The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,63

Camille’s son was in fact Charles’s.

Seamus, however, with his flawless ability to focus on his studies and academic pursuits, was very much his mother’s son.

Unlike Charles. There’d always been more a distractedness to Charles’s lessons, with his mind shifting and twisting to some other different and, in the moment, more interesting endeavor.

Perhaps that was why establishing his own counter-club to Emma’s had proven so damned difficult. Because it required that focus he’d always been fighting to find within himself.

Strolling the empty aisles, Charles scanned the books’ spines, examining the titles. The overwhelming inventory of books made it nearly impossible for him to focus on finding one that might aid him in his new endeavor. It was like so much noise that he couldn’t crowd out.

And it was one of the reasons he’d come to so admire Emma. Not only had she managed to create something, but she’d made it look remarkably easy. When Charles knew it was anything but.

It did not mean, however, that he didn’t intend to try. Or that it couldn’t be done.

Distractedly, he studied the gold lettering of one particular title. Charles quickly snagged the book and pulled it from the shelf.

Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

He fanned the pages, his eyes skimming the words as they fluttered slowly by, and then they stopped.

His gaze passed over the passage upon the middle of the page, and he continued skimming.

And then stopped.

Frantically, he worked his eyes up . . . searching . . . and then he found them.

“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library . . .”

Charles stared contemplatively at the words written there. Over and over.

. . . there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book . . .

He went absolutely motionless as an idea cut through the previous confusion of his club. The idea broke free and blared strong.

Whistling a jaunty little tune, he began to read.

Chapter 13

THE LONDONER

DOWN WITH BOOKISH LADIES

Miss Gately is rumored to be single-handedly responsible for the surging interest amongst young ladies on matters of politics and business. For shame!

M. FAIRPOINT

Twelve hours after Emma’s early-morn rendezvous with Charles, she was certain she was never going to be able to clear the haze left by those stolen moments of bliss found with him.

He’d opened her eyes and body and soul to passion, which she’d never before thought to know.

And now she was never going to be the same.

Her world had been shaken. After all, what did it say about her that she’d faltered as she had in Charles’s rooms?

If she wavered in this way, she’d lose all that she had left where Charles and society were concerned—her pride.

Emma gripped the fabric of her skirts. No one could ever know.

An elbow collided with Emma’s side, snapping her from her reverie and bringing her back down to Earth. Or as Earth would have it . . . the uneven cobblestones of Watling Street.

“We are in a pickle . . . ,” her sister was saying.

Having lost the ability to think of anyone and anything but Charles and that passionate exchange, Emma knew her sister wasn’t wrong on that score.

“It is hard to say what is most dire about the situation. The fact that . . .” Isla stopped abruptly and slanted a sharp, assessing glance Emma’s way. Her eyes flared. “Are you paying attention?” she demanded with a no-nonsense quality to her tone.

“Of course,” Emma lied, her cheeks burning up.

Fortunately, one of the privileges enjoyed by eldest-born sisters everywhere was the freedom from being lectured.

Alas, Isla seemed not to have gotten those important notes.

“No, you are not!” she charged.

Or mayhap it was more a product of the Mismatch Society’s influence upon the previously measured girl. For she’d not ever been one to challenge Emma, and certainly not openly in the presence of company. Albeit Olivia and Owen . . . but company, still.

Isla marched at an impressive pace better suited to a military general. “You have no idea what I’ve been speaking about since the carriage ride. Do you?” she demanded of Emma.

It was one thing for Emma to acknowledge to herself that she’d been woolgathering. It was quite another to hear it from her younger sister, and youngest sibling. For it confirmed the very fear she’d carried, that the world would see