Page 6 of Sense and Suitability
“The last lot,” Simon continued, tone dry, “did little else but talk nonsense, fret over lace, and read Gothic novels.”
His thoughts stammered against his own words. Except one.
The familiar burn of shame twisted through his chest. What a fool he’d been. An arrogant, reckless fool. He had never intended to meet Emmeline Lockhart, let alone court her. Their first encounter had been entirely unplanned, a serendipitous meeting that left him unexpectedly disarmed. Against all sense and propriety, he had let himself care for her. And when he should have walked away, he continued, unwilling to release the sweetness... the authentic nature of their connection.
And then she’d become the first casualty of his world falling apart.
She deserved far better than a man forced to choose duty over affection.
“Needs must, Simon,” Ben quipped, his gaze flicking pointedly toward the threadbare tapestries and the dim, insufficient light of the drawing room. “Gothic novels may well prepare them for your family and estate.”
Simon refused to follow his friend’s directive. Updates and candles were luxuries that Ravenscross could scarcely afford. They barely had enough in the coffers to pay the remaining servants, let alone fund repairs. And the debts left by his cousin with the estate—not to mention his father—were as numerous as they were insurmountable.
Even after all these months of the truth being thrust into his face on a daily basis, it still felt surreal, this sudden turn of fortune that had made him Lord Ravenscross. Two years ago, the title had been a distant prospect, held by a cousin Simon barely knew, and destined, Simon had assumed, to pass to his cousin’s yet-to-be born son from a yet-to-be-wed wife. But then came the letter—the one that informed him of the storm off the Indies that had claimed thelives of both his cousin and his father. How was he to have known his father had gotten himself entrenched in Cousin Rupert’s nasty affairs? And how was Simon to have known he’d end up paying for the mismanagement and profligate spending of two men who should have ensured the reputation and future of Ravenscross?
Of course he hadn’t known. Hadn’t even fathomed.
And so the estate, the title, the responsibility—it had all landed on him with staggering suddenness, shattering the carefree existence he’d once known, altering everyplan. The first six months, he’d passed so much time attempting to understand his new role while uncovering the extent of his father’s massive loss in trade and his cousin’s liberal spending, he’d not noticed his mother’s failing health. But when his brother Theodore joined the military ranks to fight the French, it had served as the last loss for his mother. Within months she’d succumbed to illness and grief, which appeared to propel his sister Arianna to run away with her proposed lover.
After all those months, all those heartrending months, Simon Reeves—once carefree and certain of his place in the world—no longer existed. The man who bore the title Viscount of Ravenscross was burdened, humbled, and all too aware of his inadequacies.
“You flatter me, Ben,” Simon said with forced levity. “I fear my very real life may exceed the requirements of any Gothic novel.”
Ben’s smirk disappeared. “I wish it were fiction for you, Simon. God knows I do. But you had no hand in your cousin’s decisions or your parents’ fates, and you cannot change Arianna’s. Besides, you’ve done all you can to find her. Months of searching. You’ve kept the estate afloat against impossible odds. But you can’t solve everything with sheer will. It’s time to think practically.”
Practically? He almost laughed. As if the burden of practicality hadn’t been thrust upon him from the moment that blasted letter arrived. But what to do? He felt the answer but didn’t want to acceptit as his only option, so he offered another deflective smile. “I assume the gossip mill has also selected my bride for me?”
And his friend’s humor resurfaced with its usual buoyancy. “Not yet, but give it time. They’ve already chosen your replacements for half the tapestries in this house.”
Simon huffed a laugh despite himself, though the sound lacked any real humor. “As if new tapestries will fix anything.”
“They might.” Ben’s tone remained light. “But they’ll require a dowry to match. Which circles us back to the matter at hand.”
Simon had tried to stall such a decision by learning the hard work of labor. Once, he’d scoffed at tradesmen, but in the past months, he’d known the hand-callousing occupation of mending fences to save the sheep they desperately needed for income. Wool remained an ever-present need and sheep were aplenty. He’d become familiar with the feel of a hammer as he attempted to shore up some loose boards in the stables. And somehow, within the work, he’d learned to appreciate things he’d never even noticed before.
The true value of a coin or a faithful servant or a sturdy wall.
The importance of good people and hard work.
And the realization that desperation truly did lead to ingenuity... but also, as he felt it now, resignation.
“If you marry well and a woman of good reputation, it will restore more than the estate.” Ben leaned forward, his tone taking on an earnest edge. “It will elevate your family, provide for your siblings, and allow you to hire a proper governess for the younger three.”
Simon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. What governess could possibly withstand the youngest three Reeves children? Aunt Agatha was the only one who’d ever managed to keep them in line, and she’d deserted Ravenscross a month ago to visit an ailing friend, leaving Simon to navigate the treacherous waters of guardianship alone.
“The prospect is not so bad,” Ben continued. “I hear marriage can be pleasant—with the right person.”
Emmeline Lockhart’s face flashed in Simon’s mind unbidden, bringing with it a familiar ache. As reckless as he’d been with her emotions, his affection had been sincere. He’d cherished their conversations, her laughter, her sharp humor. If things had been different—if his cousin hadn’t died, if his father hadn’t squandered his fortune, if the title hadn’t fallen to him—he would have known a future with someone he loved.
Simon’s eyes closed. There was no use torturing himself with what-ifs. He had to turn his mind from Miss Lockhart and face what was.
Now, he was Lord Ravenscross, and duty had to come first.
“Marriage? A pleasant option?” He forced a grin and gestured toward Ben. “Says the bachelor with whom I’ll be competing this season. Tell me, will you take your own advice and seek out a wife of good fortune? Perhaps even find this ‘right person’ you so readily recommend?”
Ben’s smile was maddeningly unrepentant. “I’m not opposed to the idea, should the right one present herself. But unlike you, my friend, I can afford to be selective.” He stood, looming over Simon both in height and ease of circumstance. “You, alas...” He tsked, smile crooked to soften the blow. “But I shall give you first choice since you’re desperate and I am not.”
“How gracious of you.” Simon reached for his drink, letting the sharp tang dull his sarcasm. Desperation was an unsavory word—one he loathed to apply to himself. Yet here he was, neck-deep in it.
