The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,16

future wife, to meet.

A blush filled her father’s cheeks, and yanking a kerchief from his jacket pocket, he dabbed at his brow.

Her mother patted his hand, and murmured something that sounded very much like “I’ll handle this, dear.” Yes, because that was ultimately the way of the adoring couple’s marriage: Emma’s mother handled . . . just about everything, making decisions like some military general, her husband the answering footman who’d be sent to battle with her instructions guiding him.

“Now, the fact remains he is your father’s godson, and there is and always will be a bond there.”

“Apparently bonds to godsons are deeper than those to daughters,” she muttered under her breath. “If that isn’t the patriarchy, I don’t know what is.”

Her words were immediately met with such a wounded expression from her father Emma almost felt bad. Almost. There was still the matter of Papa’s continued relationship with not only Charles’s parents . . . but also Charles himself.

“I am sorry if you’ve felt less than supported,” her father murmured. “That brings us to the reason for our meeting.”

Emma dragged her chair all the way over until her knees brushed the front of the oak desk. Surely there was more at play here? “All right. Out with it, then?”

“Your Mismatch Society,” her mother began slowly. “There has been increasing focus and interest in your society.”

Emma’s father, however, couldn’t control himself anymore. “You are creating a scandal, and it is just that we want to be sure your involvement in this organization is . . . worth the attention. That it is something you truly want to do.”

Emma looked between her parents and weighed her response. That was what this was about, then? They had relented on the matter of Charles. A lightness filled her, coming from the sense of freedom that brought. But there was also something more—determination. She’d tired long ago of being “poor Emma,” and if she failed in this endeavor? Then she would be an object of pity and gossip once more, a pathetic figure to be talked about. “I appreciate your concern, and also your support. However, there is nothing else I want to do or be doing.”

Her parents exchanged a look. Her father appeared as though he wanted to say more, but Emma caught the tight little nod her mother gave him.

“Now, is there anything else?” Emma asked, taking control of the remainder of this exchange.

“That is all.” Her mother inclined her head.

Still, as Emma made the march across the room, she braced for them to call her back.

A lifetime of knowing these people gave her reason enough to be . . . suspicious.

And yet . . . she reached the corridor, and there were no attempts to summon her back.

The moment she reached the parlor, four sets of eyes immediately swung Emma’s way.

Standing at the window, with his mouth stuffed with chocolate biscuit, Morgan hurriedly swallowed it down. “Well?” he demanded.

“It was a disaster,” Pierce predicted, always the more cynical and skeptical of the twins.

Emma ventured deeper into the parlor. “Quite the opposite,” she said, joining the group at the center of the room. “Mama and Papa merely wished to speak with me about the Mismatch Society.”

Her loyal contingency exchanged looks.

Pierce snorted. “You’re telling us that meeting had nothing to do with Scarsdale?” He answered his own question. “Unlikely.” With that he grabbed himself a treat from the dessert tray, and headed over to where Morgan stood at the window, watching the passersby beyond those silk damask curtains.

She snapped her fingers in her brothers’ direction. “I beg your pardon. I’ll have you know they finally acknowledged that Scarsdale is a . . .” Not a scoundrel. Emma set her jaw. Her parents had not committed to language that strong.

The twins would choose that moment to direct all their attention back her way.

“That he’s . . . ,” Olivia gently prodded.

“No longer a suitable match for me,” Emma substituted. And when there was still only silence, she turned to the greatest source a woman could for support: her best friend and sister. “They are done with him.” Just as she was.

So, it would seem, was her brother.

“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” Pierce drawled from his spot at the window.

She raised her chin a fraction. “And just what makes you say that?”

“Because Scarsdale is here . . .”

Her heart forgot its function of beating. It wasn’t unusual for him to arrive. He’d done so with a regularity . . . since she’d broken