The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,19

opinion about such things.

Or in Charles’s case . . . wrong about far more. So much more. The crystal sheen of his snifter reflected back Charles’s dark expression. As always, she slipped in, as she’d been two months ago . . . rushing off, away from the Serpentine and completely away from Charles. Taking another long, deep swallow of his drink, he grimaced at the sting of the liquid sliding down his throat. He set down his snifter on the side of the billiards table. “Either way, my being here has nothing to do with Emma Gately. I’ve never even caught a glimpse of her here.” Not for lack of trying. Whenever he was ushered through the halls of the viscount’s household, Charles skimmed and searched. Alas, the lady was as elusive as the smile he’d rarely seen her wear.

Which, of course, only lent to this deeper hungering to see her. “And even if I did,” he went on for his benefit as much as his brother’s, “I wouldn’t be distracted from what brought me here.”

“Oh, yes. The good fun to be had with our fathers,” Derek said, his face a mask as, behind him, the two older men had shifted their attentions to light fisticuffs.

Resting a hip along the side of the table, Charles pointed his glass at his brother. “Precisely,” he said, taking another sip of his drink before setting down the snifter.

Derek glanced past him. “Do you know,” his brother murmured, “I do believe I was wrong. This does promise to be good fun, after all.” He nudged a similarly squared jaw toward the front of the room.

Charles followed that pointed gesture, and froze.

Emma stood there. Several inches shy of six feet, all willowy grace, she commanded even the enormous arched doorway.

The lady’s gaze, however, was not on him, but . . . Charles followed her stare, and with a silent curse, he shoved his snifter across the mahogany so that it came to a stop against his brother’s fingers, lest she see it and have confirmed everything she already believed about him.

“Very smooth of you, brother,” Derek said with a wide grin as Emma marched forward with determined strides.

“Emma!” the viscount called warmly.

“Papa,” she returned.

So that was why she’d come. Of course it was. She’d been clear she’d no wish to see him again, and—

His heart lifted a fraction as she continued forward in Charles’s direction, and he, always effortless on his feet where the ladies were concerned, remained against the billiards table, tongue-tied.

Emma reached them, her gaze lingering upon his abandoned snifter.

And for all their brotherly quarreling, Derek raised Charles’s glass as though it were his own and drank down the remaining brandy there. And then popped up.

Derek gave him a swift kick, prompting Charles to move.

He straightened, and flashed a half grin. “Miss—”

“Miss Gately.” His brother beat him to that greeting. Dropping a bow, Derek captured Emma’s fingers and drew them to his mouth for a kiss. A lingering kiss upon her knuckles.

A smile formed on Emma’s lips. “Lord Derek,” she greeted warmly—with a greater warmth than had ever been directed his way. Having spent the better part of his young—and adult—years as a rogue, there’d been all too many telltale signs that his brother was headed along that same scoundrel’s path. It was one thing, knowing that, and quite another altogether, witnessing one’s brother turn the Hayden charm upon one’s former betrothed.

Charles frowned.

His brother retained his hold upon her fingers, then . . .

Charles narrowed his eyes as Derek stroked his thumb along her wrist. “A pleasure as always,” Derek murmured.

Folding his arms at his chest, Charles stuck out a foot and tapped the tip of his boot pointedly.

All the while, his brother and Emma pointedly ignored him.

“Likewise, Lord Derek.” She inclined her head slightly, drawing Charles’s attention and appreciation to that gloriously elongated swan’s neck. “I trust you are enjoying my father’s brandy?”

Derek blinked. “Miss—?”

She nodded to the glasses flanking either side of him on the table. “To merit double glasses.”

Derek promptly released her fingers, a blush suffusing his cheeks, and Charles didn’t even attempt to repress a grin.

“Getting your brother to take the blame,” she chided, making for an all-too-brief triumph as she turned that displeasure back Charles’s way once more. “Tsk, tsk, Lord Scarsdale.”

“I didn’t get him to take the blame. I was merely setting aside my glass.”

He winked.

Young ladies were schooled early on in all the reasons to avoid a rogue, rake, or scoundrel. Along with those lessons came