Page 116 of Sense and Suitability
Late autumn had always been Emme’s favorite time of year. The leaves still blazed in glorious colors, the air carried a crisp promise of winter, and the scent of hearth fires lingered on the breeze. Christmas lay just ahead—a season of light and joy she usually faced with unbridled anticipation. Yet tonight her heart felt as heavy as the leaden clouds that had threatened rain all day.
She wrapped her cape tighter around her neck, stepping away from the house and its ever-present bustle of conversation and laughter. Aunt Meredith’s dinner party had been a roaring success, but even the warmth of her family’s company could not banish the ache that had taken root within her.
Uncle John and Aunt Meredith had welcomed her into their home, offering solitude or company, as needed, and her cousins—all younger than she—provided ample entertainment.
Time would help. Comfort certainly did.
And she’d survived heartbreak before.
Only this time, she’d broken her own heart.
Thomas’s letter from a few days before praised her newest manuscript, offering his confidence in the publisher acquiring it without hesitation. And writing such a story, so real to her everyday life, kindled another, of which she’d only penned a few pages, but she already adored the travel-loving heroine.
Oh, how she hoped her sister’s road to romance led her down much easier and more fulfilling paths.
She settled onto the small stone bench in the garden, letting her gaze drift skyward. The stars shone bright, their pinpricks of light a silent reminder of the vastness of the world—and perhaps a much greater Storyteller’s work.
It had been a week since they had parted. Seven days, and yet the ache had not lessened. Every knock at the door still sent her heart racing. Every creak of carriage wheels made her foolishly hopeful. But Simon had not come, and she could not fault him.
At some point, she would stop crying.
And at some point, the deep laughter of someone nearby wouldn’t immediately make her think of him.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to stop this nonsensical pining. Simon was bound by duty—he had honorable obligations that she could not resent, even if they kept him from her.
Despite Emme’s internal fortitude to be like Elinor Dashwood in her acceptance of her situation, she’d spent a few quiet evenings crying in her room as she’d read over the three letters Simon had sent her two years before. Of course he shouldn’t have written her until they were engaged. And she shouldn’t have kept them for the same reason, but somehow—she laughed at the absurdity—in a tortured sort of way, they comforted her. His writing, his words, his affection had all been real and genuine... and lasting. There was such comfort in the knowledge that he had loved...didlove her, and much like the tenderhearted Edward Ferrars caught in a web of his own making, Simon’s desires had been for her, but social expectations and the power of money changed everything. No, Simon had never been Willoughby. Perhaps in a cursory look from the outside, but never at heart. He’d been faithful to his first love.Her.
Her smile peaked. Perhaps he was a Colonel Brandon after all.
She stood from the bench and approached a few lasting roses intermingled in the hedgerow. Red roses. Her lips tipped. Passionate love.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness, their measured pace soft against the gravel path.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cold to be studying roses out here by yourself?”
Emme startled, her eyes snapping wide. That voice—it couldn’t be. She turned, and her heart seized as the familiar silhouette stepped into view. The light from the house framed him, casting his face in shadow, but she knew him.
Knew his stature. His gait.
She attempted to respond, but all the words in her head disappeared. Nothing but a puff of translucent air emerged from her open mouth, creating a tiny cloud in the night. She pinched the collar of her cape, just to have something to hold on to, as he stepped nearer.
“Speechless, are we?” His teasing tone carried warmth that wrapped around her like a second cloak. “I must say, I’m honored to have rendered an author incapable of words.”
His next step brought him close enough for the moonlight to reveal the unmistakable curve of his smile. Her breath caught. He was here. In Yorkshire. Smiling?
She blinked, struggling to reconcile the man before her with their last encounter.
“How—” But words proved as intangible as breath.
“By the fastest carriage ride in recorded history.” His grin tipped wider.
A voiceless laugh broke from her—was it relief or disbelief?—before she managed to say, “I hope you rewarded the horses and driver handsomely.”
“I was rather preoccupied with finding the woman I mean to marry.” His gaze held hers. “But if you’ll remind me later, I shall see to it that the horses receive their due praise and the driver a generous tip.”
“Marry me?” she repeated faintly, the words shaking as they left her lips. “How can—”
“You’re proposing?” His teasing tone softened, but the glint of mischief lingered in his eyes. “Then I accept. Iwillmarry you.”
