The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,78
doubt empty because nearly all the guests had crammed themselves inside this particular drawing room, filling up every space, like some kind of overstuffed armoire. And she was half tempted to agree. That, however, would be an act of cowardice. A concession in a battle with her former betrothed.
“Come, Emma,” her sister insisted once more, and Emma ignored her, squinting for a glimpse of the thief of her ideas.
And then she found him.
She narrowed her eyes.
Lords and ladies of all ages swarmed Charles’s card table, where he lounged comfortably, gesturing with his hands while he spoke. His mirth-filled baritone rose over the noisy crowd. Most of his words were lost, but not the infectiousness in them. He’d always possessed an absolute ease around all that she’d been in awe of. And secretly envied him for. No person should be so unaffected when there was Emma who was . . . well, Emma.
“And Lord Alvanley said—”
“I’ll tell it, Scarsdale,” Lord Alvanley interrupted, and several figures shifted slightly, revealing a hint of the pair who held the entire room enthralled. “You wanted me to join a club. I already belong to four . . . and he said . . .” He paused, the room falling silent, and it was as though the masterful storyteller who held the room enrapt with Charles knew how to draw out the moment. “Not like this one, Alvanley. You see, there aren’t just gents present, but ladies, too, with the finest”—Emma’s eyebrows shot up—“discussions.”
Floored by the shock of that almost outrageously improper comment, it took a moment to register. And then the room erupted with their mirth.
Lady Jersey tapped Charles’s shoulder with her fan. “You naughty boy, teasing so!”
Emma rolled her eyes. Only Charles could charm the most respectable matrons while behaving so wickedly.
Emma searched her gaze over the pair at the center of the crowd’s attention. “Yes, I see that.” The wittiest lord, more noteworthy and sought after than the late Beau Brummell, should have joined Charles’s ranks? Bloody hell, this was dire. This was dire, indeed.
“Well, I vote for choosing any room but this one,” Owen said indignantly. “I won’t have us keep company with someone who’d so threaten your endeavor.”
“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “I am of the same opinion as Owen.”
“No,” Emma said calmly. Though appreciating those efforts on her behalf from each of her friends, she’d not be run off. And with her sister and Olivia pleading quietly behind her, Emma ventured into the room.
Not that she need worry about anyone having bothered trying to run her off; they were all fully engrossed in Charles and Lord Alvanley’s telling. Grabbing the chair of a vacant table far from the night’s entertainment, Emma seated herself.
Her friends hovered there, silent. Isla was the first to join Emma on one of Lady Rutland’s Dutch Marquetry side chairs. The others promptly fell into the vacant ones.
“There,” Emma said, reaching for the deck of new cards. “That is better.” Feeling her friends’ eyes on her, she paused and looked up. “The way I see it, we easily found a table, and no one is paying us any mind, which is how we prefer it.”
“Really?” Isla said tersely. Emma should have known better than to expect her sister would allow her that self-delusion. “Is there anything better about any of this . . . ?”
“Demmed hilarious, you are, Scarsdale,” Alvanley boomed, his high praise ushering in an echo of concurring opinions from the earl’s adoring audience.
Emma tightened her mouth. Yes, hilarious.
She resumed shuffling.
Hilarious, the way he’d rescheduled his meetings so they coincided with her meeting times.
Hilarious, how he’d sent a small army of children to distribute information about his club all down Waverton Street to passersby.
The crowd shifted, putting Charles on display, just as a lady pressed herself against his shoulder.
The cards flew from Emma’s fingers and rained down about the table in a wrinkled mess.
And, of course, Charles would choose that moment to look up. His gaze found hers, and she held his stare, because she’d be damned if she looked away first. Or at all.
He bowed his head in silent greeting.
The entire room’s attention swung her way.
Oh, bloody hell.
Affixing a smile to her lips, Emma returned that greeting, lest any more be said about how cold and emotionless she was. She hurried to gather up the cards, stacking them. Alas, her shaking fingers made the task impossible.
“Here,” Owen murmured, gently taking the sloppy stack from her.