The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,84

or the Mismatch Society again.” Any more than he already had. “Good day.” Turning on his heel, the young man left.

The moment he’d gone, Charles let go of the thought of him, refusing to allow himself to think of anything about this night but what he and Emma had shared.

Chapter 17

THE LONDONER

EDITORIAL CORRECTION

In the previous edition, this editor referred to a feud between Miss Gately’s Mismatch Club and the Earl of Scarsdale’s Le Libre Club. There really is no rivalry. The two do not compare. Stealing ideas from the earl’s club? The Mismatch is destined to shutter its rebellious doors . . .

M. FAIRPOINT

In the following days, Emma poured herself into that which had saved her two months earlier—the Mismatch Society.

Recommitting herself to the group and its salvation and success, she’d openly canvassed for new members, and drafted topics to be spoken about.

And she’d felt . . . enlivened, for the first time in longer than she could remember where the society was concerned. Charles had been, with her, what no one else—certainly not her friends and other society members who were entirely too close to the Mismatch—had: honest. He’d challenged her to not expect that there should be members as their due. Simply because they’d been first did not mean anyone owed her or any of the other ladies anything.

And as enraged as she’d been, Charles had ultimately challenged her to look at herself and her creation . . . and demand better of both.

Annalee banged the gavel. “This meeting is called to order.”

“It comes as no surprise to those of you present that we are fighting for the very soul of the Mismatch Society.” As Emma spoke into the quiet, the focus of each person present was on her. “Lord Scarsdale’s society is new. A novelty. However, he has also highlighted that perhaps our exclusivity has been a detriment.” As he’d taken such delight in pointing out to her their last evening together.

“It wasn’t,” Valerie muttered to herself.

“Hence,” Emma went on, “the addition of our newest members.” Male members of the society. The room’s attention shifted from her over to the three men crammed together upon the too-small-for-them satin settee. Morgan, Pierce, and Owen each lifted a hand in greeting . . . that was met with a stark silence. “If we can provide a Mismatch welcome.”

Except only silence reigned.

“I cannot believe we’ve stooped this low,” Isla bemoaned, sinking in her seat. “Men. We’re allowing men to join us?”

“If one can even call them that.” Annalee laughed uproariously at her own jest.

“I beg your pardon,” Pierce shot over in Isla’s direction. “Need I point out that it was we who were asked to come here?” He nudged his twin. “Isn’t that right?”

Morgan nodded.

“Please, do go; we wouldn’t want to have you if you’ve more pressing things to do.” Seated on the King Louis XIV chair at the elbow of Morgan’s seating, Annalee leaned over and exhaled a puff of smoke in his face.

Indignant, Emma’s brother waved away that little plume. “I beg your pardon?”

“You and your brother are doing a lot of that,” Valerie shot back. “And with good reason.”

“Very well, I think I will leave.” Pierce shot up. “And I’ll take these other two with me.”

Emma raced to put herself between that trio and the exit. The last thing they needed was for Charles to learn that she couldn’t even hold on to her own brothers as male members. “No one is going anywhere.”

Owen cleared his throat. “I’m not! That is, I’m staying. I want to be here.”

Grateful for that loyalty, Emma spared him a smile.

“Very well,” Morgan shot back. “Then Owen can stay and—”

“No one is leaving,” Emma said firmly, and when her other brother made to speak, she said it again. “No one is leaving.” Oh, bloody hell. This was dissolving into a disaster, and fast. Feeling Sylvia’s stare, Emma focused her energies on bringing order to the group.

Everyone immediately ceased their quarreling. “Now,” she began calmly, “that I have everyone’s attention . . .” Her fingers shaking, Emma hurried to gather up the notes she’d assembled. “I have recently been task—” She winced. Wrong word choice. “Assigned the responsibility of coordinating our upcoming meeting, and having lost some of our key members and heard the concerns, concerns I shared, about echoing only to like-minded women—”

“Ahemmm.” Pierce gave her a look.

“And now men,” Emma corrected, “that if we cannot rely on a growing membership to provide new perspectives and new topics we’d not previously considered,