The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,73
with Seamus, before her small army of friends had arrived.
She held out her fingers to Seamus. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Hayden.”
“The same, miss,” Seamus returned, giving her palm a mighty shake.
Emma turned to Charles, her gaze softer than he ever remembered . . . at least as it had been directed to him. It was time for her to leave. And he hated it. He hated that this trio had come upon them and stolen the too-brief exchange he and Emma and Seamus had shared.
“Miss Gately,” he said quietly.
She bowed her head. “Lord Scarsdale.” And with a curtsy, she took her leave, and pausing at the end of the aisle, she cast one more glance his way.
Her sister said something, and then reaching back, she grabbed Emma and dragged her off.
The moment they’d gone, Charles continued to stare after the place she’d been.
His nephew came to stand next to him, and Charles reluctantly forced his attention away from that empty spot and down to Seamus.
“That was your Miss Gately,” his nephew whispered.
“Yes.”
“The very one you did not want to marry?”
Charles flinched. “Yes?”
Seamus gave his head a rueful shake.
“I know. I know.” Charles swiped his hands over his face. “I knoww,” he added for a third time. Because it really couldn’t be stated enough, all the ways in which he’d made a blunder of it where Emma was concerned.
In the greatest reversal of roles, the small child patted Charles on the low of his back. “Better to have discovered it now, than never.”
“No, you have me there.” The right corner of Charles’s lips tugged up. “Come,” he said, shifting away from further talk of Emma that was only destined to lead to details too complex for the child before him. “As penance for my years of folly, I shall purchase this whole collection for you.”
Seamus giggled. “No.” He held aloft a small, brown leather volume. “I only want this one.”
Charles scanned the title.
Le Rond.
Whether that philosopher was truly Emma’s favorite thinker, or whether she’d merely been attempting to help a hurting boy, was unclear.
As he and Seamus returned the remainder of the books to their respective places upon the shelves, Charles knew only one certainty—he’d been thoroughly bewitched this day by Emma Gately, and he’d not been the only one.
Chapter 15
THE LONDONER
PROBLEMS ABOUND FOR THE MISMATCH CLUB
The Mismatch Club continues to go from bad to worse; the group still struggles to find itself. How quick was their rise . . . and fall . . .
M. FAIRPOINT
Despite Isla’s earlier insistence that Emma hadn’t put enough effort into her latest assignment with the Mismatch Society, those worries had been for naught.
Emma had spent the remainder of the week preparing. She’d mapped out various ideas on all manner of topics, from the rights women were denied and deserving of to the unrealistic expectations that existed for them. And having settled upon the latter, she’d taken copious notes, which she’d committed to memory so she needn’t bore the other members with a dull recitation.
She’d rehearsed enough, with her sister and Olivia serving in the role of a pretend audience, and she had practiced her inflection and delivery to the point that even Isla couldn’t have . . . and more importantly, hadn’t . . . found fault with her performance.
In the end, standing in the meeting parlor on Waverton Street, all Emma’s efforts appeared to be for naught.
Nay . . . not appeared.
In fact, were.
For their once large gathering had been reduced to their original numbers: Emma, Isla, Olivia, Sylvia, Annalee, and Valerie. Lila also remained.
“Where is . . . Clara?” Emma blurted. Not Clara, too.
“Oh, she is dealing with a problem with the music hall,” Sylvia explained. “She wanted me to assure you all that she has no intention of—”
“Abandoning us?” Valerie drawled. Her smile faded to a scowl. “As all the others have done?”
“If ever there was a time for a drink, this is it,” Annalee said into the quiet. Uncorking her silver-etched flask, she held it aloft. “Though in fairness, every time is an ideal one for a drink.” The young socialite’s laughter reverberated around the otherwise solemn room.
Nay, “morose” was a more apt description for their group.
Seated next to her, Valerie leaned over and rescued the flask from Annalee’s fingers.
Annalee pouted. “This is hardly the time to encourage me to abandon my spi—”
Valerie tipped back the drink and continued downing the spirits in one long, slow swallow. When she’d finished, she set the flask beyond the other woman’s reach.