The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,3
them, there could be no disputing the fiery anger in the girl’s eyes. Burning, blazing hatred that he knew all too well. But somehow more . . . striking . . . when he saw it reflected back in the gaze of a six-year-old girl.
Charles gave his head a disgusted shake. His mother had spoken of his wedded bliss someday.
With that hellion?
Cursing to himself, Charles began the trek back to the manor, where he’d sign the betrothal documents binding himself forevermore to a child bride.
Seventeen years later
It made sense that she should have requested a meeting . . . beside a lake.
Albeit a different lake.
Not the private, secluded one of his family’s Leeds estate.
Rather, the very public Serpentine.
Although not at this hour. At the five o’clock morn time, only a lone gent stole a ride through the graveled riding paths, and the pink pelicans glided lazily over the serene surface.
Within a few hours, the very path he now strode would be bustling with passersby, all pretending for a brief interlude that they were away from the cacophony that was the metropolis of London life.
And it was the first time in the whole of his seventeen-year betrothal that Charles found himself intrigued by something—or anything—about the woman he was slated to wed in one month, four days, and—he consulted his timepiece—a handful of hours.
Charles crested the rise, and stopped in his tracks.
For the sight of the young woman, with her lace-ruffled skirts, may as well have been a still life from that time, long ago. Then, she’d had messy golden hair that had hung about her shoulders. Now, she was notorious for her tightly drawn-back hair and her features pinched in what he was convinced was a perpetual state of disapproval.
His earlier intrigue was swiftly replaced by the more familiar customary annoyance, one that he immediately concealed; as testy as she always was on the rare occasions they were together, she was still the daughter of his parents’ best friends, and she was still to be his bride. In sickness and in health. As long as they both should live. Doffing his hat, Charles started forward. “Good morning to you, Emma.” He called out that greeting, commandeering her Christian name, even as the lady despised it.
As he walked to meet her at the shore, he caught the greater tensing of her narrow lips and recalled the curt rebuke she’d dealt when he’d first called her thus at her Come Out.
Do not call me Emma. It is hardly proper. You do not even know me . . .
Though if he were being honest, shameful as it was, he quite enjoyed getting a rise out of the usually aloof, and almost unfailingly unexcitable, miss.
He reached her side, and dropped a bow. “I received—”
“You are late, Lord Scarsdale,” she said tersely, giving him a harsh once-over. “But then, you’ve made a habit of it.”
A habit of it?
A large part of him wanted to debate the chit on the point. Except, even as he wasn’t one who was generally tardy, he wasn’t altogether certain how carefully she’d been watching his comings and goings at ton events.
He flashed a smile. After all, she was his future bride, and his grin was the greatest weapon he had to thaw her.
She stared back coolly, proving herself once more wholly un-thawable.
Very well. Let them get on with whatever urgent matter had merited his presence for a morning meeting. Charles returned his hat to his head and adjusted the article. “You wished to see me to discuss our upcoming nuptials. I thought I was clear; matters pertaining to the flowers and breakfast arrangements and music selection”—and anything and everything else—“are entirely at your discretion.”
“Yes, you were.” Something flashed in her eyes, a glimmer different from the usual ice that filled the stares she directed his way. There was also a trace of . . . sadness . . . contained within. Gone so quick he may as well have imagined it. That, however, was enough to prod his guilt.
“Was there . . . however, something that you wished to consult me on?” he gently nudged, as he wasn’t averse to offering his opinion if she wished it. But he’d also known well enough before that a woman such as his betrothed wouldn’t want his interference in the arrangements surrounding the nuptials.
Emma clasped her hands before her primly, as if in prayer, laying the steepled fingers against the flat of her belly. “My mother was handling them.”