He had half a mind to propose here and now.
“What?” he managed to ask instead.
She smiled a little and she took his arm, forcing him to walk again. “Nothing. I simply wanted to say your name again. I like the way it feels.”
He nearly groaned and closed his eyes momentarily. “You wanted to know whom I like in the ballroom, yes?” he eventually said, having recovered his usual somber tone.
“Yes, please,” she replied as if they’d had no interruption whatsoever.
Fighting his way through the muddle of his thoughts, he tried to recall the identities of people in the ballroom, let alone the scant number he liked. “Whitlock is a great man, I think well of him. Beverton I know better, and like very much.”
“Everybody likes Nathan,” Gemma said with a roll of her eyes, “but go on.”
“Your brother-in-law.”
She snorted. “You don’t know Spencer, don’t pretend you like him for my sake.”
He resisted the urge to laugh and nodded obediently. “Marlowe.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Really?”
“One of my oldest friends.” He would not go into details, for Rafe’s benefit as well as his own.
“You didn’t act like it.”
Lucas exhaled as he looked at her. “We are both reserved men. He is inclined to heroism and intervening, and I was feeling rather protective. He understands.”
Gemma bit her lip on a soft laugh. “I hope he does. Otherwise your friendship would seem rather strange.”
“It is strange,” he assured her as he led her around a hedge, the torches along the garden lit and blazing in the darkness. “That is the way we prefer it.”
“Men are bizarre creatures,” she muttered, shaking her head, but smiling. “Who else?”
He sighed and craned his neck. “I don’t know, I am not inclined to scan a room and take stock of the people whose society I enjoy.”
“One more name,” she insisted, seeming to enjoy his distress.
He was embarrassed at how long it took him to think of people he had seen that he could list. He respected a great many men, but hardly any of them had been in attendance. They might have been in the room presently, but at the time…
“Bennett Stanford,” he said at last, remembering the young man’s face being somewhere in the vicinity before he’d witnessed Gemma’s incident.
Her brow furrowed and she paused a step. “Who?”
“You don’t know him?”
She shook her head and frowned. “That is disconcerting. I know everyone. Or most everyone, at least. Who is he?”
“The younger brother of a schoolmate of mine. You know Lord Oliver?”
“By sight and reputation only,” she replied with a shake of her head. “We’ve never been formally introduced.”
That was not surprising, Oliver had always been rather single-minded. He was polite, gentlemanly, but a bit obtuse if one were being critical. “Stanford is the youngest brother. Just returned to London for the Season. He lives near me, and we fence on occasion.”
Gemma smiled and gave him a frank look. “You fence?”
He sniffed an almost laugh. “I do all sorts of things that other men do, my dear. Prattling on about myself is just not one of them.”
“No, I suppose not.” She sighed and looked around at their surroundings. “I shall have to acquaint myself with Mr. Stanford. If he has your good opinion, I daresay he deserves mine.”
Lucas turned slightly to give her a disbelieving look. She was willing to take his word on a man with only the barest information? She could not possibly trust him so much this early on, it was impossible, even for her.
“I don’t know him well enough to give him my good opinion,” he explained, leading her towards a bench. “I simply know I can tolerate him. He is young. A puppy, really. Headstrong and impulsive, head in the clouds…”
“Are you trying to talk me out of thinking well of him or just warning me?” Gemma asked, laughing as she took a seat on the bench.
He opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it on a hum. “I don’t know, actually,” he finally admitted.
That made her grin and she tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Well, whichever it is, as I take your word for it, I shall have to make a firm study of him. And to those who know him well, particularly the women. You can never know the measure of a man until you know how he kisses.”
Lucas, having just taken a seat next to her, reared back suddenly. “Excuse me?”
Gemma shrugged one shoulder, not looking at all ashamed. “It’s true.”
“Says who?”
“Everyone.”
He shook his head, not sure if he were bewildered, amused, or shocked. Or all three. “I’ve never heard that.”
She hummed a light laugh. “Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”
He twisted his mouth a little, watching her with interest. A lady would never speak of such things to a gentleman, and yet she had done so. There was no hint of flirtation or attitude of seduction about her. She simply was as she was, and spoke her mind.
And he was enchanted by it.
“And how many men have you tested this theory on?” he asked politely, keeping his tone and expression mildly interested.
She sniffed and shook her head. “A lady never kisses and tells.” She narrowed her eyes suddenly. “Why?”
He let one shoulder rise in a hint of a shrug. “I merely want to know what I am up against.”
Her eyes widened and she stilled. “Wait, so you’re going to…?”
Lucas nearly smiled and raised a taunting brow at her. “When you throw out a challenge like that, do you think I’m going to let it lie?”
She swallowed harshly. “To be perfectly frank, I have no idea what you might do,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.
A satisfied smirk briefly appeared as he leaned closer. “And that is precisely why I am going to do this…”
Keeping his hands entirely to himself, he closed the distance between them and very gently pressed his lips to hers. She did not move, but she did not resist him. On the contrary, she seemed, impossibly, to lean into him and his kiss. He felt her hands fidget in her lap, her pulse quicken, her breathing deepen, and he pulled back before anything could ignite in himself.
Though he was honest enough to admit that it already had.
“Did I surprise you?” he rasped, her breath panting across his cheeks.
“Yes,” she whispered, her hands fluttering to his chest, her eyes still closed.
Abruptly, he had difficulty swallowing. “You owe me,” he reminded her, as an odd cloud of delirium seemed to settle on his mind.
“Name your price.”
He smiled. “Kiss me again.”
She sighed and gripped his coat. “As you wish.”
She pulled on him and he acquiesced, bringing his lips back to hers with more fervor, taking her chin in hand and tilting her face ever so slightly. Gently he wrapped his free arm around her and pressed her closer, not that she needed him too. All her natural energy and passion was suddenly focused and centered on their connection, and her lips molded far too easily to his. Too soft, too yielding, too perfect a blend of innocence and sensuality and heady delight, and he was very much in danger of losing himself entirely to her.
He hadn’t meant to start this, he’d only meant…
He hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d meant by it, but it was absolutely the most brilliant thing he’d ever done in his entire life.
He forced himself to break away again and was embarrassed at how such a simple kiss could leave him so shaken.
Thankfully, Gemma wasn’t paying any attention to him at the moment. She had a hand at her throat, eyes wide and unfocused as they looked down at the ground.
Lucas took a moment to ensure he was as composed as possible, then cleared his throat. “How did I measure up?”
Gemma’s gaze shot to his and focused with such intensity that h
e found himself leaning back. “I don’t know,” she said faintly. “Despite the boldness in the words I said, and that ridiculous statement, I’ve… never been kissed before.”
His brows shot up and it took much of his control to keep from gaping openly. “I was… That is, I am the first?”
Her hand tightened on her throat and she nodded.
The flare of satisfaction that hit his gut was both primal and potent, and he was far too pleased for his own comfort. He reached out and pried her fingers from her throat, then raised her hand to his lips. “That pleases me,” he told her, growling.
“Does it?” she asked, her voice somehow small as her cheeks flushed.
Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and seized her lips for a brief, but tender kiss. “Yes,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Yes, it does.”
“That is almost a smile,” she murmured, reaching up to touch the corner of his mouth.
Well. So it was. He allowed it to remain and only shrugged. “Whoops.”
She smiled and cocked her head. “Ten shillings.”
“Almost a smile is not an actual smile. I will not be billed on an almost.”
She chuckled and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She looked towards the ballroom and wrinkled her nose. “Do we have to go back in?”
He gave her a strange look. “You’d rather stay out here with me?”
“Yes,” she said simply, as if it should be obvious.
He shook his head, wondering when the delusion would fall from her eyes, and looped her arm through his. “Come on.”
She grumbled, but did so, and by the time they had reentered the ballroom, she was her usual bright and cheery self, even if she was standing too close to him.
He scanned the room and caught sight of Mrs. Gerrard and Mrs. Granger nearby, both of whom saw them at once, and watched with interest.
“See?” he murmured softly, indicating with his head. “Your friends are here now.”
She followed his gaze and smiled faintly at the sight. “So they are.” She looked up at him and her smile grew. “But you are my friend, too, Blackmoor.”
He matched her expression. “No, I’m not, Gemma. Not really, and not entirely. But if you are a good girl and behave yourself the rest of the evening, I just may dance with you again.”
She frowned and shook her head. “Don’t put yourself out or anything. I know how you detest it, and if we aren’t even friends, in your opinion…” She trailed off and let the unspoken hang between them.
“Not at all,” he told her. “It would be a pleasure to dance with you again.” He leaned closer and whispered, “And I think you know exactly why we are not friends… That point should be fairly obvious by now.”
Before she could retort anything, he bowed and left the room, nodding once to the inquiring lift of Marianne Gerrard’s brow as he passed them. She smiled a little devious smile in response, and he almost returned it.
What in the world was coming over him?
Three hours of violin practicing could not set Gemma’s mind at rest. Nor had a full night of sleep.
Well, half of one, anyway. Sleep had been hard to come by.
But the extensive practicing should have done it. That usually cured everything that ailed her. She forgot her financial straits, forgot her family problems, her lack of suitors, loneliness, even melancholy. Her violin was all the aid she ever needed.
Yet it had failed her.
It could not wipe out the memory of Lucas’s kisses, nor the confusion that currently thrived within her.
She set the instrument aside and sank into a chair, rubbing at her temples. Lucas was going to drive her insane. His kind attentions during their times together surprised her, his dry wit was making her laugh more and more, and his inability to show emotion of any sort was maddening. Yet he was becoming more and more important to her with every passing day. Every almost-smile was treasured up and saved in her mind, and she yearned to see what his true smile looked like.
She was learning, however, that his eyes were not as unaffected as his expressions. They could thunder with anger, beam with smiles, and cloud with thought while his face remained implacable all the while. Eyes were supposed to be windows to the soul, and the world within his was transfixing.
Marianne and Lily had interrogated her extensively last night, but she had kept everything vague and simple. She had nothing to confide, but she had plenty she wished to hide. She was not ready for admitting anything.
But oh, the pleasure of his kisses!
She had not known it, but once his lips had touched hers, she found that she had been waiting for him to kiss her for ages. Perhaps from their first dance; it was hard to say. Whatever his reserve in all other respects, he was not so when he kissed. There, he had emotion and energy and spirit that his demeanor never showed. She knew full well he had been gentle and restrained when he kissed her, for her sake, and she was touched by the thought. It had, however, sparked her imagination into a frenzy about what it could become.
She flushed and pressed the back of her hand to her cheek, then rose to walk the room.
She paused at the window overlooking the garden, folding her arms across her. The gardens were in a sorry state, and the windows were filthy, but there was nothing to be done about it. They had not the staff for proper maintenance anymore, and barely the staff for appearances. There was one upstairs maid, who was charged with the dress and hair of both Gemma and her mother; the housekeeper, Mrs. Todd, who managed to remain optimistic and efficient despite their situation; two footmen, who also served as valet and kitchen aids; and the butler, Rosings, who somehow managed, along with Mrs. Todd, to keep all public rooms spotless. Their coachman was Rosings’s brother and was paid as needed, so they walked more often than not. Or others came to fetch them.
Gemma had told too many lies about broken carriages and lame horses for her taste.
She glanced down at her dress, her most comfortable, and most worn. It was frayed beyond repair and the bodice was too loose from too many battles with her natural figure and those times when corsets had been used. It gaped quite precariously when she bent over, and the lace at the edges was so discolored and ragged it hardly deserved to still be considered lace. The comfort and movement it allowed her was perfect for extended rehearsals, but she could never wear it outside of the house or to receive anyone. Not even her friends.
She sighed and rubbed at her arms. Would she ever be free of the worries of money?
The sound of footsteps caused her to turn and she smiled fondly as her father entered. He did not see her immediately, which was typical, as he was usually preoccupied with something or other. And the newssheet in his hand was still freshly pressed, so he had yet to read it.
Halfway to the worn chair by the fire, he saw her and stopped in his tracks. “Oh, I forgot all about you,” he said warmly.
Gemma’s smile became tight as the words reverberated within her. Those exact words, fifteen years ago, had changed her.
She shook off the beginnings of reminiscence and clasped her hands before her. “Are you coming in here to read, Papa?”
He looked down at the newssheet in his hand, then back at her. “Yes, I was, but I don’t mean to disturb you.” He indicated her violin where it sat. “You must practice, you know.”
She barely avoided rolling her eyes. “Yes, Papa, I already have.”
He winked and no doubt would have patted her cheek if she had been close enough. “Clever girl. But a bit more won’t hurt, will it? You never know when some young man might hear you play and fall in love with you.”
Now Gemma did roll her eyes. “Papa…”
“Don’t give me that tone, Mouse,” he scolded gently, coming to take a hand. “I’ve seen men swept off their feet for less. You’ve quite a lot to offer, you know, and your violin is a beautiful extension. I know you’ve had no success yet, but you mustn’t let yourself go.”
Gemma made a disbelieving noise at him. “All I have t
o offer, Papa, is my person.”
“And what a person it is!” He stepped back to examine her proudly, then frowned. “That gown. I hope you aren’t wearing anything this shabby in public, Gemma.”
“Of course not,” she replied at once with a faint snort. “I only wear it at home.”
He nodded firmly. “Good. No young man would consider you looking like that.”
Gemma bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to remind her father that no man was considering her at all.
Then again…
“Is Blackmoor coming around today?” her father asked suddenly, his eyes narrowed in assessment, pronouncing the lines on his face more starkly.
Panicked, Gemma swallowed and attempted to untangle her fingers. “I don’t know,” she managed, her voice squeaking a little. “We haven’t… That is, we did not arrange anything.”
“Your mother said he danced with you again last night.”
“He did,” she said carefully. “Once or twice, I can’t recall exactly.”
Her father shrugged as if it meant very little. “I am glad to see him pay attention to you, Mouse. Perhaps it will bring about suitors, eh?” He winked again and started to exit the room.
Gemma frowned at the sight of his retreating threadbare coat. “Papa?”
He stopped and turned back, his silvering hair somehow subdued despite the morning light.
“Aren’t you going to read?” she asked, gesturing to the fire.
He raised a furry brow. “No, Mouse, not in here. You have more to practice, remember?” He waved his hand absently in the direction of the violin. “Lady Raeburn’s musicale is in a few weeks. You will want to be especially prepared for that.” He smiled at her in his warmest, most loving manner. “This is your Season, Gem. I can feel it.”
Gemma watched him go, and only released a sigh when he was gone.
It was always the same with them. Marriage, men falling in love, her appearance being perfect, finding ways to impress… No one ever mentioned her pittance of a dowry or speculated on any reason why she’d never had suitors. No one seemed to see their lives for what they truly were.
A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7) Page 6
