Page 43 of Sense and Suitability
That meeting had been improper. She shouldn’t have come.
But she had.
His defenses began to soften, so he grunted through an eye roll and began walking again. “Men, Miss Lockhart, bear the far greater responsibility in providing for a woman’s welfare and safety. Waiting for someone else’s initiation seems a small price to pay.”
Some ungodly sound erupted from her throat as if she might very well explode on the spot. “And how often have you been on the receiving end of waiting, Lord Ravenscross?”
Ah, she’d reverted to using his title. The distance ought to have pleased him. It didn’t. And waiting? He knew it too well. Waiting forhis mother’s health to return. Waiting for word of Arianna. Waiting for his finances to unravel. Waiting for his heart to stop longing for someone he couldn’t have.
“You have no idea of my personal circumstances.”
“Nor you, mine.” Her gaze locked on his, challenging and captivating all at once. “You, with your estate and your title and your”—she waved her hand, clearly searching for the right word—“man-ness! You have no idea what it’s like to feel like a pawn to be bartered or a trophy to be won.” She drew a breath and continued, her voice firm. “And as for those novels, I daresay they require great thought and ingenuity to craft. Why not enjoy them? Why not offer adventure where it is wanted?”
He stopped at the bottom of the steps to the back door, turning to admire the full glory of her fury.
“And”—she raised a finger as she hurried to keep pace with him—“not all of them are unrealistic. The lady who wrote novels likeSense and SensibilityandPride and Prejudicecrafted stories that are both realistic and... sensible.”
She shook her head and turned to march up the steps—only to lose her footing among the tangle of her wet skirts.
His arms wrapped around her instantly, steadying her against him for only a moment.
But it was enough. Enough to recall a stolen kiss on a balcony. Enough to make him forget every reason he needed to keep his distance.
She stilled, her face so near to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath. Those eyes—how they drew him in like a man parched for water. She shivered, and his hold instinctively tightened.
Heaven and earth conspired against him.
He was lost.
Chapter 9
The shivering in Emme’s body quelled at Simon’s nearness. If his gentle grip on her arms didn’t send a budding warmth through her middle, then the look in those familiar eyes certainly did. Concern? Tenderness?
Her breath caught as he shifted a step closer, his hands sliding down her arms to pause at her elbows. She rested her palms against his chest, the heat of his skin beneath his damp shirt seeping into her fingers, igniting another wave of warmth up her chest and neck.
Oh, how wrong she’d gotten those romantic scenes in her books.
Well, not wrong. But not potent or vibrant enough.
Not like this.
Her fingers twisted involuntarily into the folds of his shirt.
His palms tightened on her arms, and the soft fluttering in her chest intensified to that of a veritable hummingbird.
She didn’t want to like him. Truly, she didn’t. He’d broken her heart. He’d tainted her name. And he’d insulted women and novels alike.
She didn’t want to feel his lips on hers again, just to see if the second time would prove as delicious and memorable as the first. And she certainly didn’t want to recall the way he’d emerged from the pond, dark hair curling and shirt clasped to his skin in a way she felt certain wasn’t appropriate for her very appreciative gaze.
And yet here she was, leaning toward him on the steps of hishouse, inviting him—encouraging him—to wreak havoc on her heart and reputation all over again.
How had everything unraveled from a simple visit to Mrs. Dean’s house?
“Emme,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, almost pleading. “I need you to understand—”
But she didn’t understand. How could she? How could anyone comprehend why he had left her without a word?
“What is going on here?”
