The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,15

wife, and seated at the head of the desk, that was where all pretense of power ended. Her mother, stationed in a thronelike chair to the right of him like some manner of aide to the king, had always been the one calling the proverbial shots.

As far back as Emma could remember, whatever the reason for her summons, be it daydreaming in her lessons or the biscuits she’d been filching in the kitchens, they’d always presented a unified front in every way, but it had been unfailingly clear who ultimately guided all decision-making.

“Mother,” she greeted when she reached one of the giltwood side chairs opposite them. “Father.” She didn’t bother waiting for an invitation, but rather seated herself in one of the deucedly uncomfortable chairs. No one, absolutely no one, would ever convince her the decor option wasn’t by design, a bid to distract or keep at a disadvantage whoever was across from them.

Well, not this day.

“Mother? Father?” her father demanded of his wife.

“I’ll handle this, dear,” the viscountess promised, patting his enormous hand. She turned a full frown on Emma. “We do not like your tone. ‘Mothering’ and ‘Fathering’ us. You do that when you’re upset.”

Emma, however, wasn’t in a “Mama” and “Papa” affectionate frame of mind. She hadn’t been for some time now.

“You wished to see me,” Emma said. The last thing she intended was to allow them to distract her with their hurt feelings at being called by the proper “Mother” and “Father.” “Nor do I believe my summons has anything to do with what I refer to you as.”

Her mother’s eyebrows met her hairline.

When issued a summons, none dared to challenge the viscountess. Emma pressed her advantage of the distinguished viscountess’s shock. “Before you say whatever it is this time about my betrothal—” She grimaced. Nay, that wasn’t correct. That would merely fuel their relentless hope. “That is, my former betrothal. I have something I would like to say.” A very lot of somethings. And she’d been organizing them in her mind for years and years, and the moment had finally come to speak her truth. “In the matter of Lord Scarsdale—”

“The marriage is not to be.”

That statement from her mother brought Emma up short. She quickly righted herself, nodding. “Yes, precisely. E-exactly.” Well, that was hardly satisfying . . . having her speech correctly predicted. She hurried to right herself. “That is precisely what I came here to say. He—”

“Scarsdale is not the man we believed he was, Emie,” the viscount stated in such angry tones it took a moment to register what he said.

At five inches past six feet and some twenty stone, her father had always had the look and sound of a bear when he was upset. For two months that bellicose grumbling had been directed her way. Until now. This time, in the matter of her broken betrothal to Scarsdale, his disappointment was in fact directed not at her but at . . . Charles?

Emma opened her mouth, but promptly closed it, not even bothering to attempt for words that were not there. For . . . this was certainly not what she’d been expecting. Every carefully crafted argument as to why she’d never wed Charles—and every incisive arrow she’d intended to level about their regard for the gentleman—fell, useless.

Husband and wife reached for one another’s hands, and clasped their fingers in that familiar, affectionate way. All the while, they continued to stare back at Emma. As she stared back at them.

Catching the underside of her chair, she inched the rickety seat over. “Come again?”

“Come where again?” her father asked perplexedly, very much Morgan and Pierce’s sire. “We’ve not gone anywhere.”

“You are telling me you see that Scarsdale is a scoundrel and that you no longer expect me to marry him?” she asked bluntly.

Her parents nodded, the gestures remarkably synchronized.

“I believe you have that right,” her mother answered for the pair. “However, we’ve not used those exact words, per se.”

“‘Scoundrel’ is rather harsh, Emie,” her father said with a weighty disapproval in his deep, rumbling voice.

Now, this was what she had expected.

Emma folded her arms at her chest. “What would you call a gentleman who has kept on with any number of mistresses?” Including the notorious Misses Lee and Linden, two women he’d carried on with and been linked to over the years. “And who also had a child with one of his mistresses while being betrothed?” she asked, deadpan. A child he’d, at the time, not even allowed Emma, his