Page 2 of Sense and Suitability
Her face warmed as she smiled. And he’d told her he loved her.
“It would not be prudent to align himself with someone so beneath him,” the other woman responded. “A motherless country gentleman’s daughter? Lord Ravenscross would never approve.”
Emme raised her fan to shadow her grin. But Lord Ravenscross had, by some miracle. In fact, Simon’s cousin cared very little for the romantic entanglements of his uncle’s eldest son, so without any resistance whatsoever, Simon was moving forward with his plans for tonight, where he promised to meet her in the Ruthtons’ garden by the waterfall to make everything official.
She’d become his wife.
An elevation for her family, for certain, but even more than that, a perfect match for her heart.
After all,hewasn’t a viscount, so at the foundation of rank, for the most part, they were the same: He was a gentleman’s son and she a gentleman’s daughter.
“Once he drops her, she’ll be ruined. Everyone will know she’d chased after him and been found wanting.”
Emme stepped away from the women, waving her fan in time with her pulse. She’d fought the worries of his future regret in the inequality of the match, wondered if he’d come to rue her lack of wealth or connections. But he’d quelled her doubts at every turn, promising her that their future happiness would overcome any of the social ramifications.
And he kept proving to be the veritable hero of any good novel.
She sighed. Only her hero wasn’t reserved to the page.
The clock chimed the hour, and she turned her attention to the room. She’d not seen Simon since her arrival, but he often arrived late. In fact, she wondered whether he may already be waiting for her in the garden. With a rather saucy glance back to the gossipmongers, Emme slid down the hallway and out onto the steps of the veranda, breathing in the cool March air.
What a glorious way to end her very first St. Groves Season.
She’d barely made it to the steps into the garden when someone called her name.
Turning, she found a manservant approaching at a clipped speed. How very odd. How had he known where to find her?
And then something much less warm and delightful than her previous feelings quivered in her chest.
“Miss Lockhart?” He paused, still in the light of the doorway. “Miss Emmeline Lockhart?”
Her throat tightened. “Yes.”
With a bow of his head, he offered her a card. “For you, Miss.”
Hesitantly, she took the card, and the man removed himself back into the house. She slid her finger beneath the seal of the envelope and stepped forward into the light glowing from the doorway. The note held only a few words in a dearly familiar hand, but nothing about those words felt dear.
Everything has changed. Please forgive me.
S.
Chapter 1
A knock at the front door of anyone’s house before ten o’clock in the morning rarely boded well for the home’s inhabitants. And in this particular case, it boded abominably for Emmeline Lockhart.
She’d attempted to brace herself for the lengthy intrusion after her father’s unexpected announcement the night before. Likely he’d waited until the very last moment to apprise his unsuspecting daughters of their fate.
Father, as good-hearted as he was, had a tendency to avoid conflict at all cost. When pressed, he sprung unwelcome information on people, and then he disappeared into his study or garden or nobody knew where for the aftermath of his revelation. Some people said that the loss of his dear wife after bringing Alfie, the lone Lockhart heir, into the world ten years ago had led him to an acute need for peace and tranquility, but in all truth, Father had fled conflict in every possible way well before Mother died. Over time, though, his tendency had grown almost chronic.
Another sharp knock echoed through the halls, and Emme could practically hear the doorframe flinch. As if everyone else in the house knew the eventual consequences of opening the door, no one did, prompting another impatient assault on the wood. Emme sighed. As the eldest daughter and in the absence of a mother’s guidance, the responsibility of dealing with social expectations inevitably fell to her.
Even this.
Her posture wilted for only a second before she rallied.
She’d been preparing for this fateful confrontation since early morning, alternating between fervent prayers and envisioning it all as a comical plight for one of her novel characters. It did help to have an outlet for her frustrations.
Fictional disasters for fictional people were, after all, far safer than real-life ones.
