The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,7

hadn’t he made her laugh? He made everyone laugh. But her? He’d not even managed to make her smile.

Because you never tried. And it is a little late, chum, to start trying now.

He knew that. Knowing, however, did not undo the sense that . . . if she left, and if they left it off with a severed betrothal, he’d somehow be missing . . . even more.

After the young lady’s laughter had abated, she gave her head a rueful shake. “Good day, Lord Scarsdale. Thank you for the much appreciated levity.” Emma rushed off, her strides long and as purposeful as any gent’s, and not the mincing, tediously slow ones that society demanded of women.

By God, even her damned steps were intriguing. How had he failed to notice . . . any of it . . . before now?

When it was too late?

A pair of young ladies appeared in the distance, meeting Emma. One he recognized as her sister. The other lady proved unfamiliar to him.

He didn’t even know . . . whom she called friends, and the truth of that hit him in the gut, like a fist-blow of evidence to his failings as her betrothed.

Charles watched on, an interloper amongst the supportive trio of friends and ladies united over his and Emma’s breakup. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides.

The women spoke for several moments, with Emma periodically nodding.

It wasn’t a slow or shaky nod that bespoke upset, but rather the vigorous shake of a woman so wholly at peace and in complete happiness at what had transpired this day. The trio fell into step, and with each one that carried her farther away, the pressure in his chest grew and grew, crushing, crippling.

He stilled as Emma tossed a look over her shoulder, glancing his way.

Charles froze, for even across the distance dividing them, he caught it.

Aside from wringing his first laugh from Emma Gately, he managed another first that day—she smiled. One of the young ladies flanking her said something, calling back her attention, and with that, she looked away . . . and continued on.

She’d smiled at him, after all.

And all it had taken was the end of their betrothal.

Chapter 1

London, England

Mayfair

1829

THE LONDONER

SCANDAL!

The Earl of Scarsdale and Miss Gately have severed their long betrothal. It is rumored society’s most charming rogue and scoundrel broke it off, allowing the lady her dignity while maintaining his bachelor state!

M. FAIRPOINT

Charles Hayden, the Earl of Scarsdale, was under attack.

His household under siege.

Nor was it the first time the townhouse had been invaded.

But every time was terror-inducing.

And even more so when the assault upon his household came in the dead of night.

Heart pounding, Charles surged upright in his bed, and frantically blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around his darkened chambers. His gaze settled on the front of his rooms.

“I’m certain His Lordship . . .” His butler, Tomlinson, was giving it his usual great effort.

History, however, had proven there was only one inevitable outcome . . .

“Step aside, Tomlinson . . .”

. . . and that outcome never ended in Charles’s favor.

“I have a meeting with my son . . .”

A meeting.

Was it really fair to call whatever this forced entry was “a meeting”?

Lectures. Debates. Arguments, yes. He’d had all those with his father, ad nauseum.

But discussions? Nay, never that. Since he’d entered the world, he’d suffered through some order or another, coming from the man now marching toward him.

The footfalls and voices grew closer and the servant’s tone increasingly strident, elevated in what had come to be his way of preparing Charles as much as he could, for as much as he was able. “I trust His Lordship will be happy to meet you . . . when he has awakened for the morn—”

“This is a matter of urgency that will not wait.”

Not, a matter that could not wait.

But rather, a matter that will not wait.

It was a slight but telltale distinction, belonging to a marquess who was unaccustomed to taking anything but what he wanted and expected as his due.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, the stubble on his cheeks scratching his palm, Charles sighed and swung his naked legs over the side of the bed. Bloody hell. It was too early for this.

The door, however, had yet to be breach—

“Step aside,” his father bellowed.

The panel burst open with such force it slammed against the opposite wall. The marquess already had his cane up in anticipation, stopping the oak slab from connecting with