The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,90

such, the world had not looked closer than that. They’d not seen a then-romantic Camille’s folly in trusting her heart to the last man she should. To a spendthrift scoundrel who’d seen in Camille nothing more than a path to a large fortune, and when it had been clear the bounder wouldn’t see a bit of her dowry, he’d moved on . . . and Charles’s family had been left picking up the pieces.

Charles finished off his drink, and stared at a lone teardrop bit of brandy clinging to the bottom of the glass.

Nay, he’d been the one to pick up the pieces. And it was the least of the sacrifices that he could make, given the lousy brother he’d been. One so absorbed in his own pursuit of happiness that he’d failed to protect the sister who loved him . . . who’d needed him.

The rub of it was, even as he’d change nothing, his sacrifices hadn’t been sacrifices at all . . . He was still left in this in-between state, where he didn’t truly belong to anything. Or fit in anywhere.

He wasn’t Landon or Waters or any of the other gents here . . .

And yet that was how the world saw him. And because that was how he was viewed, neither was he truly a member of the respectable circles . . . frequented by the likes of his former betrothed.

He’d come to peace with . . . all that. Or he’d thought he had. Perhaps it was the late-night hour, or the lingering conflict between him and Emma, but he found himself oddly restless with his circumstances.

Which was why, when all the fashionable and unfashionable sorts still had hours left of their night’s revelry, a short while later, Charles found himself leaving his club and entering his rooms to seek out some much-needed rest. Dismissing his valet, Charles instead shrugged out of his jacket, and not breaking stride, he tossed the black article atop his desk as he made his way to his bed.

Seating himself on the edge of the mattress, Charles tugged off one boot.

He tossed it aside and was reaching for the next when he froze; his gaze collided with the crimson-cloaked figure seated in the corner, blanketed in shadows.

“Hullo, Lord Scarsdale,” Emma said softly. “We meet again.”

Chapter 19

THE LONDONER

DESPERATION!

Desperation has begun to set in for Miss Gately and the other members of the Mismatch Club. It has been reported by a reliable source that the young lady has even made demands for the Earl of Scarsdale to shutter his more successful and well-attended venture.

M. FAIRPOINT

They met again.

And yet as Charles had entered his chambers and set to work disrobing, she’d interrupted him . . . because the last thing she wanted, needed, or intended to let happen was a repeat of their last exchange in these very rooms . . .

With him naked, and her breathless.

Nay, there was to be no breathlessness. Or butterflies. Or any weakness.

“Emma,” Charles murmured.

He didn’t stand but remained seated there, and she was grateful for it, as his six feet two inches and broadly muscular frame invariably shrank any space.

Except with him seated upon the bed, it only raised all manner of intimate thoughts about again feeling his mouth upon her, but this time with that feather bedding under her.

All the moisture left her mouth, leaving her parched like a woman stranded in a desert, attempting to find herself.

And mayhap she was.

From the moment she’d taken part in that mock wedding ceremony as a child, Emma had been left searching for herself.

“This is a surprise . . . but a welcome one.” He smiled slowly, displaying his perfect, pearl-white teeth, a rogue’s smile, cocksure and arrogant with a bold confidence that could come only from knowing the effect he had upon women.

Women such as the one with whom he’d had a child.

Or the ones who’d rushed to join his society, while abandoning hers.

That brought her back to the reason she’d sought him out.

“Oh, it shouldn’t be, Charles,” she said, climbing to her feet and marching over so that she had him cornered on the bed with an advantage over him . . . so that he had to crane his head back to meet her gaze. “If you knew what was wise for you, you’d know that there was nothing welcome about my being here.” Emma stuck a finger into his chest, making her first misstep of the night, as the material of his shirt served as