The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,68

women who’d attributed Emma’s height as just one of the many reasons her betrothed had wanted nothing to do with her. “Now, how one lives one’s life? How he or she treats others? How he or she helps others in need of help? That is what matters . . . ?” She stared at him questioningly, seeking his name.

“Seamus,” the child murmured. “My name is Seamus.”

Emma held out her spare hand. “And I am Emma.” The boy stared at it a moment before placing his fingers in hers and shaking. His hand was so very fragile and so very small, and for a moment, she wondered what it would be to have a child of her own. A tiny boy or girl who loved the same books she did. She’d thought of that once.

Before she’d fully appreciated just how very much her betrothed had despised her and the idea of a future with her.

Drawing back her hand, Emma forced aside thoughts of what was never to have been, and shifted her attention squarely to her new companion.

Lowering onto her stomach, she reached for the nearest book.

“Who is your favorite, Seamus?”

Chapter 14

THE LONDONER

A MEETING BETWEEN RIVALS

The dashing Earl of Scarsdale was seen beside the sour Miss Gately. Society is abuzz with what the two leaders of rival establishments might have been meeting on . . .

M. FAIRPOINT

Having collected a not-so-very-small stack of books for his new club, Charles deposited them at the counter and went off in search of his nephew, knowing implicitly where he’d find Seamus. And even more exactly, how he’d find him.

Seamus would be precisely as Charles had left him: sprawled upon his stomach with a stack of books spread out before him. But for the periodic turning of pages, he’d be absolutely silent, completely engrossed in whatever title he read that day.

As it turned out, when he came upon the boy, Seamus proved not so silent, but still engrossed . . . just in a way different from all the previous times before it.

And also . . . not alone.

“He is quite possibly the most critical thinker, the most accomplished of all the Enlightened philosophers,” Seamus said with more enthusiasm than Charles ever recalled of the boy.

“Oh, come,” the young woman who lay shoulder to shoulder beside Seamus scoffed. “He is highly overrated.”

From where he stood at the end of the aisle, Charles froze. That woman and her voice were both familiar. But it was impossible. It was more a product of him seeing her anywhere and everywhere. For there was no other accounting for how she’d come to be here, and with Seamus . . .

“Never!” Seamus said. “His is one of the most widely disseminated works of all the Enlightenment.”

Angling a hand out before her, she proceeded to tick points off on her fingers. “Born into a prominent family. A family whose influence provided him with the schooling and connections to rise effortlessly?”

“Well, who do you think is the best?” Seamus challenged, that slight emphasis indicating whomever it was would never hold up against the philosopher whose work he supported.

“Do you want to know?” Emma kicked up her heels, rucking her skirts slightly below her knees, and Charles swallowed hard, certain there wasn’t a more magnificent sight than she, conversing on matters of political philosophy with her shapely calves so exposed. At her side, Seamus brought his legs up, matching Emma’s posture.

The little boy nodded vigorously, his glasses slipping down. And then with the tenderest of movements, Emma leaned over and ever so naturally slid those rims back into their proper place.

Charles’s breath hitched, the sound thankfully lost to that unlikely pair so very engrossed in their debate.

“Le Rond,” she said.

Seamus blinked. “Le Ronnnd?” The added syllable to that particular name highlighted the boy’s incredulity and disappointment.

Emma nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause, and then Seamus burst out laughing. “You’re ribbing me.”

“Not at all,” she said with a seriousness that penetrated through the boy’s mirth. Fishing around a neater-than-usual stack of books, carefully piled and clearly a product of Emma’s influence, she plucked one of the titles free and popped it open.

“Le Rond isn’t as notable as the other Enlightened thinkers. But he also didn’t have a fancy, fine upbringing, as so many of them did. He didn’t come into the world with connections.” As she spoke, Seamus sat absorbed in her telling, with a riveted awe and fascination that Charles understood all too well, as he’d been bewitched by the same spell she wove. Emma