The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,49
role, at that, for him to be assigned. Near in height to Emma, he was even more painfully thin than Emma herself. A strong gust could knock over the young solicitor. And a strong gust in the form of his sister’s slight nudge between his shoulder blades when she was displeased with him, in fact, had toppled him. An air of frailty had always clung to the young man, who’d battled yellow fever as a boy and grown up with his books for company when the other boys were . . . well, doing what other boys did. Thin, bookish, and usually buried away in his work, that still hadn’t prevented him from accompanying the three ladies in a mark of his goodness and loyalty. “Are you certain you— Owww,” he cried out as he was dealt a third strike.
Touched that he’d brave his sister’s wrath on her behalf, Emma leaned over and patted him on the knee. “My apologies for your sister’s ruthlessness.”
And before he could launch another attempt to talk her out of an already dangerously bad decision, she adjusted the hood of her crimson cloak, drawing it up and pulling it forward so the deep folds shielded the whole of her face. Reaching past Olivia, Emma pressed the handle and jumped down.
The moment her feet hit the uneven cobblestones, each leg rolled outward, and she tossed her arms wide, steadying herself. When she had her feet properly under her, Emma began the short walk to Charles’s residence.
Nay, to Lord Scarsdale’s.
Visiting the gentleman in his residence at this hour required that degree of formality between them. And as much as she wished to be reviewing the script she’d prepared, Emma found all her attention was required on the perilous path that came from the heeled satin articles she’d donned.
She silently cursed.
What woman would prefer a blasted heel?
God give Emma a comfortable, smooth flat slipper over the ridiculousness of such a shoe any good English day of the week.
“I told you, you should have practiced more,” Isla whispered scandalously loudly behind her, before Olivia grabbed the younger girl and dragged her into the carriage and out of possible sight.
Yes, and it was the first time she’d truly considered she risked not just her reputation but her sister’s, as well. And Olivia’s. Granted, Owen was there, and his presence would salvage his sister’s some. But . . .
Stop.
Get in.
Say your piece.
Get done what you need to get done, and get out.
That quick, and in that order.
And yet . . . it wasn’t that simple. She’d spent the better part of her adult life thinking about her eventual future as Charles’s wife and . . . imagining being in his life.
In his bed.
Even as she’d known all the while that he’d never desired her. Or wanted her, or been attracted to her in any way. Which was perhaps why she’d spent the better part of the day also considering precisely what she’d wear for this upcoming meeting.
As Emma reached the bottom step of Charles’s townhouse, she climbed her gaze up the center unit, sandwiched between a bright-orange stucco residence trimmed in black paint on one side and a pale-green one on the other. Charles’s, constructed of pale-white limestone, extended some fifteen feet above the ones that flanked it. And for all the ornate luxuriance of those other structures, Charles’s possessed an urbane elegance, perfectly suited to the sophisticated occupant who called this place home.
When she’d first arrived in London and learned he kept a bachelor’s residence, she’d had her family’s driver take her riding by . . . several times. All the while, she’d peered from around the edge of the gold velvet curtain, considering this very townhouse. She’d wondered if it was the place they would one day call home together, because a man such as Charles wasn’t one who’d spend all his time at the country properties. But neither were the townhouses in these streets those ones frequently lived in by husbands and wives. Instead, they were well-known residences of bachelors.
She’d gone back and forth. Wondering. Trying to answer those questions in her mind.
It had been on the fourth carriage ride by that she’d seen it.
Nay, not it.
Him.
Or, rather, them.
Charles had been meeting his family at the doorway—his sister, his parents . . . and the small boy who lived with his parents.
His son.
She’d stared at that small boy, holding the hand of his aunt, as the family filed inside.