The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,45
wait, allowing her to handle a situation as she had a short while ago with the baron. Trusting her, but lending his presence for support should she require it.
She needed to process all these pieces of a man she didn’t know. Not truly. For this? This was yet another first for her with this man . . .
As they walked, he picked up the discourse they’d left. “Your visit today, then, was to call out Miss Alby’s brother?”
“No, to visit Cressida,” she said automatically. “I wanted to ascertain she was well.”
He shot her a look.
She wrinkled her nose. “And to speak to her brother.”
Emma and Charles shared a smile.
They neared the place where her driver sat in wait, and she found herself oddly regretful that this time with Charles was coming to an end.
When they stopped, Tensly jumped down to greet them, but still, neither she nor Charles made a move to leave. To end the exchange.
The driver fell back.
Charles removed his hat, fiddling with the brim; it was . . . an endearingly distracted gesture from a man whom she’d believed to be imperturbable. He moved a searing gaze over her face, his eyes warm like the spring sun beating down upon them. And surely it was those rays which accounted for the heat unfurling within her. “You handled yourself . . .” A breeze stole across the bustling roads, and he paused. Reaching up a hand, he caught a loose strand that had become untucked during her earlier efforts with Lord Newhart. Charles retained his hold upon that lock, and had she not been studying him so closely as she was, were her body and mind and every part of her not so in tune with every passing moment of this exchange, she’d have missed the way in which he lightly rubbed that blonde piece between his bare thumb and forefinger, as if he were testing the feel of it . . . committing it to memory. “Magnificent.”
Her breath caught, that swift inhalation lost on another wind gust. Did he speak of her hair, which was so agonizingly bone-dry straight she’d brought maids to tears trying to assemble the uncurlable locks? Or did he refer to how she’d handled Newhart? Everything was confused, just then.
At last, Charles brushed the strand back behind her ear, tucking it in place there.
But neither of them moved. They each remained locked where they stood, feet frozen to the pavement. Her family’s servants in the wings, with a sea of workers passing by, and she couldn’t bring herself to care about any of it.
“You were magnificent back there.” He repeated the whole of the thought, and her heart . . . damn her heart for lifting at that praise, when most men would have been horrified at a lady acting so. At a woman not filling and fitting the role of meek lady in need of rescuing.
“The Duchess of Wingate’s husband, as you know, was a fighter. He’s provided lessons for our members so that we might be able to defend ourselves.”
She searched again for some hint that her words were met with shock or derision.
Another smile formed on Charles’s mouth. “You could school the men of Gentleman Jackson’s, including Gentleman Jackson himself.” Bowing his head, Charles stepped back. “Good day, Emma.”
And with that, he left. Emma stared at his retreating frame.
All these years, she’d taken Lord Scarsdale as a replica of every last lord in London who chafed at women asserting and exerting themselves in any way. She’d expected he’d be like the men who wished for women to be seen and not heard.
And she didn’t know what to do with this new glimpse of the man she’d almost wed.
Chapter 9
THE LONDONER
A RAGING SUCCESS
The Earl of Scarsdale’s club continues to grow in membership, prestige, and greatness. Is it a wonder with such a leader at its helm?
M. FAIRPOINT
Over a few days’ time, not only had Charles established his club to counter Emma and her Mismatch Society, he’d secured a respectable venue and attracted a number of also respectable members.
In short, everything was going along swimmingly.
And certainly merited the likely celebratory invitation Charles’s footman, Wickham, held out.
Seated at the desk in his rooms, Charles accepted the sheet, and unfolding it, he made quick work of skimming the customary short, clever poem-like verse from his friend:
After the work you’ve done this week, it is a celebration we should of course seek. Glasses need be raised in toast, as we allow you that proper boast