The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,13
whispered, as if the “them” in question weren’t in fact watching on with equal interest and amusement.
Emma rolled her eyes. Yes, because heaven forbid a lady should hear a curse that referenced sexual relations. Even a word as old as the medieval one her brother had uttered.
“Well, I would rather think that three founding members of a women’s society formed to break down marriage and advocate for an equal place in the world would appreciate our speaking to them as we would any other fellow.”
Precisely. “I do,” Emma assured him, and patted him on the knee. “Very much so.”
“As do I,” Isla muttered, sounding pained to have to make such an admission about the brother she always butted heads with.
“Oh, you shan’t find me taking umbrage with naughty words, either,” Olivia confirmed.
If Emma had been in possession of the gavel used to call to order the Mismatch Society, this would have been the perfect time and place to use it. Alas, she may have been the one who’d led to the formation of the society, but her skill set was certainly not keeping order of a group. Nevertheless, given the direness of her situation, focus was certainly required. “Now that we’ve settled the matter of how we might refer to Scarsdale, can we return to the situation of my parents?”
“I’m still not sure why you would assume something must be amiss. Perhaps they have simply moved on . . . accepted your decision”—Pierce waved a hand at Emma—“and all that.”
“Unlikely,” Emma said, already shaking her head.
Olivia raised her hand. “I agree.”
“Two people who were so determined to see their daughter married to a particular man that they were willing to betroth her at the age of six are hardly ones to go about abandoning the prospect of that match,” Emma explained for her brothers’ benefit.
“It is true,” Olivia agreed. Reaching over, she gathered a pretty porcelain plate and filled it with several biscuits.
“Wait . . . I am confused,” Morgan began slowly, eyeing Olivia. “So now is an appropriate time for pastries?”
Pierce swiped his hands over his face. “Bloody hell, Morgan. Would you let it go with the biscuits?”
“I am just pointing out—”
“That our parents are scheming,” Emma quickly interjected. “Yes, I believe you are correct, Morgan.” Just like that she neatly massaged his ego and distracted him from his impending quarrel with Pierce, and kept the group back on the topic of Scarsdale. Or more specifically, her life and her happiness.
Perhaps she wasn’t so very bad at this, after all.
“Mama and Papa have grown decidedly less combative,” Isla remarked.
A series of assenting murmurs rolled around the room. In this, even Emma could not disagree.
Emma chewed at the tip of an already jagged fingernail. And yet she still didn’t trust that her parents had relented. For several simple reasons: She didn’t trust her parents. She didn’t trust Scarsdale’s parents. She didn’t trust Scarsdale.
In fact, she didn’t trust anything connected in any way with the name Scarsdale.
“I don’t trust it,” Emma finally said with a shake of her head. “There is no way they intend to end their lectures.” Not when, according to her older brothers, their mother had hired nursemaids with the task of teaching Emma as a babe to speak the name Scarsdale as her first word.
The springs of the upholstered sofa squeaked, and the floorboards squealed, as Pierce made his way over. He dropped an arm around her shoulders. “Mayhap they’ve finally seen the way,” he said gently. “Perhaps you’re free.”
“And then that would mean you’re free to go back to idol-worshipping him.” Isla sniggered.
Pierce blushed.
Yes, because everyone knew Pierce and Morgan had always adored the most popular lord in London. There hadn’t been anyone Charles couldn’t win over. Including any number of women whom he’d carried on with over the years . . . one of whom had given him a child. Emma clenched her hands, hating that the truth of that hurt still.
A knock sounded at the door, and Tess, a young parlormaid, ducked into the room. “The viscount and viscountess have requested your presence, Miss Emma.”
Pierce dropped his arm. “Or perhaps they’ve not seen the way.”
Bloody hell. “I knew it!” Emma exclaimed, jabbing a finger around the nonbelievers of the quartet; all but Olivia had not seen. “I told you all!” And here her siblings had believed she was searching for something in nothing.
“Certainly not a matter you should have wanted to be correct on,” Olivia muttered.