The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,44

. . she didn’t know what to do with the moment or with him.

She was, once again, the besotted girl just out of the schoolroom, all tongue-tied around Charles, the Earl of Scarsdale, and she hated herself for that weakness. Granted, neither could she do anything to break herself free of that weakness. She’d focus on her anger with him later.

His brow dipped.

“Yes,” she blurted. “That . . . would be fine.”

And falling into step, they began their stroll in the most unexpected part of London, on their first, and unlikeliest, of outings.

Charles’s gaze went to the place Lord Newhart had touched Emma, and it was as though he sought to discover for himself whether that flesh, concealed by a cloak, bore bruises. She braced, expecting him to press her with questions about Lord Newhart’s attempted assault. “Why were you there?”

“Lord Newhart is brother to one of my dear friends, a fellow lady of the society,” she explained, without really explaining anything. “Miss Cressida Alby.”

“That man has a sister,” he said between clenched teeth.

She nodded. “He’s not a sibling like any of mine or yours.” Emma clenched and unclenched her fingers around the handle of her parasol. Equal parts pity and loathing for what the cad no doubt inflicted upon the girl sent rage rippling through her. “After Cressida broke her betrothal to a man chosen by Lord Newhart, he forbade her from attending the Mismatch Society.” Emma’s mouth hardened. “He took exception to her being a member, and severed her connection with the society.” As so many other men had done to their daughters and sisters.

“And you were there, attempting to change the gentleman’s opinion,” he murmured. His words, however, didn’t end with the upward tilt of a question.

It was a rule ingrained into women from the nursery: thou shalt not challenge a gentleman. Their egos were too fragile; women were warned of the perils of offending any man. Emma paused in the middle of the pavement, bringing Charles to a stop beside her.

“I trust you intend to lecture me on challenging guardians and brothers on behalf of their sisters.” And she didn’t make hers a question, either. “And venturing out without the benefit of a maid or footman?”

“Though I confess to wondering as to where your maid or footman might be”—his lips pulled in a crooked devil’s grin that did funny things to her still unordered thoughts—“I’m hardly the one to go about lecturing anyone on anything.” His smile dipped into a wistful, sad little smile. “And certainly not you.”

His admission, however, brought her back on her heels.

Her brothers, her father, and certainly any other man would have been so offended at her being here, and handling herself as she had.

“If Miss Alby’s brother would seek to control her and place his hands upon any woman, then she was wise to end an engagement supported by one such as him,” he said tersely.

Emma started, whipping up a gaze to his ice-filled one as the truth of the moment hit her—he supported Cressida Alby’s decision.

His mouth, previously wistful, formed a wry smile. “Did you think I should commiserate because I’m also a product of a broken betrothal?”

“I . . .” Heat rushed her face, for, well . . . she had thought that.

They reached a bustling corner of the street, made impassable by a not-so-small contingent of builders attempting to navigate four stacked, twenty-meter beams across the roadway. Charles faced her. “I would never hold Miss Alby’s decision to command her future against her.” His eyes locked with hers, the power within those depths so intense they robbed her lungs of air. “Just as I don’t hold you responsible for making the decision about what you wanted.” His lips quirked at the right corner, highlighting the dimple there. “Even if I wanted you to choose differently for entirely selfish reasons.”

Emma fluttered a hand about her breast, before realizing what she did. She let her arm fall, and glanced about.

Charles looked off. “It is passable again,” he said, holding out an arm, and Emma hesitated a moment before placing her fingers atop his sleeve and allowing him to guide her on the path they’d been traveling.

Stunned—or rather, shamed—into silence by his revelation this day, as well as by the palpable fury on the other woman’s behalf, Emma focused her eyes forward . . . and tried to make sense of any of what she’d just learned about Charles. For neither had she believed he’d be one to stand there in