Page 95 of Sense and Suitability
“What on earth are you doing hiding in Miss Lockhart’s garden?” he demanded, striding toward her with barely contained exasperation.
“I came to learn how to plant strawberries,” she replied, brushing off her sleeves with a flourish, sending him a knowing look that no thirteen-year-old sister should ever dare to flaunt to her utterly flustered elder brother.
Imp!
Then a thought struck him. Had Lottie meant for him to follow her to Emme’s in order to... he shook his head. Surely not. His sister wouldn’t concoct some sort of plan like this, would she?
Simon had little time to consider it because just then another figure emerged from the shrubbery, her honeyed hair gleaming in the sunlight.
His face went cold. “Miss... Miss Aster?” The words came out strangled, choked by his own surprise.
“It seems wrong to allow Lottie all the fun,” Aster said, shrugging a shoulder as if entirely unaffected. “So I joined her and”—her brows wiggled—“it was quite the show.”
“Aster!” Emme’s hand fluttered toward Simon, her gaze catching in his for a moment, heat rising back into those lovely cheeks, before she snapped back to her sister. “This was not what it should have been. And I would hope”—she threw an almost matronly look at the girls despite the chirp of her pitch—“that you would keep this private exchange to yourselves. Spying is hardly an appropriate pastime for a lady.”
“We weren’t spying,” Aster corrected, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We were... observing.” She smiled just slightly, and Simon realized for the first time that second-born daughters may be creatures unto themselves, no matter what household they abided. “There’s a difference.”
Lottie nodded solemnly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable excuse. “Precisely. Observing. For...” She paused, glancing at Aster for an answer.
“Horticultural inspiration,” Aster supplied with a wink.
“Ridiculous.” Emme crossed her arms over her chest as she moved to Simon’s side to create a united front, he supposed. “At your age.”
“Horticultural endeavors are excellent at any age, I hear.” Aster gave her sister a syrupy smile that did nothing but tighten Emme’s posture. “In fact, sister-dear, I’d always heard that a white rose meantlove,” she continued. “And a red chrysanthemum as well.” She paused with a deliberate shrug, her eyes twinkling. “And even—”
“Aster.” Emme stepped forward, thrusting the bouquet of flowers into her sister’s hands with remarkable finality. “Take these inside.” Her brows rose, her lips pinched. “Now.”
Love?Had Emme been avoiding saying the word to him? Despite the absurdity of the situation, Simon couldn’t suppress the slight tilt of a smile.
Aster offered a sweeping curtsy, taking the flowers with an exaggerated air of graciousness before disappearing through the path.
With arms still folded, Emme turned to him, brow raised in expectation.
He’d almost kissed her. Catastrophic, really. Dangerous when there was no understanding between them.
He’d already been the rogue. The unintended rogue, but one nonetheless. He would convince Aunt Agatha to allow him time to choose a bride, and then—then he’d marry Emme and kiss her whenever and however often he wished.
With a quick turn, he faced Lottie. “Am I to think that you dragged me to Thistlecroft under false pretenses?”
“Drag you here?” Lottie blinked up at him with wide eyes, all mock innocence. “Me? You mustn’t give me so much credit. You’re the one who followed me.”
“Followed you?” he repeated, his voice rising.
“And I’d been invited,” she added. “Miss Lockhart invited me to teach me how to plant strawberries, as I’d mentioned in my letter.”
Simon let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “But you knew I’d follow you.”
She smiled all the more, not an ounce of remorse in her expression.
“Lottie, we will discuss this later. At length.” With a resigned sigh, Simon shot her a hard look before turning to Emme.
But the tender look she’d given him a moment ago had vanished,replaced by a wariness that made his chest tighten. And he hated it. He hated that he had caused it.
“I apologize, Miss Lockhart,” he said softly, searching her face, pressing his deeper meaning into his expression.
Sorry for nearly kissing you again, for wordlessly promising something on which I could not deliver just yet, for losing control of my senses and nearly wounding you all over again.His eyes searched hers, trying to convey the depth of his regret. It was a silent apology for the unspoken promises he had made in his mind, ones that he knew he could not yet fulfill. “Please,” he began again. “I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak with you—properly—at another time.”
Her gaze flicked to his lips for the briefest moment before returning to his eyes, her expression shuttered, those faint traces of warmth now veiled. He nearly groaned from the wound.
