Page 24 of Sense and Suitability
As the unchallenged hostess of the season, Lady Ruthton spared no expense, dazzling her guests with roasted duck, fragrant syllabubs, and a rainbow of custards and cakes. Little wonder she hosted but three balls—one or two near the beginning of the St. Groves Season and one to close it—allowing her guests the full span of months to compare her fare to all others and find them wanting.
Emme stepped through the entry hall into the Assembly Room, its soaring ceilings and white crown molding framing walls of delicate blue. She wanted to take it in fully, allow the beauty of the evening to transport her. But that would mean forgetting her primary objective laid out quite clearly by her aunt: to be charming, poised, and silent enough to secure a husband.
All in one evening. It seemed like a Herculean feat, but who was she to argue with Aunt Bean’s matchmaking prowess?
Plus, there was the simple fact that she needed to keep her distance from a certain raven-haired gentleman.
“It’s unbearably hot,” Aster muttered, snapping open her fan with a flair. The pale blue of her gown set off her fair hair, giving her the air of a debutante who had yet to meet a single disappointment in life.
“Crowds bring warmth,” Emme replied, though the warmth in her own face had more to do with expectations than the number of people in the room.
“Well, I prefer fewer people then.” Aster shifted her fan over her mouth to catch her words.
At sixteen Aster had more than enough time to grow into the idea of marriage. Whether someone felt brave enough to take on her distractible nature and sneaky ways, only God knew. A twinge of guilt pricked at Emme’s chest. Both Lockhart sisters had a penchant for mischief. Aster’s was harmless enough. Emme’s might have been deemed notorious—if anyone beyond herself knew the wickedness she inflicted upon her characters.
They had not been in the room more than ten minutes when Mr. Henry Marshall materialized at Emme’s side, smile too wide to be endearing.
But alas, Emme’s may have been too fake to be endearing.
He offered his hand. “Might I have the honor, Miss Lockhart?”
Emme opened her mouth to offer some excuse, but Aunt Bean’s eagle-eyed glare from across the room stopped her short. A vintner’s vision in muscadine hues, she was easy to spot.
Perhaps Emme could fake a swoon? She sighed. No. Fake swoons must be saved for more desperate times, or people would begin to suspect her subterfuge.
“Of course.” She took his hand and allowed him to lead her into a waltz.
At least it wasn’t Mr. Rushing. The middle-aged widower constantly smelled of whiskey and tended to hold her, and every other dancing partner, much too tightly. Mr. Marshall’s touch was the opposite—barely there, making it unnervingly difficult to follow his lead.
Perhaps it was much harder to be a man than Emme realized, especially if the rules were as tedious for them as for the women, and when the women garnered the rights of refusal. They did have to stick their necks out a bit, didn’t they?
“Your aunt,” he began, “was most curious about Thornton House.”
Oh dear. Aunt Bean had sharpened her matchmaking hooks onhim. Emme braced herself for what was certain to be an exhaustive monologue of his darling estate. However, Mr. Marshall’s exuberance would certainly keep her from breaking any of the rules Aunt Bean listed about poise and silence.
So Emme merely smiled her response.
Perhaps if she showed Aunt Bean she was trying, the woman would refrain from following Emme like a vulture on its prey.
“As you well know, Miss Lockhart,” Mr. Marshall said, chest puffing with pride, “Thornton House has been in the Marshall family for over one hundred and twenty years.”
Oh yes. She knew. Repetition hammered the memory interminable. Her smile faltered, but Mr. Marshall didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve made significant improvements since inheriting. A future bride ought to find her home quite satisfactory, don’t you agree? Not that there’s much to improve upon at Thornton House—it’s quite the gem already. Did you know that Sir Alexander Cochrane himself dined with my father at Thornton House during one of his returns from the war with Napoleon?”
Emme’s attention flipped to him. Ah, now here was something interesting. “I’ve read in the papers that America has declared war against us.”
“You read such things?” He blinked, his cheeks reddening a little. “Why would a lady concern herself with war?”
Research, to be honest. However, she chose a nobler answer. “If it involves my country, shouldn’t I take advantage of learning what I can?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, it’s a topic far more interesting than the weather, though the food is very good.”
He gaped, as though she’d just proposed they invade the dance floor with artillery. Emme’s satisfaction at her retort was short-lived; Aunt Bean’s disapproving glare snuffed it out like a candle in a gale.
She sighed. “I’m sure the gardens at Thornton House are resplendent this time of year.”
And with that, Mr. Marshall launched into a description so detailed that she could nearly smell the primroses. As he droned on with the most effusive praise any collection of flora had ever known, Emme caught sight of a very familiar figure on the far side of the room.
Simon—impossibly handsome in a forest-green velvet cutaway tailcoat and those infernally fashionable trousers—danced with Miss Amelia Godspey. His confident gait, swath of dark hair, and strong jawline, along with the elegance of his movements, were simply maddening.
