The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,72

to his deficits—of which there were many.

It was too much. Too intimate. And it was all happening too quickly, in this very public place.

Charles cleared his throat and averted his gaze, bringing it over to his wide-grinning nephew.

And by that wide grin, the boy also saw too much. “You did not say how you and Emma came to meet?” It was a question that, the moment it left his lips, Charles wished he hadn’t asked, because the light the boy had previously radiated . . . dimmed.

The boy’s gaze fell to the tips of his boots, and he studied the leather as intently as he did the books he pored over in the late-night hours. “Miss Gately was kind enough to . . . help me when . . . when . . .”

“You make more of it than there was,” Emma said quickly, resting a hand so gently, so naturally upon Seamus’s shoulder that a cinch squeezed tightly about Charles’s chest.

“I’m not.”

“Then we shall agree to disagree,” she said with a gentle but firm insistence. The pair exchanged a look, a warm, kind bond that only deepened the pressure weighing down on Charles.

“Emmma?”

They looked back as one to the trio standing there at the end of the aisle: Emma’s sister, Miss Isla Gately; and her friend Lady Olivia; and . . . Charles sharpened his gaze on the tall, wiry fellow scowling back at him.

Emma scrambled to her feet. “Isla! Olivia! Owen!”

Owen?

Not taking his eyes off the gentleman still glaring at him, Charles stood more slowly.

The gentleman whom Emma had spoken to so naturally looked her way. In an instant, the hardness left the fellow’s angular face, as he went instantly soft at the sight of her.

Charles’s back went up.

He knew the look of a besotted man. Nay, a man besotted with Emma Gately. It was a look he himself had worn for the better part of two months. And who was to say how much longer this gent had . . . and how long he’d been squiring Emma and her sister and friend about?

And not for the first time that day, he felt the burning sting of jealousy as it sizzled to life and ran through his veins like an electric charge, that seething sentiment more potent . . . this time not for the easy companionship Emma had known with Seamus, but because of the man before him.

Yes, he also knew a rival when he saw one.

“Seamus, Lord Scarsdale, allow me to introduce my sister, Isla; my dearest friend, Lady Olivia; and her brother, Mr. Owen Watley.” The gentleman, Mr. Owen Watley, dropped a stiff and reluctant bow. “This is Lord Scarsdale’s son, Mr. Seamus Hayden,” Emma finished.

Her pronouncement ushered in a quick, thick, and awkward silence.

Tension whipped through Charles, his own blistering resentment toward the younger gentleman’s regard for Emma temporarily forgotten, and he slid closer to Seamus. He rested a hand upon his nephew’s shoulder. From the corner of Charles’s eye, he caught a slight movement. In a show of solidarity and support, Emma flanked the boy’s other side.

God, she was . . . magnificent. Beautiful in her strength and support and honor.

What a fool he’d been.

The quiet abruptly ended.

Isla and Olivia, instantly smiles, came over to join them, exchanging pleasantries with Seamus. All the while, Emma facilitated a discussion between the boy and pair of ladies. Periodically, she’d nod, and say something that earned a blush or smile from Seamus.

Charles’s skin prickled as Mr. Watley hung on the fringe, glowering once more at him.

Given the deplorable way in which Charles had behaved toward Emma these past years, he certainly wasn’t exempt from the other man’s disapproval. Even so, Seamus had no part of the decisions Charles had made, and as such, Charles hardly intended to let a young pup—and at that, a young pup who’d been making eyes at Charles’s former betrothed—go about glowering his way like a stern Lady Jersey at Almack’s.

Charles lifted a single eyebrow in the younger man’s direction. Mr. Watley flushed and looked away.

Alas, Mr. Watley wasn’t the only one to ice Charles with a single look.

Emma’s sister pinned an impressive glare upon him. “We should be going, should we not, Emma?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation.

“Yes, we should be going,” Emma murmured.

Or mayhap it was merely Charles’s own yearnings for that slight pause, some indication, any indication, that Emma wished to remain here . . . as he so desperately wanted her to. But as they’d been