Page 19 of Sense and Suitability
Research, after all, might justify another kiss...
Her cheeks warmed at the memory. And his closeness. And the idea that those rather impressive arms from his rather impressive shoulders inspired a wonderful sense of safety she shouldn’t want from a scoundrel.
Yet the way he looked at her in the twilit night didn’t resemble anything like a scoundrel. For some reason she couldn’t quite define, she wanted to touch his cheek and comfort him.
No!This was madness. Her reputation couldn’t withstand the blow.
As if he sensed her thoughts, Simon blinked, his head shaking slightly as though to clear it. He released her abruptly, stepping back, his jaw tightening.
“No,” he said, his voice low and firm. “I have nothing to offer you, Miss Lockhart.”
His gaze trailed over her face once more, pausing a moment on her lips.
Her breath hitched.
“Perhaps once.” His frown deepened, and he released a sigh. “But a lot has happened since then.”
And with that, he turned and walked back into the house.
She braced a hand to the balcony railing, her body suddenly weak from neck to knees. How on earth was she going to survivean entire season with the possibility of seeing Simon Reeves at any moment?
“Bina said you left the ball early without telling her.”
Emme looked up from her place in the window seat, morning light spilling over her open book and scattering across the loose papers she’d been attempting to write upon. She tucked the pages into the book nearby, her futile attempt at creativity weakened by her weariness. Most of the house still slept, and she’d hoped for some quiet time to write before the day began in earnest. But her thoughts betrayed her, stubbornly circling one man who deserved none of her attention.
True, she had managed to jot down a few scandalous lines about a kiss—one inspired all too easily by memory—and readjusted some of her prose, which in the light of day appeared too harsh on the hero of the story. But she couldn’t seem to write beyond that moment and the warring emotions it had inspired. Not yet.
“Aunt Bina said it’s good taste to leave a party early rather than late,” she replied, attempting to keep the conversation light.
“Hmm...” Her father stepped closer, the faint scent of damp earth and rosemary clinging to his crinkled clothes after his morning visit to the garden. “Not as early as last night for you, dear girl. And without discussing it with your aunt?”
Emme flushed, thankful he hadn’t mentioned her leaving without a chaperone. No need to add another social transgression to the growing list of her failings. “I left a message with Aster that I wasn’t feeling well.”
Father lowered himself to the window seat. “I know your aunt can be trying, but she has good intentions... and she knows far more of society’s puzzling rules than I.”
Emme drew her knees up beneath her, leaning her head againsthis shoulder. “You know of things that matter far more than matchmaking, Father.”
“If only your mother were here.” His sigh ruffled her hair. “She’d know best how to guide you in these matters—and your heart.”
She shifted to look up at him. “My heart?”
“Aster told me of some of the people who attended last night.” He looked out the window, his lips pinching enough to display his discomfort. “I may not speak of it, but I know you cared for him.”
Him.Emme stilled against the familiar ache the reference stirred. No need to say his name. Her father knew.
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” She spoke quietly, her words laced with a bitterness she hadn’t entirely banished. “He’s gone on to find more tempting options—ones who will, no doubt, make him happier in his newfound position.”
Even saying it aloud stung, an old wound reopening.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “But Aster said the man looked rather lost.”
Lost?That’s the look she’d noticed last night too, when her thoughts weren’t split between her anger and his devastating kiss.
She shook off the thought and looked up at her father, eager to change the subject. “What happened to the previous Lord Ravenscross? I know both he and the current viscount’s father died at sea, but... there are other rumors.”
Her father cleared his throat, shifting in discomfort. “It is not polite or helpful to dwell on such matters, Emme.”
“But there has to be more,” she pressed. She had conjured all sorts of lurid scenarios in her mind after Simon dropped her, some of which had made their way into her novel. If her father knew even half of what she’d written, he’d be scandalized. “The sudden deaths of the former viscount and Mr. Reeves, the whispers of ruin they left behind, and then Mrs. Reeves—Simon’s mother—passing not long after.” She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “They say shewas either murdered or overcome with grief when she learned of her husband’s rumored debts and indiscretions.”
