The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,108
And with that bold, husky whisper, she kissed him.
And he was fairly certain he’d never been happier than he was in this moment.
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