Page 74 of Sense and Suitability
Emme’s lips faltered, though she managed a nod. She did not share Marianne Dashwood’s dramatic views on heartbreak, after all. Too many stories, both fictional and real, offered proof of hope beyond the loss of a first love.
But if love never came her way again?
Her chest squeezed at the thought. Independence would be a fine achievement, certainly. But the idea of a family—a home bustling with life and love—was as dear a dream as her writing.
“Then it seems we both have cause for hope, don’t we?”
Aster tilted her head, her small smile weakening. “Sometimes, don’t you wish life turned out as easily or as beautifully as it does for women in novels?”
Emme almost revealed her own literary endeavors then and there, but instead she said, “The women in novels must endure a great many trials before reaching the beautiful part, I think.”
Aster considered this, her gaze turning thoughtful. “I suppose love is worth it, if one can find it.”
Emme took a deep breath, her heart responding with an answer she wanted to be true. “I want to believe, Aster, that love is always worth it.”
The theater hummed with busy tattle breeders and marriage seekers, who spent more time watching prospective suitors than the thespians on the stage.
From his box seat, Simon surveyed the bustling crowd and the stage below, the entire room sizzling with the energy of “the hunt”—whether for gossip, a match, or a possible scandal. There was no want for any, he was sure, and he—his frown deepened—likely provided a solid amount of the fodder.
Miss Clayton sat at his side, her posture impeccably straight, while her sharp-eyed mother perched like a vigilant sparrow just behind them, keeping watch.
The younger woman was, as Emmeline had so generously professed, “perfectly amiable.” A compliment that was entirely correct yet entirely uninspiring. She was, no doubt, a handsome woman—her dark greengown offset her soft brown eyes and matching hair beautifully. And she conducted herself with unflappable agreeableness. In fact, her conversation and opinions were so obliging that the dialogue ended within two turns at most.
A desperate man might overlook such things. After all, Miss Clayton brought two thousand pounds a year to a potential marriage, and he was, by all measures, a desperate man. But desperation did not erase memory, nor did it dull the sting of longing.
He had once tasted the rare delight of a match forged in shared wit, intelligence, and a generous heart. After that, even the most mercenary arrangements felt unbearably hollow.
Besides, a certain amount of cleverness was necessary to survive or even outwit his siblings and probably, at times, himself. Miss Clayton’s complacent temper and obliging nature might leave her thoroughly hoodwinked—or overwhelmed—before the week was out.
About halfway through the first act, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched placed him on alert. Of course he shouldn’t be surprised at garnering some attention. Besides the scandals around his parents’ deaths and his sister’s disappearance, he was also the walking equivalent of a placard reading “Poor Viscount Needs a Title-Seeking Wife.” And from the many glances he caught throughout the first of the evening, many unmarried women—or should he say, many mothers of unmarried women—found him fascinating.
He turned his head away from the stage and scanned the crowd with practiced subtlety. Nothing seemed amiss until... he caught sight of a very familiar silhouette, lovely in deep blue, and staring directly at him through a pair of theater glasses.
Emmeline.
He blinked, not necessarily at seeing her in the audience, but her not-so-subtle way in attempting to... spy on him?
A laugh tangled in his throat, so he coughed to disguise it.
“Are you unwell, Lord Ravenscross?” Miss Clayton inquired.
“Quite well,” he replied quickly, clearing his throat. “Merely a small irritation.” He sent the final word silently toward Emmeline, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. His lips twitched anyway, fighting another laugh.
Miss Clayton offered him a puzzled glance but thankfully refrained from further inquiry.
Simon, however, couldn’t resist looking across the crowd again. Sure enough, the moment their eyes met—well, the moment herglassesmet his eyes—she quickly lowered the glasses, feigning a sudden interest in the stage.
Another cough slipped from his pressed lips, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth, suppressing a smile. Miss Clayton resumed discussing the intricate embroidery on one of the actress’s gowns with mild enthusiasm, though her words barely registered. His attention strayed, unbidden, back to Emmeline. At his pointed stare, she lowered the glasses again and feigned innocence, her expression a picture of surprise at having been caught.
His heart expanded with emotions he dared not acknowledge, pressing against his rib cage to the painful spot, threatening to spill over into words and actions and completely irrational decisions.
He loved her... still.
The internal admission settled through him like a deep ache, a soreness that had crept into his bones, but no less real for its quiet persistence. How could loving her but not having her be his future? Was financial success worth the devastation of his heart?
Simon sighed inwardly, struggling to regain some semblance of control over himself.
And furthermore, why on earth would Emme want to be with him? He’d already slighted her once and then took her up on this ridiculous matchmaking scheme of hers, when the very idea had him wanting to hit his head against the nearest wall. If she, of all women, wanted to help him find a bride, then she’d clearly moved beyond any attachment.
