The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,60

. . it threatened to weaken her in ways she couldn’t afford.

What have I done?

“I trust you’re feeling very s-smug.” Her voice quavered as she spoke. “That this was some sort of t-test.”

Finding another clean portion of his lawn shirt, he brought it between her legs and gently, tenderly cleaned her. “Hardly smug,” he said gruffly. “And never a test.” His eyes locked with hers. “Never that, and never in this w-way.”

Her lips slipped apart, that slight tremble of his last spoken word there hinting at a man as shaken as she’d been by their exchange. And . . . that unsteadiness bonded them in a way that sent her flying to her feet, nearly toppling him in the process.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Sadly, yes.” This time there was the hint of his rogue’s drawl that somehow restored her semblance of thoughts, and reminded her that he was still the same roguish Charles he’d always been.

Emma hurried off to fetch her cloak.

He intercepted her efforts, collecting the garment first. He snapped it once, and brought it about her shoulders. “I should see you h—”

“I’m not alone,” she hurried to assure him. “My sister and Olivia wait below.” Outside in a miserable hackney, while Emma had been learning the wonder her body was capable of. Heat bloomed on her cheeks.

She clasped the latch at her throat and headed for the door. She made to raise her hood.

“Emma?” he called.

She paused, staring questioningly at him.

Charles strolled over to join her at the door. He reached up, and her heart hammered as he set to work righting her chignon, brushing the loose strands back behind her ears. “I am sorry if I offended you earlier . . . in what I said,” he murmured, lowering his hands, and she silently mourned the loss of those intimate ministrations he’d performed. “That was not my intention.”

And not for the first time that night, Charles stole her breath. He’d . . . apologized.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

For so much.

She might resent his past treatment of her, but he’d shown her passion that she’d not believed to ever know, and had done so without judgment. And as much as she might regret losing any part of herself, his had also been a gift. One that left her at sea, attempting to sort through a balance between the pleasure she’d wanted and the pride she sought to protect. Because she could not have both. At least not with Charles Hayden, the Earl of Scarsdale.

“Emma?” he called, cutting into her panicky musings. Charles grabbed each of her forgotten slippers in his hands and held them up. “And your slippers?”

“Ah, there is a good deal to be said for a comfortable slipper. And there’s even more to be said poorly about an uncomfortable heel. They shall only slow me down.”

He grinned . . . and despite all the terror reality had brought, Emma found herself smiling in return.

And with that, barefoot, Emma left.

Chapter 12

THE LONDONER

A RENAISSANCE MAN

Notorious rogue the Earl of Scarsdale continues to be spied in London bookshops. Between his rumored hunting, shooting, and boxing skills, he epitomizes a true Renaissance man. It is no wonder the dour, unsmiling bluestocking Miss Gately was unable to make good on their betrothal.

M. FAIRPOINT

Over the years, Charles had all manner of thoughts about Emma Gately, his one-day bride, whom he’d known since she was in the cradle. He’d believed she was an impossibly wild little girl, who’d grown into a woman who was proper and staid, and who dutifully did whatever it was her parents expected of her.

And yet in just over two months, he’d come to find all the ways in which he’d been wrong about her.

He’d failed to see—and appreciate—her spirit. Her biting and clever wit. Her strength and courage that had allowed her to do whatever it was she wished, despite her parents’ opinions about those decisions. She’d proven a surprise in every way.

But last evening, her clandestine nighttime visit had marked his greatest shock where Emma was concerned.

Someday, hopefully a day a long way from this one now, when he drew his last breath, he’d do so with a smile, recalling her as she’d been in those shimmering crimson garments. The rustle of those articles as she’d walked, her siren’s song that had lured him.

And when she’d sat in that chair, laid possession of the seat in his chambers . . . and splayed her legs for him, she’d been beautifully unapologetic in her passion. She’d thrown