Page 44 of Sense and Suitability
Emme flinched and turned. She’d only met Mrs. Agatha Thornbury twice. Once at the theater and another time during a garden party. On both occasions, the woman had been stiff but polite, her serious demeanor softened only by the occasional witticism.
Now, however, there was no witticism to soften the severity of her expression or the steel glinting in her eyes.
As if compelled by the same invisible force, Emme stepped back as Simon released his hold on her. Oh, what was she doing? This was not the way to protect her reputation.
Mrs. Thornbury muttered something too low to catch before turning with a decisive sweep of her black skirts and disappearing into the house.
Simon cast one look at Emme—apologetic, pained, inscrutable—before sprinting after his aunt.
Oh, what a disaster!
Emme blinked, still trying to sort through the labyrinth of her emotions. After only a slight hesitation, and some encouragement from a breeze hitting her already cold body, Emme followed.
Simon turned a corner in the hallway up ahead, and Emme moved in the same direction, pausing only long enough to take in the dimly lit hall. Beyond the alcove, the ceiling soared into a vaulted foyer with a grand staircase to her left and two sets of double doorsto her right. The wood-paneled arches echoed faintly with the sound of voices.
“It is not what you think, Aunt Agatha.” Simon’s voice swelled from the nearby room, a plea in his tone that drew Emme nearer.
“Was there not an unmarried and—so far as I can tell—unaccompanied woman in your arms on the back veranda?” Mrs. Thornbury’s sharp response echoed back.
“She arrived here entirely by accident.”
“So she is to blame then?”
Emme’s face went colder than it already was.
“No, not at all.” His exhalation took on more volume. “She saw Lottie stealing a few of our neighbor’s chickens and followed her here.”
Certainly, that bit of knowledge would not endear Emme to Mrs. Thornbury. A gentlewoman would have alerted the authorities, not ridden on horseback three miles to uncover the mystery.
“Charlotte stole chickens from one of your neighbors?”
Silence.
“She is positively wild, as are all your siblings,” Mrs. Thornbury declared. “My poor sister lacked discipline as a parent, but in her absence, they have become feral. As, it seems, have you—judging by your current state.” Her voice reeked with disgust. “Drenched from head to foot, and with an unmarried woman in your house. Have you ruined her?”
“Of course not!” Simon’s protest thundered. “She stumbled on the steps, and I was merely steadying her. Nothing more.”
Nothing more. Emme’s breath stalled. Of course. Why would she expect anything else from him? She was such a fool.
“Her horse spooked and threw her into the back pond,” Simon continued, his tone exasperated. “I dove in to assist her. That explains our appearance.”
“It is still highly irregular,” Mrs. Thornbury countered. “And hadI not arrived when I did, only imagine the impropriety of bringing a single woman into your house. You both chose poorly if you wish to preserve your reputations.”
A flush of heat crept up Emme’s face and neck. Mrs. Thornbury was right. This entire situation could damage not only her reputation but Simon’s as well. She raised her gaze heavenward in silent apology. Her mother would be mortified.
“Based on my previous visits and your letters, I had seen your attempts to reform your previous reckless ways. I should like to believe today’s display is not indicative of the direction of your life.”
“Of course not,” came Simon’s quick reply. “I have worked—am working—to redeem Ravenscross’s future, Aunt Agatha. I cannot change the reputation my father left behind, but I am attempting to rectify the future my cousin seemed destined to destroy. I’ve plans to sell timber from the land, increase profits from wool, and even reinstate some of the tenant farmers Cousin Rupert carelessly cast out when their rents weren’t enough to cover his debts. I am not my father or my cousin.”
A chill skittered up Emme’s arms at the barely veiled fury in his voice, the hard-edged determination in his words.
Not his father.
Was he living in the shadow—and at the expense—of his father? His cousin, the previous viscount? And now, was he also the sole guardian of his siblings?
If only men shared such matters with women instead of leaving them to draw half-truth conclusions in the name of “protecting their sensibilities,” surely the world would have fewer misunderstandings.
And what exactly had the late Lord Ravenscross done to leave such a blight on the estate? And to drive tenants away? Emme’s thoughts tangled around the questions, the wordtenantssnagging in her mind, though she couldn’t quite grasp why.
