The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,32

have dressed up his actions, the truth remained: he’d been as disloyal as every other man. He was no different from the company that he—

She froze . . .

Her thoughts trickled to a slow stop, then resumed a rapid, waterfall-like flow, each thought after another crashing through.

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare interfere in this. Why, the idea even coming to her was preposterous. A man who spent his days at his clubs and his nights at his wicked clubs, Charles Hayden, the Earl of Scarsdale, wasn’t one to go filling any part of his time with a pursuit such as the Mismatch Society. It defied logic and reason of the rules of rakes and rogues.

And yet, telling herself all that . . . she knew. She knew with the intuition only a woman was capable of—the same intuition that had told her at the age of six that he didn’t wish to wed her.

Because she knew him. Even as he’d insisted she didn’t. She knew how he thought. And following their broken betrothal, witnessing his dogged determination, she’d learned the depths to which he’d go to make her life an everlasting hell.

A curtain of red rage fell across her vision, briefly blinding . . .

“And who is the founder of this great society?” Clara, former courtesan turned countess and proprietor and a leader amongst the ranks, put that question to the viscount in a way that had him shifting once more.

“Scarsdale,” Emma hissed, answering for the viscount and bringing everyone’s focus back over to her. This had the earl’s doing all over it.

Lord St. John hesitated, then nodded.

A curse exploded from her lips, the sound paired with Charles’s name and drowned out by like curses from her offended sisterhood.

Sylvia clapped her hands. “You are excused, husband.” The viscount promptly stood. “This has been most informative.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“You’re not mad, then,” he said, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“I did not say that exactly.” The viscountess adjusted her husband’s cravat in an intimate, tender moment Emma couldn’t look away from. She’d wanted that for herself. And having always known what marital fate awaited her, Lord Scarsdale had slid into those imaginings, taking up a natural place in the romantic musings she’d once carried.

Seized by a regret that would always be there, Emma forcibly averted her gaze.

Lord St. John made a beeline for the doorway. He paused at the entrance, clinging to the threshold. “I should also point out the meetings aren’t exclusively reserved for gentlemen,” he said. “Women have also been encouraged to attend.”

With that, he left.

Energy ran through Emma. It brought her to her feet, and she began to pace. The Mismatch Society fell to what was becoming a new quiet for them. And she felt all their eyes upon her as she marched back and forth across Lady Sylvia’s floral Aubusson carpet. That was how it had always been: because of him, all eyes upon her. Not for any reasons that were good. But because she was the object of pity. And scorn. People saw his infidelities and the delay of their nuptials as a reflection of Emma, some imagined failings over which she’d had no control.

But this? This was different. This was him infringing upon something she had created. Nay, the first endeavor she’d ever had in the whole of her life. When Emma had first paid a visit to the three women living on Waverton Street, she’d stepped through the doors, there seeking guidance on how to change. How to earn Charles’s affections. Everything had changed that day. Nay, more importantly, Emma had changed that day. She’d looked at her reasons for being there. She’d considered everything that had been asked and expected of her . . . and had come to find she wanted no part of that. From the seeds of her resentment with her lot in life, the Mismatch Society had been conceived . . .

She seethed, her steps growing more frantic and frenzied.

Olivia stretched out a hand, and Emma ignored it, increasing her stride once more.

Now he’d simply start up his own damned society. And he’d sold it, so convincing in his reason for doing so that he’d swayed Lord St. John into thinking there was something more to it than there was.

And, of course, Charles’s gathering included women. And, of course, those women would invariably attend. Because all society was endlessly fascinated by the charming rogue. But to know so many of the women she called friends had