not you.”

His admission, however, brought her back on her heels.

Her brothers, her father, and certainly any other man would have been so offended at her being here, and handling herself as she had.

“If Miss Alby’s brother would seek to control her and place his hands upon any woman, then she was wise to end an engagement supported by one such as him,” he said tersely.

Emma started, whipping up a gaze to his ice-filled one as the truth of the moment hit her—he supported Cressida Alby’s decision.

His mouth, previously wistful, formed a wry smile. “Did you think I should commiserate because I’m also a product of a broken betrothal?”

“I . . .” Heat rushed her face, for, well . . . she had thought that.

They reached a bustling corner of the street, made impassable by a not-so-small contingent of builders attempting to navigate four stacked, twenty-meter beams across the roadway. Charles faced her. “I would never hold Miss Alby’s decision to command her future against her.” His eyes locked with hers, the power within those depths so intense they robbed her lungs of air. “Just as I don’t hold you responsible for making the decision about what you wanted.” His lips quirked at the right corner, highlighting the dimple there. “Even if I wanted you to choose differently for entirely selfish reasons.”

Emma fluttered a hand about her breast, before realizing what she did. She let her arm fall, and glanced about.

Charles looked off. “It is passable again,” he said, holding out an arm, and Emma hesitated a moment before placing her fingers atop his sleeve and allowing him to guide her on the path they’d been traveling.

Stunned—or rather, shamed—into silence by his revelation this day, as well as by the palpable fury on the other woman’s behalf, Emma focused her eyes forward . . . and tried to make sense of any of what she’d just learned about Charles. For neither had she believed he’d be one to stand there in wait, allowing her to handle a situation as she had a short while ago with the baron. Trusting her, but lending his presence for support should she require it.

She needed to process all these pieces of a man she didn’t know. Not truly. For this? This was yet another first for her with this man . . .

As they walked, he picked up the discourse they’d left. “Your visit today, then, was to call out Miss Alby’s brother?”

“No, to visit Cressida,” she said automatically. “I wanted to ascertain she was well.”

He shot her a look.

She wrinkled her nose. “And to speak to her brother.”

Emma and Charles shared a smile.

They neared the place where her driver sat in wait, and she found herself oddly regretful that this time with Charles was coming to an end.

When they stopped, Tensly jumped down to greet them, but still, neither she nor Charles made a move to leave. To end the exchange.

The driver fell back.

Charles removed his hat, fiddling with the brim; it was . . . an endearingly distracted gesture from a man whom she’d believed to be imperturbable. He moved a searing gaze over her face, his eyes warm like the spring sun beating down upon them. And surely it was those rays which accounted for the heat unfurling within her. “You handled yourself . . .” A breeze stole across the bustling roads, and he paused. Reaching up a hand, he caught a loose strand that had become untucked during her earlier efforts with Lord Newhart. Charles retained his hold upon that lock, and had she not been studying him so closely as she was, were her body and mind and every part of her not so in tune with every passing moment of this exchange, she’d have missed the way in which he lightly rubbed that blonde piece between his bare thumb and forefinger, as if he were testing the feel of it . . . committing it to memory. “Magnificent.”

Her breath caught, that swift inhalation lost on another wind gust. Did he speak of her hair, which was so agonizingly bone-dry straight she’d brought maids to tears trying to assemble the uncurlable locks? Or did he refer to how she’d handled Newhart? Everything was confused, just then.

At last, Charles brushed the strand back behind her ear, tucking it in place there.

But neither of them moved. They each remained locked where they stood, feet frozen to the pavement. Her family’s servants in the wings, with a sea of workers passing by, and she couldn’t bring herself to care about any of it.

“You were magnificent back there.” He repeated the whole of the thought, and her heart . . . damn her heart for lifting at that praise, when most men would have been horrified at a lady acting so. At a woman not filling and fitting the role of meek lady in need of rescuing.

“The Duchess of Wingate’s husband, as you know, was a fighter. He’s provided lessons for our members so that we might be able to defend ourselves.”

She searched again for some hint that her words were met with shock or derision.

Another smile formed on Charles’s mouth. “You could school the men of Gentleman Jackson’s, including Gentleman Jackson himself.” Bowing his head, Charles stepped back. “Good day, Emma.”

And with that, he left. Emma stared at his retreating frame.

All these years, she’d taken Lord Scarsdale as a replica of every last lord in London who chafed at women asserting and exerting themselves in any way. She’d expected he’d be like the men who wished for women to be seen and not heard.

And she didn’t know what to do with this new glimpse of the man she’d almost wed.