The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,77
directly back at Emma . . . Her skin prickled with the feel of several pairs of eyes, and she registered their intent. “Why are you looking at me?” she blurted.
“I think it should be obvious.” Annalee withdrew a cheroot and touched it to her nearby candlestick, sparking a flash of orange. She took a puff on the scrap, then exhaled a little cloud.
“Actually, no. No, it is not at all obvious.” Because the last person of any of the remaining women in the room who should be tasked with such an important charge . . . was her. She’d not the influence nor the ideas . . .
“You were leading our next discussion,” Sylvia gently pointed out. “But it makes sense that the same woman who imagined the Mismatch should also be responsible for saving it.”
“And going up against Scarsdale, no less,” Olivia pointed out.
Emma opened her mouth to protest, looking to her sister and her best friend. Alas, their attention was on the group.
“I call for a vote. Emma to lead the charge,” Cressida called out, earning nods from the other women around the room.
And as the members put it to a vote, Emma couldn’t suppress a groan.
War had been waged this day for the very soul of the Mismatch Society.
And it would seem Emma had been nominated as the one to lead the charge . . . and against her former betrothed, no less.
She smiled.
Chapter 16
THE LONDONER
FROM RIVALRY . . . TO FEUD
Between Miss Gately’s Mismatch Club and the Earl of Scarsdale’s Club du Livre, never before has London been beset by a rivalry between two, since the War of the Roses.
M. FAIRPOINT
After a fortnight of direct challenges to the Mismatch Society from Charles, and the endless barrage of social scrutiny their rivalry had received, Emma had resolved that day to not let herself dwell on him or any of it.
She’d not focus on the praise being lavished upon Charles’s venture, while disparagements rained down on hers. Or the fact that his numbers continued to rise, while hers continued to fall. Or the fact that he’d somehow ascertained topics of her discussion and incorporated them into his meetings. Or the fact that he’d sent flowers and French chocolates in the middle of a Mismatch meeting, effectively distracting everyone from the day’s agenda, because, really, which lady was capable of resisting chocolate?
She wasn’t going to think of any of it.
Nay, none of it.
Alas, fate was a cruel, fickle mistress, who was surely born of Polite Society.
In the middle of Lady Rutland’s soiree, from where Emma stood at the entrance to one of the hostess’s card rooms, laughter filled the air, so strong it washed over her like a wave of hilarity.
“Are we . . . not in the card room?” Owen asked puzzledly.
Yes, because none would ever know it, given the sound echoing around the room. Not the laughter of Polite Society—practiced giggles tittered behind hands.
This was the belly-deep amusement roused only by a master storyteller and charmer.
“Oh, no. We are,” Emma seethed. “We are precisely where we are supposed to be.” It was everyone else, however, who appeared mistaken about what it was they were supposed to be doing in here.
The lanky lord, taller than most men, angled his neck in a bid to get a better view.
“Charles,” she said between her teeth. Fortunately that bold claiming of his name was lost on another round of laughter from the people surrounding him.
From her, Isla, Olivia, and Owen’s vantage in the doorway, it was hard to make out much of anything beyond the crush of bodies. None of which were seated at the card tables, and all of whom were surrounding one table at the very center of the room.
Emma narrowed her eyes. And there could be absolutely no disputing which charmer was at the center of that show. Was it any wonder? Was it any wonder at absolute all that Charles Hayden, the Earl of Scarsdale, had had the success he had in establishing his club amongst Polite Society? Any wonder at all?
Emma gritted her teeth.
Or that he’d done so with the ton’s utmost approval and appreciation. When the Mismatch Society should be condemned. It was unpardonable. It was a crime against women.
“Let us leave, Emma,” Olivia said softly, taking her arm to steer their quartet away.
Emma gently but firmly disentangled herself and locked her feet to Lady Rutland’s drawing-room floor.
“Yes, we can go to the other card room,” Isla urged.