Page 12 of Sense and Suitability
He grinned. “Though I expect you’ll disappear from every ball as quickly as decorum permits.”
She raised her brows in mock innocence. “A lady is expected certain allowances, cousin-dear.”
“Hmm.” He shook his dark head, his grin growing. “Now you’re taking advantage of being a woman, are you?”
She ignored his sarcasm and stared ahead, a sweet sense of opportunity dangling before her with each book she published. Though she adored the idea of a family of her own, perhaps marriage wasn’t her only option. Her shoulders pinched at the thought. But if a man couldn’t accept her as an authoress, would she be willing to give up writing?
If he loved her.
Her jaw tightened. Yes. Only love would induce her to marry.
“If I can use writing to become independent, then I can earn a choice very few women of my station or reputation have.” She turned to him, drawing in a freeing breath. “I will hold out for love or become an independent and happy spinster. Either way, I’ll settle for nothing less.”
Lights and music spilled into St. Groves’ illustrious Assembly Rooms, the premier setting for the season’s most sought-after balls. Simon Reeves paused at the threshold, tugging his cavalier vest into place beneath his tailcoat. Doing so allowed a few more moments to compose himself before stepping into the fray.
The last ball he’d attended, he’d arrived with the single purpose of proposing.
And she’d looked radiant that evening—utterly spellbinding in her pink gown, her hair a crown of golden curls, and that ever-present quirk of her lips always ready to deliver a teasing remark at his expense. He almost smiled at the memory, before the low-lying ache that accompanied every remembrance of Emmeline Lockhart quashed it before its taking root.
He’d wronged her. Treated her poorly. Like a coward.
Left her standing on the veranda waiting for him.
He’d almost made it to the garden, barely a few steps behind her.
Almost voiced his desire to make her his.
But a servant had rushed toward him, delivering news of the shipwreck that had claimed both his cousin’s and his father’s lives. And he hadn’t known what to do. How to think. What to say.
So he’d written the simplest of notes and left.
Their deaths had not been an uncomplicated tragedy; it had been the unsealing of Pandora’s box. Stories of his father’s misdeeds surfaced, each more sordid than the last. Debts came crawling out of hidden ledgers, dragging their talons through the estate’s fragile coffers. One wound after another created more and more distance between his failed proposal and an explanation to Emme.
Until he didn’t have any heart to confront her at all.
So he’d run away.
He had justified it to himself as the distraction of responsibilities and funerals and a search for Arianna. But he knew the truth.
He’d been a coward.
Not only of coming face-to-face with Emme, but of embracing the mantle of Viscount of Ravenscross. But time and relentless hardship had forged in him some semblance of strength and wisdom—perhaps even a bit of courage.
Until now.
Until this moment, standing on the edge of a crowded ballroom, his gaze fixed on the gilded chandelier while his courage threatened to desert him altogether.
The sound of familiar laughter drew his attention to the dance floor, and the din around him blurred into silence. Emmeline Lockhart danced with a gentleman Simon didn’t recognize. She wore a confection of deep green, her golden hair spilling from her coiffure. His breath caught. Had she become more beautiful in the span of nearly two years?
Without thinking, he stepped behind a nearby pillar, shielding himself from view but not from the ability to observe.
That smile—he’d welcomed it into his dreams more times than he could count. Sometimes it felt as though he lived off the hope it gave him, foolish as the notion might be. She held kindness and strength in her countenance, and so many times he’d needed both.
Even if only in a dream.
Yet now, she was smiling up at her partner in that same way she had once smiled at him—wholly engaged, her bright gaze sparkling with unspoken wit.
His eyes closed, shutting out the sight and the ache that accompanied it.
