by Dorothy Mack
So, what had gone awry? What was the chit playing at, flirting with Malcolm Godwin? Couldn’t she see she had young Delevan eating out of her hand? Having formed a good opinion of this gentleman’s address from the start of their acquaintance, the duke had kept out of the business, but he was beginning to suspect he might have overrated Delevan’s ability to handle a high-spirited girl like Gemma. And an even nastier rodent of suspicion had begun to gnaw at his complaisance. It was just conceivable that the banker’s son had decided the game wasn’t worth the candle. There was no lack of impoverished aristocrats with marriageable daughters in the land, as he must know. Certainly in the last week his efforts to charm Gemma out of the sullens had diminished to the vanishing point, though his manners as always were perfect. Too perfect!
“Doesn’t the young cub have any red blood in his veins?” growled his grace into the room’s silence. “With that ready tongue of his, he should be able to make circles around that dummy Godwin with any female.”
He took out his watch and saw that it was within two minutes of the hour he had named for an interview with young Delevan. It might be time to put all the cards on the table and see exactly how matters stood so he could give them a nudge in the right direction.
John arrived punctually and was waved to the leather chair facing the desk. Assessing light-blue eyes noted that he was, as usual, perfectly turned out with neatness and propriety. There was nothing dashing about his appearance, though he looked every inch the gentleman. His bearing too was above criticism. He combined an ease of manner with the attentive and respectful air proper to conversation with a man old enough to be his father. The very traits that had won the duke’s approbation earlier in the summer had begun to irritate him of late. What right had the cub to look so well-contented when he was being beaten to the post by a nonstarter? Was he completely insensible of what was going on under his nose?
With a conscious effort his grace relaxed his mouth and smiled at the good-humoured young man awaiting his pleasure.
“I thought it was about time we two had a talk, my boy.”
“Did you, sir?”
Nothing to object to in words or delivery, but the duke’s irritation increased imperceptibly at the lack of encouragement in the bright-blue eyes meeting his steadily. He glanced down at the pen in his hands. “You’ve no doubt wondered why I have never mentioned the subject before?”
As the older man raised his eyes, the younger was already speaking easily. “Why no, sir. I merely gave you credit for realizing that once I was on the scene, the matter was out of your hands and my father’s and rested solely with Lady Gemma and myself.”
The duke chose to ignore for the present the unwelcome sensation of having been put in his place. “Exactly so, and you managed to get upon the friendliest terms with my daughter with admirable dispatch. Would you agree, though, that recently you appear to have lost headway with Gemma?”
A rueful twist of John’s lips pointed his reply. “I could scarcely deny it, could I?”
“What do you propose to do about the situation?”
After a pause, John replied somewhat evasively, “I don’t believe Lady Gemma has formed a tendre for Malcolm Godwin, if that is any comfort to you, sir.”
“It is certainly welcome news but scarcely aids your cause,” pointed out his host somewhat dryly. When his guest made no immediate response, he repeated his question. “What do you propose to do?”
“Nothing precipitate, your grace. The time is not right.”
There was a slight relaxation in the posture of the older man at the relief of knowing young Delevan still meant to marry his obstinate daughter.
“Would it help if I had a little talk with her, underlined your qualifications, so to speak?”
“Good God, no! One word from you and I’d lose her forever!” John was startled out of his respectful stance.
Noting his host’s narrowed, icy expression, he decided he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and reiterated, “One hint of coercion and Lady Gemma would retreat for good. You may forbid her to marry against your wishes while she is under age, but you delude yourself if you imagine she will ever marry at your command. And I’d never be able to convince her that I love her.”
The last soberly delivered statement affected the duke enough so that he swallowed the anger aroused by the first part of this extraordinary speech, and looked searchingly at the interesting specimen across the desk from him.
“Do you mean me to understand that you are in love with Gemma?”
“Yes.”
“How convenient. Accept my congratulations.”
The hint of a sneer in the duke’s murmur brought a surge of red into John’s cheeks. “Perhaps,” he began silkily, “I should explain to your grace that I did not come here with the intention of making Lady Gemma an offer.”
“No?” One lifted eyebrow conveyed the duke’s disbelief.
“No.” This was uttered in a decisive tone. “I’m not sure I can explain exactly how Lucy and I feel about our father. He has not been himself since our mother’s death, and we have been very concerned. This scheme of yours to marry me to Lady Gemma has brought him back with a vengeance.” Another wry twist distorted John’s mouth for a second. “Can you understand that I couldn’t refuse even to look at the girl he had selected? I never intended to remain at the hall for more than a few days.”
“But here you are,” said the duke with spurious affability.
“Yes.” The young man’s eyes had the unfocused look of one examining something in the past. “She told me the second day that she was as good as promised to George Godwin, but even then, it was too late for me to escape.” His eyes fastened onto the man opposite and hardened in a way no one at Monteith Hall had ever been privileged to witness. “Please understand me, sir. I mean to have her heart, all of it, or none of her at all.”
The duke’s brows met in a heavy scowl. “Do you mean to tell me you hadn’t the wit to wait longer than twenty-four hours to propose marriage to a girl you’d just met? No wonder she turned you down! I thought better of your intelligence than that.”
“No, you misunderstood me, sir. I have never made Lady Gemma an offer.”
Her father’s head snapped up at that. There was a white line around his nostrils. “So, her mother told her! I might have known no woman could keep her tongue between her teeth.”
Too late, John realized that Gemma had not been meant to know of the arrangement. He said hastily, “I am persuaded her grace had good reason for her action. Her concern would have been entirely for Gemma’s happiness.”
The duke gave a laugh that didn’t ring true, and shrugged. “At least you will have observed that Gemma is not like her mother,” he remarked with an attempt at joviality. “She may have inherited her looks, but my daughter is full of spirit and knows how to keep her own counsel.”
“I am desolated to have to contradict you, sir,” came the gentle riposte, “but in everything that counts, Gemma is very like her mother. She has inherited her grace’s generous heart and her sweetness of disposition, and in time she will develop the same tact and graciousness that make her mother such an exceptional hostess.” Prudence and good manners forbade him from adding that he would see to it that Gemma never developed her mother’s languid air of melancholy that came from knowing herself undervalued by her husband. He rose from his chair and smiled pleasantly at his host, who was regarding him with a mixture of veiled hostility and speculation.
“If you will be patient a little longer, sir, I will do my utmost to convince Lady Gemma of my sincerity as soon as she has stopped running away from her fate.”
“I wish you luck, my boy. Women are capricious creatures at best,” said his host from the depths of his vast experience.
“Thank you, sir. I rather think I’ll need all the luck I can find,” replied John with a touching lack of confidence that made him suddenly human and went some way toward reconciling his prospective father-in-law to
his choice, which he had been actively regretting for the last few minutes.
A suspicion of a vertical line between his brows was the only outward sign of his perturbed mental state when John emerged from the duke’s study, but he was in fact torn between satisfaction at having unburdened himself to enumerate some long-unappreciated qualities of the duchess and her daughter, and self-blame for having violated his host’s hospitality by so doing. It had been so much wasted breath in any case and highly presumptuous to hope to inculcate upon the duke an appreciation for what clearly held little value for a man of his worldly nature. However, there was finally some relief for the lover in him who had chafed to see the beloved object belittled, if not verbally at least by implication. He shook his head once, trying to shake off the mood of dissatisfaction that had descended on him. The scene with the duke was over and done with.
As John headed toward the rose garden in the faint hope of accidentally meeting his evasive love, he only wished it were possible to rid himself of a prickling sense of time running out that warred with an instinctive reluctance to rush Gemma. If he could trust his own observation, she had never felt herself really loved by her father, and she had been disappointed in the man in whom she had invested her first romantic fancies. It was understandable that she should be extremely wary of giving her heart away again, and she had shown herself uninterested in a marriage of convenience. He had been discouraged by her flirtation with Malcolm Godwin until it had been borne in upon his lacerated sensibilities that all this determined flirting was not making her happy. Her gaiety had a brittle quality these days, and the constant effort required to project an image of carefree happiness was taking its toll on her energy and spirits. If she would just lower her guard for an hour and stop avoiding him, he was in a mood to chance everything on one throw despite his sensible words to the duke just now. Lucy had confided that Lord Oliver wished to bring her to meet his family when her visit here could be brought to an end. Once his sister departed, there would be no excuse to prolong his own visit. Time was swiftly running out. He would not be surprised to see Barton back in Wiltshire in the next few days.
This prediction came true the very next afternoon. Lord Oliver walked into the library, where John was attending to some correspondence.
“I don’t have any idea where Lucy may be at the moment,” he admitted when they had shaken hands and exchanged a few remarks on Lord Oliver’s journey and his cordial reception by Mr. Delevan.
“Stansmere said she and Lady Gemma had gone out for a ride. I thought perhaps you and I might go in search of them, if you can spare the time.”
“Good idea. Give me five minutes to get my boots on,” agreed John, heading for the door on the words.
Lucy and Gemma had ridden into the village on an errand and were taking a roundabout route back through the wooded area behind the village. The sun shone warmly down through the trees, and the girls were riding at a dawdling pace enjoying its benefit.
“It’s so good to get away from the house for an hour,” confessed Gemma. “This is so relaxing, ambling along on our own.”
“I should imagine you’d find a mountain-climbing expedition relaxing compared with that continual charade you are acting out these days,” said her friend, eyeing her frankly. “When are you going to have done with this nonsense?”
Gemma sighed. “It isn’t nonsense, Lucy. I have no intention of entering into a marriage of convenience.”
“Why should you believe it would be that? It’s my opinion that John is head over heels in love with you if you’d just give him a chance to prove it.”
An eager questioning face was presented to Lucy. “Did he say so?”
“Brothers never tell their sisters anything,” replied her friend lightly, regretting her intervention as she watched the light die out of Gemma’s eyes. “Let’s trot,” she suggested, giving Smoky a nudge with her heel.
Two things happened nearly simultaneously at that instant. A loud hail came from the field on the right, and a hare ran across the path within five feet of the grey.
Lady Gemma turned Fleurette easily and put up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Here’s your brother, and I believe that is Lord Oliver with him. Did you know he planned to return to Wiltshire, Lucy?”
Miss Delevan, however, was in no position to answer, if indeed she even heard her friend’s question. She had jerked the reins at the shout and the grey had started to respond when the hare spooked him. The pair had veered into a field and were many yards away when Gemma looked over her shoulder.
Turning Fleurette around, she gave her her head and set off at a gallop in pursuit. “Pull him up, Lucy,” she called imperatively, but it became apparent from Lucy’s position that she had lost the reins and was clinging to the horse’s mane to keep her seat. Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw two riders heading across the field at an angle, and her ears were filled with the steady drumming of hoofbeats, her own horse’s included, as she bent lower over the chestnut’s neck.
The men were going to overtake the runaway before she could, but she could only pray it would be before the grey reached the hedge dividing two fields that was looming dangerously close. Lucy was no jumper under the most favourable conditions — there wasn’t a chance that she’d negotiate the leap safely. Gemma didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Lord Oliver on the powerful bay rode up on one side of Lucy a second before John could reach her from the other. The former seized the bridle and wrenched Smoky to a walk gradually enough that Lucy managed to maintain her position and eventually sit upright again.
Lady Gemma, coming up a bare instant later, pulled the mare up and gazed in open-mouthed astonishment at the sight of her friend tumbling off her horse and casting herself half-sobbing into the arms of her rescuer.
“Oliver, Oliver, do you realize what you have done? That was your left arm!”
“Are you all right, sweetheart? You are not hurt?”
“Never mind me, I’m fine. Don’t you understand?” shrilled Lucy, shaking as much of him as she could encompass. “You stopped that horse with your left hand. How does it feel now?”
An ashen-faced Lord Oliver clenched and unclenched his left fist. “Like someone is jabbing a thousand needles into me,” he admitted wryly. Then, disregarding said needles, he pulled his fiancée to him, wrapping both arms tightly around her willing body.
John edged his mount closer to Fleurette, whose dazed-looking rider was absentmindedly patting her neck.
“Shall we leave them alone for a bit?”
He headed back toward the glen at a slow trot. Gemma followed mechanically until they were out of hearing range of the others. At the edge of the trees, he waited for her to join him and they proceeded at a walk. Neither spoke for another minute or two. John’s head was angled so he could watch the changing expressions on Gemma’s face as she tried to assimilate the recent happenings. The initial shock had given way to frowning puzzlement, which was succeeded in turn by sudden suspicion. Her mouth was open as she swung toward him, but John nipped in first.
“I do approve of happy endings, do not you?”
Gemma was not disarmed by his best smile and nonchalant tones. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” she challenged.
“I was as surprised and delighted as you must be to learn that Lord Oliver has recovered the use of his arm.”
“You know that is not what I meant! Not that I am not excessively happy for him — of course I am, poor man!” she amended quickly. “You knew about Lucy and Lord Oliver before today, didn’t you?”
Her voice had lost its aggressive tone, and a trace of hurt feelings came through.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Lord Oliver proposed to Lucy the day he left to visit his parents.”
“She never mentioned a word to me, never let fall a hint that she was in love with him.”
John heard the quiver in her voice and wished that Lucy had taken her friend into her confidence, though he thought he knew why she had rem
ained silent this last week. He could feel Gemma’s pain and realized that this was part of loving her; he would always feel her pain. He took a deep breath and addressed her averted head in gentle tones.
“I am persuaded, my love, that, knowing you have not been very happy just lately, Lucy shrank from making a parade of her own happiness. At another time, she would have shared her news with you gladly.”
Hot colour flared over Gemma’s cheekbones, and her head went up proudly. “I don’t know what you mean. I am perfectly happy!”
The horses had come to a dead stop, though their riders scarcely noticed.
“Perfectly happy?” queried John, looking straight at his flushed companion.
“Yes, of course. Why should I not be?” There was more than a hint of bravado in her manner, and her eyes were wary.
“Because I have been perfectly miserable, and a … friend could not be happy when someone is miserable.”
Gemma barely moved her lips as she whispered, “Why should you be miserable?”
His eyes compelled hers, would not release them. “Because the girl I love has turned against me.”
“Oh, no! You don’t love me, you know you don’t!” She put out a hand in a gesture of repudiation and had it captured in his. She tugged unavailingly to free it, then accused unsteadily, “You only came here because your father wished you to marry me.”
“And I stayed because I wished to marry you.”
He had her full attention now. Brown velvet eyes stared into his, begging to be convinced but unaware of their self-revelation.
