Page 15 of The Hellion is Tamed

Glancing about the room, he came across a tidy pile stacked by the hearth. A pair of silver dancing slippers, a lilac shawl andhisgloves. He flexed his fingers and, in a swift move for a man known for them, shoved his clenched fists deep in his trouser pockets. It seemed Emma intended to give the gloves back when he, absurdly, wanted her to keep them.

He took a step into the parlor, aware that a gentleman would have alerted a lady to his presence. But he wasn’t a gentleman, and Emmaline Breslin wasn’t a lady. With a soft smile, he shook his head, unsure what to call her. Termagant? Hellion?

She wore another new gown, this one a shade, perhaps two, lighter than her magnificent indigo eyes. Madame Hebert had selected jewel tones that would set her apart in a ballroom if the vivacity of her personality did not. Simon thought her raw beauty enough to make her shimmer, a diamond amongst dull, grey stones. High cheekbones, a chin that spoke of obstinacy and hasty decisions. A challenging face, sensual and stubborn. One that brought to mind tangled sheets and the pleasurable tremors that ripped through you after coming so hard you almost blacked out.

Any man’s dream, aside from the abrasive accent, the rough skin, the disrespectful manner. Things that didn’t matter in the least that mattered mightily to theton. They’d have to change her or hide the parts they couldn’t change before she’d be ready for society introductions.

He knew this because he’d done it himself.

To please him, she needed no alteration. He’d searched for her before he knew. He wondered if she realized that. Or, that’d he given up on her—and now questioned if he should have. Years too late, that decision. He’d lost himself along the way and lost her, too.

With a rousing yawn, Emma pulled Dickens closer and squinted.

Simon held back a chuckle.Why, she needs spectacles.He opened his mouth to tell his hellion that when two small, human projectiles rammed into the backs of his legs, forcing him to stumble awkwardly into the room.

Emma shoved to an inelegant sit, tugging her skirt over her ankles, color sweeping enticingly down her neck and bleeding into the rounded collar of her gown. Her gaze snapped to the slippers stacked hopelessly by the hearth as she gave her stockinged toes a frantic wiggle. She’d lost herself in—Simon tilted his head to read the title of the book she’d placed by her feet—David Copperfield.

The duke’s youngest children, twins Worth and Winnie, danced in a wild circle around Simon, chanting a charming ditty he didn’t know, their grubby hands tugging on his trousers and leaving what looked like specks of jam behind. He laughed and tried to brush them off. “I know you’re looking for butterscotch. I didn’t bring any today.”

“Bother,” Winnie said, flashing a gap-toothed grin, her amber eyes exact replicas of her father’s. But her face, oh, her lovely face was all Delaney’s. “You never forget sweets. You’re the bestest for sweet giving.”

Worth plopped himself on the sofa and folded his hands in his lap, a flawless embodiment of etiquette. “I shall behave like a gentleman whilst I beg for my treat.”

Winnie giggled and jammed her bottom right next to her brother’s. “Me, too. A perfect lady.” Then she ruined the statement by licking a spot of jam from her thumb.

Simon had to work to contain his amusement at the apprehensive look on Emma’s face. “What say you, Miss Breslin?”

Emma popped her head over the back of the sofa and blinked owlishly. “About?” She wobbled precariously, struggling to put on her slippers without anyone noticing they’d been takenoff.

Worth tilted his head. “Oh, hello, Miss Emmaline. You need to tell Uncle Si to give us the candies he always carries. He’ll flip them around like a magician if you ask him nicely. Part of his gift. That and the dead ghosties. My gift is that I will someday make fire fly from my fingertips, like my father, the duke. I dream about doing it, so it must be so.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “A secret, but it means we both have gifts. It means weallhave gifts.”

Emma’s gaze shot to Simon’s.Fire, she mouthed?

Later, he said with nothing more than a shake of his head.

The League had worried that the next generation would inherit supernatural abilities, and unfortunately, it appeared to be happening. Julian’s son, Lucien, touched objects and saw the past, as his father did. One of Finn’s daughters seemed to be a blocker, like her mother. And Worth…Worth dreamed of fires. News that had nearly destroyed the Duke of Ashcroft when he’d first realized it. Thrown him into a depression Simon had dreaded he wouldn’t recover from. The League had feared he would return to the opium dens, a place he’d frequented before his marriage, but he had not. His wife Delaney, would never let that happen.

Consequently, Simon had decided not to have children. He’d been cautious in his relationships, most of those extremely short, to ensure pregnancy did not result.

To parent a child who conversed with the deceased seemed a worse nightmare than conversing with them yourself.

Seemed like a dreadful wager from the start.

Anyway, he’d never feel that blind obsession, reckless need. Overpowering yearning.

Julian and Finn had stressed the imperative often enough.Without love, a successful union was untenable.He supposed it made him a romantic, but he’d seen his brother’s marriages flourish, so he believed love was necessary. Furthermore, he had no title to offer. Nothing to offer except a dubious upbringing, a fictional history, an uncertain future. He was educated, thanks to Julian, and wealthy, thanks to Finn, who’d gifted him half the Blue Moon upon his majority.

His reputation, however, was in tatters. And his soul, in part, broken.

And the haunts…

Who would want to sharethatexistence? At this moment, Henry, the ghost who’d been troubling him for months and who’d died in 1793, was sitting by the hearth, his wrinkled chin in his fist, viewing the unfolding scene. Simon didn’t have the heart to send the aged vagabond on his way, though he knew he should.

Simon watched Emma wiggle into her other slipper, his heart taking a feeble tilt he rather wished it hadn’t. She’d experienced poverty, isolation, torment. Brawled with the dregs of society to survive. Alone, without family. She needed someone with a soothing soul to rescue her from the abyss, when Simon would do nothing but plunge her deeper into it. He was a man who woke amid childhood terrors, a man who, with every room he entered, experienced the desperate urge to steal something while he strolled through it.

Simon felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down into Worth’s sterling eyes. “Miss Emma makes the grandest cake in London. She showed me how to do the icing. Said she might show her little boy how to do it someday, exactly like we did. Lemon with rosemary, which sounds yucky but was terribly wonderful. Everyone in the house is raving about it, mama says. I ate two slices, then felt sick to my tummy.”

Simon’s gaze crawled to hers. She liked children. And baking. “Cake?”