Page 112 of Sense and Suitability
Mrs. Patterson entered with her usual air of brisk efficiency. “You have a visitor, sir.”
“A visitor?” A flicker of hope stirred in his chest. Could it be Emme?
“The rector, sir.”
Simon’s shoulders sagged. Of course. A clergyman. Possibly the very man who would propose to Emme if Simon failed to resolve his circumstances.
“Blast it all,” Simon muttered under his breath. “Perfect timing.”
Mrs. Patterson took this as assent—or as evidence that Simon was in dire need of clerical guidance—and promptly ushered in Mr. Bridges.
Simon’s first thought—not for the first time—was how un-rector-like the man appeared. Were they even sure he was a real rector? Most clergymen Simon had seen in the past proved much older or scabbier or... well, not as youthful and fashionable as Mr. Bridges.
The man walked in and greeted Simon with a nod, a small parcel held at his side. “Good morning, Lord Ravenscross. I do apologize for this unexpected visit.” And then he paused and looked away before meeting Simon’s gaze again. The man’s jaw set, his expression focused, and Simon suddenly realized how such a man may very well be a force in the pulpit. “No, I take that back. I am not sorry. I believe this visit is precisely what you need.”
Simon examined the man with renewed caution. “Is that so?”
Mr. Bridges stepped forward and offered the parcel.
“What is this?” Simon looked down at the package and slowly took it into his hands. Upon closer observation, he noticed it was a stack of papers tied in twine.
“Emme is my cousin,” Mr. Bridges said, his voice steady, his gaze even more so. “We’ve been like siblings our entire lives. There is no one I know better—or who knows me better—than her.”
His cousin? Like siblings? Simon’s brow rose—and the tension in his shoulders eased considerably. He much preferred that connection over “beloved.”
Mr. Bridges gestured toward the papers. “I was the one who encouraged her to pursue publication, and I have managed the business of her work ever since.”
Simon’s gaze dropped to the title scrawled in Emme’s familiar hand across the top page:A Ransomed Gentleman.
“There is no one of my acquaintance with as much generosity of heart as her, and I believe you’ve seen that,” the rector continued.
Simon pulled his gaze away from the title and blinked his attention back to Mr. Bridges. “I have. I know. She is the best of women.”
The clergyman studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what power you have to change your circumstances, or how Providence intends to guide this relationship between you and my cousin. But I do know this: I have never seen her grieve anyone as deeply as she has grieved you. Twice.”
The words struck Simon with a dual edge.
“She would have given up her gift of writing for you,” Mr. Bridges continued, his voice softening.
Simon’s chest ached. She had said as much.
“But she is talented at storytelling and finds joy in these worlds and words she pens.” Unmistakable pride crept into his tone. “I understand your situation is delicate. You must think of your family, andthere is no shame in that. But I wonder...” He trailed off, his gaze sharp. “Have you fully appreciated the woman you wish to marry? To understand the mind behind her kindness, the wit behind her words? To embrace her talents as an authoress—not merely in spite of your love for her but because of it?”
Simon stared at the manuscript, the weight of it settling heavily in his hands. What had been a simple parcel now felt like a piece of Emme herself—vulnerable, precious, and utterly unguarded. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”
Thomas drew in a breath. “Because the revelation of Emme’s writing has caused a stain on her reputation among the more sanctimonious of St. Groves—one that most would take as reason enough to distance themselves from her.”
Simon’s head snapped up, fire sparking through him. “Do you think I would let this change my feelings for her? Are you mad?”
Mr. Bridges raised a brow but said nothing, clearly unshaken by Simon’s outburst.
Simon pressed on, his jaw tense. “If I had the liberty to marry Miss Lockhart, nothing—no gossipmongers, no self-righteous social sentinels, not even the ghost of my father—would stop me from making her my bride. If I had the liberty, she would have left the ball last night on my arm—myfiancée—and I would have gladly announced it to the world.”
For the first time, Mr. Bridges’ expression softened, his head tilting slightly as a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “You hold her newest manuscript,” he said. “I just finished it. It’s the finest thing she’s ever written. And I believe you, in particular, need to read it.”
Simon’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting down to the manuscript in his hands.
Thomas gestured toward it lightly. “It’s one thing to love a woman for the way she makes you feel, but it’s another thing entirely to admire her for who she is.”
