And she had never been very good at changing herself.
Nor had she any desire to.
But she had to admit that she was tired of being the second thought and never the first.
She barely restrained a sigh as she watched her sister glide across the dance floor with Spencer, unintentionally drawing attention to herself with the sheer brilliance of her natural grace and beauty. She was the sort of beauty that drew surprised gasps whenever she went anywhere, as if people had forgotten what she looked like. Worst of all, she was as wonderful in person as everybody wanted her to be.
Conniving as a fox, possessed of a surprisingly sharp wit, and intolerant of superiority, but rather wonderful.
She was not moving about in Society as much as she used to, given that she was rather occupied with her three children, and even Gemma didn’t see her often. Her two hoyden daughters were to blame for that. But this evening, Caroline had come to collect her for the ball and had a great deal to say on the subject of Lord Blackmoor.
She’d apparently heard rumors, spoken with her husband, and felt it her duty to inform Gemma that rashness was unwise, and Lord Blackmoor’s reputation would do her no favors. And then, true to form, she’d come down off of her high horse and asked for as many details as Gemma would give, and found herself disappointed that she would not satisfy her. She had no desire to make more of this than there already was, and considering she did not have Society’s ear, she didn’t know how much that even was.
Caroline had assured her that there was hardly a whisper about them, but, she had said, no one ever paid attention to Gemma like this, and as such, she, as her sister, needed to make a fuss about it.
Despite her attempts at levity, Gemma had sensed Caroline’s true concern, and it oddly rankled her even now. Why was nobody able to see Lucas with honest eyes? Would everybody believe what they heard without taking the man as he was?
She did not know everything about him. In fact, she knew very little about him. But even she could tell that there was more to him than met the eye, and that he was not as cruel as he was made out to be.
The only thing Caroline had said to her credit on the subject was that Gemma was sensible and smart, and Caroline would trust her judgment.
Gemma hid a smile now as she watched Caroline dance. Would she really do such if she knew where Gemma’s mind was headed? Or that she was actually courting Blackmoor? And rather enjoying doing so?
In the three days since the theater, things between them had only gotten better. He had come around to the house and officially met her parents, which had delighted her mother, and Gemma had been relieved to find her in a composed mood that morning. She had been the version of her mother that Gemma had known in her youth; spritely and bright and witty, with no sign of ridiculousness or oddity. Her father had been vague and barely invested, but polite all the same.
Lucas had not said much about the interview, only that he liked her parents and had no idea what Gemma had been going on about.
She’d given him an earful on that subject, and pointed out that he had not exactly told them the nature of their relationship, to which he had replied, rather pointedly, that neither had she.
Well, she could not reply properly to that.
As the days went on, Lucas took her from weak at the knees to laughing merrily to deeply contemplative, and it was the most invigorating sort of fun to be with him. She never quite knew what to expect, but every outing was delightful, even if they only walked the park. And oddly enough, he seemed to enjoy being with her as well. She was so used to people tiring of her that it was disconcerting.
What did he see that kept him coming back?
Something in his eyes, some raw intensity, concerned her a little. There was a depth there that she found intimidating and exhilarating all at once, and it was almost as if he could see through her, perhaps to her very soul.
Did he look at anyone else that way?
He could not. There would be no escaping him if anyone knew it.
Then why…?
“Oh, look, the Ashcombes are letting murderers enter these hallowed halls.”
Gemma’s head snapped around to glare at the back of the beady-eyed, ruffle strewn, beak nosed older woman seated not far from her, swathed in a pea soup colored and textured gown of ridiculous size.
There was no mistaking that voice, as if rocks had lodged themselves in her throat to protest being subjected to her digestion.
Lady Greversham.
Her brows narrowed and she faintly wished Caroline was nearby. She hated Lady Greversham with a fervor that was unequaled by any, though the entire world thought ill of the crone, and Caroline had acted with surprising mischief where the lady was concerned.
She looked where Lady Greversham and her associates were staring and found Lucas at their focal point, conversing softly with two other gentlemen she could not identify.
“Why let such a man come anywhere?” another woman hissed.
Lady Greversham tossed her head and several things jangled and fluttered. “No proof. Lady Blackmoor died under such suspicious circumstances, and few actually believe her husband had nothing to do with it. Intelligent beings know better. She never liked him, you know, and was treated very poorly.”
One of the women sniffled. “Such a loss to everyone,” she moaned loudly. “Beautiful and charismatic and so delicate in structure…”
“That brute of a man,” someone spat. “Dirty, filthy, traitorous, barbaric…”
“He will never be invited to anything that I host,” Lady Greversham boasted in a carrying voice. “I will not taint myself with such associations.”
“Whoops!”
Gemma toppled over as her heeled slippers caught on the very delicate lace of Lady Greversham’s massive skirts and ripped, shredded, and otherwise destroyed the fabric as she attempted to catch herself on the chair of one of the others. Unfortunately, her glass of ratafia, so recently filled, was therefore emptied on several of them. A nearby gentleman caught Gemma before she could hit the floor, his focus not on her, but on her victims.
Screeches and gasps and scrapes of chairs resounded, and Gemma bit back a grunt of satisfaction as she found herself righted by her rescuer. However, her face held none of that emotion.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she cried, wringing her slightly yellowed gloves together. “I am ever so clumsy, I should never have had that second glass!”
Lady Greversham glared at her, her face mottling amidst the wrinkles, and she shook her ruined skirt for emphasis.
“You fat cow,” she hissed malevolently. “You bumbling, unattractive, underprivileged, undeserving waste of breath, how dare you…”
“My dance, I believe, Miss Templeton,” her rescuer suddenly said, steering her away with brisk ferocity.
“I am so very sorry,” she whimpered loudly over her shoulder at the women, whom no one seemed keen on aiding in their efforts.
The tall gentleman currently holding her arm suddenly coughed a laugh as they continued to walk. “I pray your distress is imagined and not in sincerity, for that was one of the best moments of my life.”
Gemma grinned up at the stranger, a truly gloriously handsome fellow, and wondered at his frankness. “Thank you, sir. I was quite proud of it.”
“Not an accident?”
Still smiling, she shook her head. “Even I am not that fortunate. Every step was calculated and exacted with precision.”
He laughed and stifled it with a perfectly white glove.
Gemma glanced behind her and looked appropriately horrified, embarrassed, and ashamed, which earned her nothing but the scorching return looks as the ladies quit the ballroom.
She sighed and returned her attention to her new partner. “I suppose I will never be invited back.”
“I think you would be surprised.”
She raised a brow at him. “By the duke and duchess? Hardly.”
“The marquess and marchioness have a surprising amount of pull
there,” he assured her as he led her around another small group. “And nobody likes Lady Greversham. Not even His Grace.”
She doubted that, knowing what she did of the duke, but one could never tell. After all, he was right about the Whitlocks having pull in such matters, and Lady Whitlock would never let her be barred from an event to which she was tied in any way.
She glanced over at the dance floor, which they were not approaching, but skirting around.
“Are you not going to dance with me?” she asked in a mulish tone. Despite his praise of her actions, even he would not stand up with her?
He chuckled softly. “I would, but as we have not been introduced, it is not proper.”
“You know me, so all that is left is to introduce yourself,” she pointed out.
He gave her a look. “Not today, princess.”
She barked a laugh at his endearment and was about to ask on it when she caught sight of something a bit more intriguing.
Lucas stood only feet from where he had been before, but no one was near him now, and it was clear he was their destination. He stared at the two of them with a searing intensity that gave him a personal perimeter of shocking dimension, and people were going out of their way to avoid him.
“You see now why,” the man next to her muttered. “The moment I touched you, that happened. So, for my sake and yours, I’ll remain anonymous and vanish quickly.”
Gemma swallowed with difficulty. “That seems prudent.”
The rest of the ballroom, and all of its excessive numbers, seemed to have no idea what had just happened or what was currently happening, and aside from curious looks, no one spared them a thought.
Lucas was glorious in his eveningwear, the paleness of his eyes a brilliant contrast to the dark of his clothing and hair. His features were hard angles and taut, while his body was coiled with a peculiar tension, despite his apparent casual stance. For once, he looked like the dangerous man everyone thought he was.
And yet Gemma knew nothing of fear. Anticipation, excitement, and the curious sensation of wanting to smile, but no fear.
Then, miraculously, she did smile.
“No one smiles for him,” the man next to her murmured in a hushed voice when they reached Lucas.
“She does,” Lucas told him in a low rumble. He took her hand and spared a brief glance for the man beside her. “Marlowe.”
“Blackmoor,” he replied with a brief nod.
She had no idea who Marlowe was or if that was supposed to be significant, but she gave him a brief curtsey. “Thank you for the rescue.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you for the entertainment. Now if you will both excuse me, I must vanish.” He bowed and seemed to do just that.
Gemma watched him go and shook her head. “Who in the world is that?”
“No one of real consequence,” Lucas said as he led her out to the dance floor. “You’ll forget about him in a few minutes.”
“Will I?”
“Everyone does. He’s used to it.”
“Seems rude.”
“It’s not.”
She choked back a laugh as they began to dance, and even his constant reminders that she was ruining his reputation could not make her less gleeful.
At the moment, not even Lady Greversham would have managed to do that.
Lucas couldn’t believe what was happening to him. And to Gemma! She’d just caused a surprising scene that would horrify a great many people for years, and could ruin her reputation completely. Yet she was dancing with him with all of the energy and enthusiasm of a first Season miss.
And he had been prepared to be the overprotective hero, seething with righteous indignation and the temptation for less-than-righteous impulses. But she’d needed none of that. She needed no protector, defender, or, from the looks of it, any sort of escape at all. She’d had things quite in hand.
It did not lessen his feelings, not one inkling. He still wanted to rage and storm and terrorize the entire room, and such intensity of emotions, brought on by her, surrounding her, wrapped up in everything that she was, confused him immensely.
And now he was dancing with her, despite his urge to become unhinged, and the tension within him was ebbing away under Gemma’s influence.
It was the most bewildering thing.
“What was that all about?” he asked her as he passed her again.
She gave him a strange look. “What?”
Had she really forgotten already? “Your impressive display.”
She beamed with pride. “Did you like it?”
His grudging admiration knew no bounds for her audacity, but he was hardly going to tell her that here and now. “What was it?”
She tossed her head and snorted, despite being in public. “Oh, they were going on about you, and it was shameful, especially considering they’re all terrified of you. And I was really getting bored, and any opportunity to make life difficult for Lady Grev…”
He took her hand tightly, squeezing harder than was called for in the dance. “Me?” he bit out, silencing her.
She raised a surprised brow. “Yes… Why?”
“What did they say?” he demanded, wanting to whisk her out of the room instead of turn away and follow the pattern of the dance.
Gemma watched him with a hint of a furrow between her brows as she passed the other ladies. When she was back to him once more, she took his hand and held it just as tightly as he had hers. “They spoke of your wife,” she murmured softly.
He nearly swore. It was one thing for them to focus on him an his rumors, but if they were actually talking about Celia… The very last thing he needed was for the world to be reminded of her at this time.
And for Gemma to hear it.
He felt her hold on him flex again and he looked at her, the brilliance of her eyes illuminated in their concern. She asked no question, but he could see them swirling about in those endless depths.
He shook his head slightly. “I will not talk about my wife.”
“All right,” she said simply, inclining her head.
He fought for a swallow and met her eyes as clearly as he could, holding his breath. “All you need to know is I didn’t kill her.”
She smiled up at him as they parted for the dance. “I know.”
If he had been less careful, he would have stumbled. As it was, he still gaped. “You do?”
Her smile grew and a slight dimple appeared. “Of course.”
“How?” he blurted, forgoing any sort of restraint or composure.
Now she laughed and set her arm on his for the next movement. “Oh now, really, Blackmoor, the idea of you killing anybody is ridiculous.”
He stared at her in awe, grateful that, for the moment, he did not have to move. “No one else seems to think so,” he managed, a dubious tone creeping into his words.
Gemma smiled with ease. “Well, you aren’t talking with anyone else. Just me.”
And suddenly, that was more than enough for him. He inhaled, noting how easy it seemed to be, and released it just as freely. “So I am,” he marveled.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you smiling?”
Instantly he wanted to, but he kept his face emotionless. “No.”
“But you want to.”
He took her hand and led her into the final movements, pulling her closer than was called for. “Yes, I do.”
And he wasn’t sure he’d ever meant words more.
Chapter Five
Whom do you like in the room back there?”
Lucas raised a brow as he and Gemma slowly walked the gardens just off of the terrace, having opted to escape the crush of the ballroom for a respite in the cool night air. “Whom do I like?” he repeated with a hint of amusement.
She nodded with a smile, her eyes only slightly dimmed in the faint light of the house. “Surely you like some of the guests, despite the harpies spreading ridiculous rumors. Tiresome wretches; gargoyles the lot of them.”
His chest tightene
d at her suggestion. “You can’t say those things.”
She scoffed and tossed her precariously pinned hair. “I can if I want. It’s terrible how they trample over your name and your life so freely. I’d have defended you properly if we weren’t being secretive.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Though I’ll admit that I like that we are being secretive. Not because of any rumors or silly things about you, mind, but because it gives us privacy. Even so, it is maddening under these particular circumstances.”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” he murmured, taking her hand and squeezing it with the gratitude he could not verbalize. “They would not accept anything as proof. It would only enflame things. You will get used to it, as I have.”
“I doubt that.” She made a strange growling noise and glared at the windows of the ballroom. “Ruining her dress seems a paltry excuse for retribution.”
“Gemma, enough,” Lucas said with a sudden smile she did not see. He composed his features before she looked back at him, and tilted his head fondly. “You’ve done more than enough. Far more than you should have, I think.”
Her lips quirked dangerously and she peered up at him with narrowed eyes. “Call me Gemma again.”
Realizing what he had done, he straightened and shook his head. “No, no, I shouldn’t have said it the first time. You must forget it.”
“I won’t,” she said with a shake of her head.
“You must.”
“No.”
He exhaled harshly and looked back towards the house. She made him forget himself, and there was too much at stake for him to do that. There was too much in his past, too much uncertainty before him, and he was much more unsettled by this whole affair than he’d meant to be. He had to find the strength he’d always had, the composure, the reserve…
“Lucas…”
The soft sound of his name brought his head slowly around. His breath caught in his chest as he took in the sight of her, as if he had never truly seen her before. Her features were softened in the dim light of the evening, yet nothing about her was subdued from its usual brightness. She had this unearthly, mystical way about her, and he found himself wanting to confess everything to her then and there. She was breathtaking in her beauty, charming in her ways, and captivating in all that she was.
A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7) Page 5
