The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,14

“I didn’t want to be.” Far from it. In fact, if she never had to converse with her parents on the matter of Charles again, the happier she would be for it.

Isla gave her a look, and Emma folded her arms. “What? I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Morgan said dryly, as the eldest twin and Isla likely found the first time they’d concurred in all of the younger woman’s life. “You were just gloating for no reason.”

Tess cleared her throat.

They looked to the young woman.

“Please, tell them I’ll be along shortly,” Emma said.

The young girl’s shoulders sagged with a palpable relief, and she rushed off.

The moment she’d gone, Emma stood and began to pace. Yes, given Emma’s role with Mismatch Society people, both servants and members of the peerage had begun to look at her as though she were now unpredictable, and in ways she never had been. Nor, for that matter, were they incorrect. Not entirely anyway. Society had a tendency to never look beneath the surface. They’d seen Emma and seen a dutiful and proper daughter. As such, the world had clearly come to underestimate her. Her parents included.

Her former betrothed especially.

And as one who had been underestimated, she well knew to not make that same mistake, certainly not where her mother and father were concerned.

“You can always ignore them,” her sister volunteered.

“Yes,” she murmured, tapping a finger against her chin. “I could.” But then they’d seek her out . . . wherever she happened to be, and she’d come to find she rather appreciated being in control of the situation . . . where she could, of course.

“I could always shoot him?” Morgan piped in. Several creases lined his high brow. “That is, not Father. Scarsdale.”

“That is . . . sweet of you.” Emma flashed him a wan smile, touched by that show of support . . . even if it was a rather morbid one. “Thank you for that offer, but I must decline.”

“Well, it stands whenever you— Oww!”

Pierce slapped his older brother in the back of the head once more. “And leave me as the heir?” Emma’s lips twitched. Most younger brothers would have been resentful at finding themselves the spare—especially by no more than fifty-five minutes. However, that had never been the case between Morgan and Pierce.

Morgan scowled, rubbing at that injured-for-a-second-time spot. “Bloody hell, Pierce. What kind of brotherly disloyalty is that? And for your twin, no less? Suggesting I would perish?”

“In a duel? Against Scarsdale? You would,” Pierce said flatly. “Absolutely you would.” He shot Isla a glance, looking to her for support.

Isla lifted her palms and shook her head. “You’re on your own, Pierce.”

“Fine. You’re a terrible shot, and he’s a great one, and—”

Emma slid herself between them, breaking up what was quickly escalating. “There is nothing else to do but face them.” She brought back her shoulders. “And reiterate one more time that I will no sooner wed the Earl of Scarsdale than I would . . . than I would . . . Titus Oates,” she exclaimed.

Her brothers shared a puzzled look.

“He was the dastardly English priest who fabricated the Popish Plot,” Olivia explained.

“Ahh,” the twins said in unison.

Morgan shook his head. “Why would you want to marry such a fellow?”

Isla let out a sigh. “She wouldn’t, Morgan. That is the point. She’s likening Scarsdale to Oates. Two villains.”

Understanding dawned once more at the same time for the brothers. “Ahh.”

And if she weren’t moments away from facing off, yet again, against her single-minded parents, Emma would have managed a laugh. As it was, she needed all her wits about her. Angling up her chin, and her neck straight and her back even straighter, Emma marched for the door, the raucous applause from her quartet of supporters fueling her steps and firming her resolve.

Enough was enough.

She had been more than patient with her parents’ interference . . . an interference that stretched back more than seventeen years, to when she’d been a girl and they’d been crafting her future. Without so much as a consideration given to what she wanted. Or didn’t want. Without a thought that she should have a say in deciding which gentleman she might—or might not—wed.

It ended here.

This day.

Now.

Emma reached her father’s office and, in one fluid movement, let herself in. Measuring her steps and pacing her stride, lest they take her as too emotional, she headed over to where her father sat at the front of the room. More than a foot taller than his