The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,87

a silence that made this revelation all the worse.

Charles . . . paying to have those negative articles about her appear in every London household. It was . . .

Emma and her brothers spoke as one.

“Impossible.”

“No.”

Their denials, however, were lost to the din of outrage that erupted amongst the members.

Whatever her friends said, however, rolled together in a hum in her ears. It was impossible. He wouldn’t do that.

Ever.

Yes, they’d reached a truce.

And yet . . . she’d been the first to declare war upon him. Granted, since then, she’d thought they had arrived at a truce of sorts, but what if they hadn’t? What if they were still at war and had been all along? And if it was an all-out war . . .

“I . . .” Don’t believe it? Or don’t want to believe it? A voice taunted her for that weakness. Except this time a different war waged, an internal one, one that insisted the man Charles was, was not one who’d do . . . what Owen was proclaiming he’d done. The man who’d made love to her the other evening, and agreed so easily to cease operating on the streets where her own club operated. Emma pressed her fingertips against her temple. It . . . didn’t fit with who she’d believed Charles Hayden, the Earl of Scarsdale, was.

Emma registered the stark silence and stiffened her spine. “I will have answers for us,” she promised. “You will see . . .” That she and Pierce and Morgan were correct in their defense of Charles.

Because the alternative—that he’d deceived her again—was a betrayal her heart could not recover from.

Chapter 18

THE LONDONER

BETS BEING TAKEN

Never has it been clearer that the Mismatch Club will fail. The wagers are running deep at White’s betting book over which members will be next to leave . . . and join the Earl of Scarsdale . . .

M. FAIRPOINT

“You are lousy company, you know.”

Given he’d only just arrived at Forbidden Pleasures, and hadn’t even seated himself across from his friend and fellow rogue Lord Landon, Charles rather did not know that. Nor, for that matter, was Landon’s the amicable greeting a fellow wished to receive upon joining a friend for drinks.

“Why, thank you, Landon,” Charles said dryly as a footman drew out a chair for him and set down a glass. Charles poured himself a snifter from Landon’s bottle. “That’s quite the welcoming.” But then, neither should it come as a surprise. For the better part of a fortnight, his attentions had been strictly on Emma, who’d bewitched him, and the new club he’d founded. A club that had taken society by storm, and not in a scandalous way.

Of course, Landon would take exception with either.

“I’m being truthful.” Landon passed his half-empty glass back and forth between his palms. “With St. John married, you’re all I have, and I’d prefer to have you”—he paused to wave a hand in Charles’s direction—“not this.”

Not this? He glanced down at himself.

“Distracted. And rumpled. You’re rumpled.”

“Yes, well, my state is a product of my time working on my club,” he protested. He’d been shut away for the better part of the day, poring over books that would serve as the basis for future discussions with his club, until his footman had paid a call to Charles’s rooms to remind him of this current meeting. Charles gave a pointed look to Landon’s skewed cravat. “What can you say for yourself?”

“Oh, shove off. This is different. This”—he indicated the white pleated fabric at his throat—“is affected. Your mess has nothing to do with fashion or design, and everything to do with the miserable state you’re perpetually existing in.”

Charles frowned. And here he’d been doing vastly better than in those initial days of his breakup. Granted, his thoughts had still been as consumed by Emma—nay, even more so—since her visit and their meeting at the Old Corner Bookshop, and their meeting in Lady Rutland’s—

Landon snapped his fingers before Charles’s eyes. “Hullllo,” he called, waving his hands wildly. “And you are woolgathering, man. Woolgathering.”

Charles frowned. “I—”

“You’re not,” Landon said flatly.

“I didn’t even finish my thought.”

“You’re thinking that you’re doing immensely better than you were, but you’re probably more like . . .” Landon adjusted his thumb and forefinger several times, assessing the hairbreadth space between them. “This much. Which is really not at all. You’re entirely distracted, and everything you’re doing is only because of her.”

Charles frowned. Yes, well, his friend had him there. Only . . . “Not