Page 52 of Sense and Suitability
Despite the faded carpets and vacant walls where the outline of paintings once hung, the house retained grandeur and beauty. But the wounds and fear that must run rife within the walls? Children mourning both father and mother, a new viscount grappling with the burden of salvaging a title and estate, and an enigmatic aunt dispensing ultimatums?
Someone needed to help all of them.
Emme had barely reached the bottom of the stairs when Simon approached, freshly dressed, though the damp curl of his hair betrayed a recent swim. Her smile threatened again. Her hurt had lost some of its sting in light of his burdens—his forced choices that had shaped him.
“I’ve readied the carriage for you.” His gaze flicked to hers as he gestured toward the front door. “And your mare—”
“Portia?”
His lips curved faintly, the smallest concession to humor. “Shakespeare?”
Emme shrugged, watching how he fought the smile. “I have a fondness for intelligent and lively heroines, my lord.”
His gaze steadied in hers. “As do I...” His voice faltered and he looked away, clearing his throat as he gestured once more toward the door. “Your mare is harnessed to the carriage. She will see you home, along with your belongings.”
Her heart pinched at the wealth of words left unsaid. Oh, the weight he now carried!
Simon Reeves had made the right choice.
His family. His duty.
All those bitter thoughts she’d nursed against him unraveled inthe face of his burdens. He was, in truth, the man she had believed him to be—the man she had loved.
And she had to let him go. To honor his decision.
“Thank you.” She stepped toward the door as he opened it for her.
He fell into step beside her, maintaining the careful distance required by propriety, pausing at the carriage to extend his hand to assist her. Emme hesitated. She had left her gloves with the rest of her soiled clothing. Still, there was no avoiding it. With a slight pause, she placed her bare hand in his.
The warmth of his touch jolted through her, the sensation stirring memories she had worked so hard to suppress. He had held her hand before. Touched her cheek. Drawn her close in an embrace that had once seemed unshakable. Her gaze flickered to his, and the intensity in his eyes told her he felt it too.
And then she released him, withdrawing her hand with quiet finality.
The carriage lurched forward, carrying her away from Ravenscross—and from the man who had claimed her heart and broken it in equal measure.
The man she could never have.
Simon stared into the fire, Aunt Agatha’s ultimatum still turning over in his mind. It felt as though the embers mirrored the chaos within him. He had seen Emme off only an hour before, yet her image remained vivid—hauntingly so.
There she had stood, wearing his sister’s dress, her golden hair damp and slightly disheveled, the wide depths of her eyes searching his.
And her touch—his fingers fisted at the thought of it. That brief, searing connection as she pressed her hand to his lingered with him, heavy and impossible to shake.
It was as though, in that single moment, she had said goodbye.
Charlotte had, of course, wasted no time in recounting her and Emme’s conversation with Fia about the frog and the ensuing confrontation with Aunt Agatha. The sparkle in his sister’s eyes as she spoke of Emme’s defense had said much. It hadn’t been Emme’s words alone that had earned Lottie’s admiration—but had it also been the presence of another young woman? A female mentor for his hurting sister?
“If you’re trying to avoid Emmeline Lockhart, you’re doing a remarkably poor job of it,” Ben remarked from the chair opposite, his words no help at all. He’d arrived a little after Emme had left, passing the carriage as he’d come to the estate, so of course Simon had told him of her... unexpected visit.
Simon’s attention snapped to his “friend,” who lounged as though he had not a care in the world. “Did you hear anything I just said? It was an accident, plain and simple. The last thing I wanted was to see her here.”
In fact, seeing her in his home, with his siblings, made everything worse. She fit too well. Brought too much light. Sprinkled her loveliness within the lonely walls.
He didn’t need to have that vision in his head.
Nor the sensation of her in his arms, the soft curves of her body shivering up against him.
“I heard”—Ben relaxed back into his chair—“something about your thieving sister, some chickens, and a swim in the pond with your favorite heroine.” He paused, adding a shake of his brows. “Very romantic. I daresay your life is nearly novel-worthy.”
