The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,33
defected so? It was unconscionable. It was unforgivable.
“Is that where our members are going?” one of the newer members, Miss Lawlor, whispered.
“It appears that way,” Sylvia said quietly.
“But . . . but . . .” Isla’s eyes wavered as her illusions were shattered by the evidence of the truth that she’d mistaken as cynicism from Emma.
Alas, what else would one expect of a man linked to Scarsdale and Landon?
“How could Anwen?” Brenna seethed, each of them apparently directing their outrage in different places this day.
“Because she wants to get marrrried,” Eris piped in.
Emma hardened her mouth. Yes, because after all, that was what this all came down to. Ultimately, women might scream for independence and speak about wanting a new place in the world, but when it was all said and done, the moment they had an opportunity to find love, off they went. Charles had been clever enough to see that. Clever enough to give women a society that wasn’t anti-marriage, where they could meet gentlemen.
“Damn him,” she whispered before she could call that telling curse back.
“Lord Scarsdale wouldn’t,” Cora said, and resumed crying once more.
Emma stopped her pacing and sat. “Oh, he did.” He’d done precisely that.
“Or should we say . . . they did?” Valerie glowered at the chair Lord St. John had previously occupied.
“It is ‘they,’” Little Eris piped in with an absolute lack of artifice only a child could be capable of. “Because we’re angry at Clayton. And Scarsdale. I think we’re probably going to be angry at Landon, too.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” sisters Cora and Brenna said at the same time.
And then it came . . . whispered but loud enough through the din to be heard . . . and to be heard by all: “Poor Miss Gately.”
There it was.
That one word spliced together with a name—hers.
And just like that, Emma found herself the object of what she’d been for so long amongst society—an object of pity.
Her hands formed reflexive fists, balled so tightly she drained the blood from her knuckles.
As everyone slid those benevolent glances her way, Emma sat stiffly through it. Those looks being directed at her, all the worse because they now included her sister and her best friend. Damn Charles. Damn him for doing this again to her, just in a different way.
Sylvia cleared her throat. “Now we’ve sorted through the mystery of our missing members and verified they are not waylaid by unscrupulous guardians and dastardly fathers, and that is what matters,” she said quickly. “As such, I am adjourning today’s meeting.”
“But I wanted to yell more about Clayton,” Eris whined as her mother came to her feet and took Eris’s hand in hers.
“Come, come. There will be plenty of time and reasons to yell about Clayton,” the dowager viscountess promised.
As the rest of the members took to their feet, lingering briefly to talk to the women seated beside them, Emma seethed.
Fury continued coming. Who knew anger had a taste, and it was fire on a scorned woman’s tongue? “This is not to be borne,” Emma bit out quietly to Isla and Olivia as they stood. First he’d made a pest of himself, striking up a friendship with her father. And finally, he’d plagiarized her idea and turned her into an object of pity amongst her friends. This? This was a step too far.
“What are you thinking?” Isla murmured as they headed for the doorway.
Emma was thinking this was unforgivable, and she didn’t know what she intended, but—
“Emma, might I speak to you?” Sylvia called out.
Isla and Olivia looked to Emma, then quickly excused themselves until just Emma, Sylvia, Valerie, and Annalee remained.
The viscountess pulled the door closed. “I wanted to apologize. When I . . . called today’s meeting, I did not think”—a blush bloomed on Sylvia’s cheeks—“about how the others might respond, and I should have.”
“Damned straight you should have,” Annalee said.
“We all should have,” Valerie pointed out, placing slight emphasis on that reminder.
“It is fine,” Emma assured them. “It isn’t your fault.” Fault belonged with just one this day. She flattened her mouth into a line. Damn him.
Sylvia rested a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t.”
“I—”
“You are thinking to confront him. But doing so allows him back in your life . . .” The older, entirely too savvy viscountess cut her off, and called her out—accurately. “He’s a rogue of the first order.”
As the viscountess’s last husband had been the best of friends with Charles, the other woman would know from experience.