The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,41
to adjust her vision to the afternoon sun . . . and gasped.
A slightly soft-around-the-middle gentleman stood at the base of the steps.
The brother.
Raising a monocle, he peered at her. “Miss Gately,” he said coolly.
Emma donned the same smile she had when first meeting Trudy; however, the baron proved even more unbendable than the maid. “Lord Newhart,” she greeted, infusing as much charm as she could, finding herself with the opportunity she’d sought. Holding on to the wrought iron rail, Emma took the steps to meet him. “I had hoped to speak with you.”
“Oh?” He doffed a hat so high it looked more a prop for a stage with a farcical production about some lord than an actual article a real, nonfictional man might wear.
“I don’t know if you are aware, but I’m one of the founders of the Mis—”
He cut her off. “I know precisely who you are.”
Hmph. So this was not going to be as easy as she’d anticipated. Not that she should have expected anything else, given how the male members of Polite Society had responded to the formation of the Mismatch Society.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gately?” The gentleman made to step around her, and she hurried to place herself in his path.
“If I might beg a moment of your time, Lord Newhart?” She added another smile to her appeal.
All the while her mind raced, running through everything she already knew about the man before her, as well as everything her friend and Trudy had revealed this day, about his pomposity, his regard for his title. She shifted tactics.
He grunted. “What is it?”
“It is just . . . your sister has been such an addition to”—his brows dipped, and Emma continued, careful to leave out mention of the name of the society that blinded this man and most men to anything but their resentment—“Polite Society,” she neatly substituted. Some of the tension eased from his high brow.
“Oh?”
“Yes, yes. Very much so. I do not know if Cressida has mentioned, amongst her friends she includes the Viscountess St. John. The Dowager Viscountess St. John.” There was a visible softening to the man’s fleshy lips with every respectable title she dropped. “The Countess of Waterson and the Duchess of Wingate.”
The pale planes of his rounded face tensed, and he thumped the bottom of his cane on the limestone step. That thumping inadvertently sent loose pieces of the stone flaking free. “A former courtesan and a street fighter’s wife. My sister is above reproach and will not be keeping company with such shameful, wicked, wanton creatures.” With every insult hurled, the color in his face deepened until his cheeks were splotchy red.
That red matched the rage that raced through her at the audacity of this man, who couldn’t hold a candlestick to the women of strength and courage and convictions.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” he demanded, this time sharper and harsher in that command.
“No, I will not.” Emma dropped her hands onto her hips and blocked his efforts once more.
His already buglike eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon.”
“You are making your sister a prisoner, and I am here demanding you set her free to spend her days as she would. And she would have those days spent at the Mismatch Society.”
“You . . . you . . .” He surged forward, and Emma kept herself rooted to the place where she stood on the middle of his steps, even as under her skirts, her legs trembled and the nerve endings cried to flee. If she did, then the message would be sent loud and clear to bullying men such as the one before her that the women of the Mismatch Society could be intimidated. “Stand out of my way.”
If bullied once, bullied a thousand times more in the future to come. “I will not, until you agree to let Cressida attend.”
“My God, you are stupid.”
Emma curved her lips in a slow smile meant to challenge and taunt. “I prefer brave.”
He shot out a hand, gripping her arm so hard he pulled a gasp from her. And it only emboldened him. Cocksure and arrogant, as only a bullying man could be. He tightened his hold all the more, and tears pricked behind her eyes from the fierceness of his touch.
And then Lord Newhart smiled his first smile of their meeting. “No woman will ever dare come to my household and order me about. That is a mistake, Miss Gately.”