The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,55
would have to do far better than that, Charles.” Her rebuttal emerged as a breathless whisper, one that dared him, challenged him to do just that.
Chapter 11
THE LONDONER
HURT FEELINGS?
With the Earl of Scarsdale succeeding as mightily as he is with the operation of his new club, his former betrothed, Miss Gately, is certainly seething with the jealousy only a woman is capable of.
M. FAIRPOINT
You would have to do far better than that?
Where had those words come from?
And which had they been? A challenge or plea?
With her body pressed against his nearly naked one, everything for Emma, in this moment, had become jumbled, twisted in her mind.
Her reason for being here clouded by that simple husky promise he’d made: I could, you know.
For actually, she hadn’t known it. She hadn’t known he’d have cared either way about wanting to . . . or trying.
He angled his lips lower, placing them near her neck, his breath a teasing, ticklish warmth that sent her belly dancing and her senses spinning. “Is that a request, Emma-love?”
Her body trembled and her eyes slid shut.
Stop!
He’s merely playing at seduction. Just as he’d played at wounded betrothed after she’d called it off.
Emma scrambled away from him, her ankle wobbling slightly under its heel as she hastily put a much-needed step between her and Charles, and whatever effect he was having on her. “You robbed from me, Charles Hayden, and I’m here to order you to cease, this instant, or be prepared for the consequences.”
His brow furrowed.
Was it the fact that he’d failed in his seduction? Or the charges she’d leveled? Either way, she felt a rush of triumph at having turned the tables on him.
Calling forth the script in her mind, Emma continued on the offensive. “You have made a scandal and embarrassment of me for the last time, Charles. I won’t allow it.” Not this time. Not when she’d put up with society’s scorn since she’d made her Come Out and the world had delighted in reminding her that she was the unwanted future bride of the sought-after, charming Lord Scarsdale.
He shook his head slowly. “I am afraid I do not follow, Emma?” He spoke haltingly, his words ending on the uptilt of a question.
Emma cut him off. “Oh, come, Charles,” she scoffed.
“Wait . . . you are . . . offended because of my club?”
Oh, if that wasn’t a false surprise better suited to the ultimate actor on the London stage.
“You think I would be happy that you created a rival league?” she shot back.
“Well, I confess I didn’t think you’d necessarily be unhappy.” He flashed one of those lazy smiles, surely meant to disarm. “But neither did I believe it would merit this reaction. I did consider the possibility you might even be . . .” Charles held out both his palms, balancing them back and forth like the scales of justice, perfectly framing his heavily muscled chest, his flat, defined, contoured belly. Emma’s stomach fluttered as she found herself briefly transfixed by the sight of him.
“Indifferent?” She managed to supply him with that hated word. The irony of it was not lost on her, as she was fighting to keep her thoughts ordered over the mere sight of him.
He brightened, and let his arms fall. “Yes, precisely. That was the very word I had in mind.”
Yes, precisely. Because she, Emma Gately, was nothing if not indifferent . . . about everything. It was how the world had come to see her, because, well, that was how she’d allowed herself to be viewed. She’d affected an air of indifference to conceal the hurt that came from having a betrothed who was just that—indifferent to her. Steeling her spine, she took a step toward him, cursing the shoes she’d selected that slowed her pace. “Well, I’m not, Charles,” she snapped. “I’m neither happy nor indifferent . . .”
He cleared his throat, his briefly relieved expression fading. “Which suggests ‘angry,’ then.”
Emma brought her hands together in a slow, deliberate, and sarcastic clap. “Precisely, Lord Scarsdale.” In fairness, he’d not known she’d be upset. Now that he did, he would end this foolish enterprise.
“Yes, well, I am sorry for that, but I’ve no intention of ceasing my operations, if that is what you are asking,” he said bluntly, effectively killing that delusion she’d allowed herself.
Emma strangled on her response. “You . . . you . . .”
Charles stared back patiently.
“Demanding!” she shouted. “I’m not asking. I’m demanding you cease.”