“I can be content with that,” he mused thoughtfully. “My wife has some very pretty blushes.”
“Lucas!”
“Yes?”
She laughed merrily at his drollness, and grinned up at him. “You will not let me be distressed, will you?”
His eyes were intense in an instant. “Not for a moment.”
Her breath caught in her chest and she was strongly tempted to kiss the man, but they were in public, and she doubted he would have appreciated the display.
The action, perhaps, but not the display.
He knew her mind, she saw, for his throat worked once and then he looked away and their pace quickened ever so slightly.
“At any rate,” Gemma said as brightly as she could when she recovered herself, “I should not be surprised that my mother cannot decide which gown suits me best. Everything works against me in this.”
Lucas glanced over at her. “What exactly do you mean by ‘everything’?”
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. “The current styles in high fashion do not suit my frame and form. Not all bodies were created equal, I’m afraid.”
Lucas suddenly stopped and turned to look at her, his expression cloudy. “Explain.”
Curious as to his brusqueness, Gemma slipped her arm from his. “I am…” she began, hesitating. “I am not exactly the shape of the ideal woman.”
A furrow formed between his brows for a moment, and he took her arm, his hold surprisingly gentle as he steered her off of the path and into a nearby stand of trees.
“Lucas?”
He shook his head, and released her when they were secluded. He stared at her for a long moment, shaking his head.
“What?” she asked, rubbing her arms.
“I have always found the notion of the ideal woman to be ridiculous,” he said in a low voice.
She cocked her head and leaned against a tree. “Have you?”
He nodded slowly. “Who is to say what is ideal and what is not? Perhaps if all men had the exact same preferences, it would make sense, but they don’t, and it doesn’t.”
He walked to the edge of the stand of trees and looked out at the Serpentine. “Who is to say that a man may not prefer a tall woman over the classically short? Why should a figure be a certain way and all women must strive for it? Dark haired or pale; slender or voluptuous; finely dressed or simple; plain or exquisite… What does it matter? What does any of it truly matter?”
Gemma watched him as he spoke, his deep voice almost melodious in its speech, his expression far away. Had any man ever been so handsome in reflection?
“We like what we like,” he continued, shaking his head. “Why find fault where there is none? Just because it is not to our preference does not make it wrong. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and each one may behold something very different.”
He paused and leaned an arm against a tree, his expression now half hidden from her.
“None of it truly matters. Outward appearance is not the crux of any woman.” His voice suddenly sounded harsh, almost cold. “There have been many a great beauty with a heart of stone. Evil to the core, manipulative and cruel. Nothing of beauty or worthy of praise in them at all.” He swallowed harshly and straightened a little. “And some of the plainest women I know have been more beautiful at heart than a diamond of the first water. That is not to say, I suppose, that all beauty is to be distrusted, not in the least. But there is more to a woman than whether she fits within the constraints of what a group of airheaded fools think to be ideal.”
Gemma bit her lip, wondering if she should interject yet.
“The only ideal I can find,” Lucas said on a sigh, “is whether or not a woman suits a man. Appearance, figure, form, nature, all taken together, does she meet with his preferences and needs? Is her heart what ought to be? Does she make him strive to be better? If she does, in those respects, who can tell him that she is not ideal simply because she is shorter than average or anything else?” Again, he shook his head, his expression distant and stark. “More than what a man wants, however, is how she sees herself. If we have confined women to think they must meet certain standards in looks or fashions or accomplishment, then we have done them all a great disservice. A woman ought to be as she is, with no one to tell her she is imperfect for being such.”
Gemma found herself unaccountably emotional, and she had to swallow several times before speaking was possible. “Do you know, Blackmoor,” she finally managed, “I think I like you very much.”
He blinked and the shadows vanished as he turned his head to look at her, a faint smile forming, but not quite reaching his eyes. “Well, that is a relief, considering you’ve already agreed to marry me.”
She laughed softly and pushed off the tree, advancing carefully. “I’ve never heard you speak so much at once,” she told him lightly. “What on earth prompted such a speech from you, sir?”
He turned as she reached him and held out a hand, which she took at once. “My betrothed seemed to think she was somehow lacking. And it was my duty to assure her that she is not.”
She smiled up at him and stepped closer. “I never said I was lacking,” she chided. “Merely that I do not meet the shape of today’s ideal woman. Not all fashions are suitable for every form, and others not suitable for my taste.” She winked, which made him smile. “I rather like being a little short and having a little more to my figure than others. And while my face not be as pretty as others, my smile suits it perfectly.”
Lucas reached out to touch her cheek, where the corner of her smile lived. “Indeed it does, my dear.” His fingers brushed lightly against her skin, and he laid his hand alongside her face. “I find you to be perfectly ideal, Gemma. I need you to know that.”
Impulsively, she leaned more fully into his hand. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”
“It should have been told to you every single day,” he whispered harshly. “I should not be able to have you.”
“But you do,” she said simply, daring to reach out and touch the lapels of his coat, “and I am glad for it.”
Something flashed in his eyes and she was pulled to him suddenly, his lips finding hers in an instant. His free hand soon joined the first on her face and curved perfectly around it, gripping her hair slightly. His lips were insistent, demanding and powerful, and she clung to him for fear of wilting under the intensity. She tried in vain to match him, somehow unable to grasp the emotion and passion she could feel from him, and the distress her failure raised within her was acute.
He must have sensed it, for he soon gentled and soothed her, then wrapped his arms tightly around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Someday I will learn to kiss you properly,” she muttered against him.
“You kiss me any more properly than that, love, and we will need to be married much quicker than two weeks from now,” he returned with a laugh, his arms tightening.
She snickered and buried her face against his coat.
She felt him kiss her hair and smiled at it.
“Find a gown that suits your taste, Gemma,” he murmured. “Not your mother’s. I don’t care if she likes it or not. I don’t even care if it is the simplest day dress. Nothing matters to me but that you will be my wife by the end.”
Gemma pulled back to look up at him, smiling gently. “I will, Lucas. You’ll not be rid of me.”
He smiled and kissed her again, this time lightly. “Good.”
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. “Why are you marrying me? It is not save me from destitution, is it?”
He reared back in surprise, his arms still fixed around her. “Is that what you think?”
She shrugged, no longer afraid to ask. “Only wondering. It doesn’t change my mind one way or another. But I am curious, as you’ve been around for all of my Seasons, and nothing prompted you before.”
He shook his head, exhaling. “No, Gemma, I am not marrying you to save your fortunes. It was nothing ab
out money, I promise. I am marrying you for no other reason than because you are you, and I cannot resist that.”
She laughed and took his hand, pulling him out of the stand of trees. “You are getting to be nonsensical, and I can’t have that. I am to be the mad one, not you.”
Lucas followed, his hold on her hand secure. “Why are you marrying me, then?”
She gave him a rather coy look. “Because you are an attractive and eligible bachelor who offered, and I rather enjoy making you smile. My chances of doing so are far greater if I marry you.”
“Indeed they will be.” He looked speculative and his lips quirked. “So you are marrying me for my money, is it? For your precious wager?”
“Perhaps.” She sighed and took his arm. “But you’ve proven yourself more than your money, and I am inclined to consider us well suited.”
He shook his head and looked away. “Oh, my dear Miss Templeton, what am I going to do with you?”
“Whatever you like, I should think,” she said happily. She frowned in thought and looked up at him. “Why are you marrying now at all, Blackmoor? You’ve never done anything to indicate you wished to marry again.”
His jaw tightened and he was suddenly tense. “Things change.”
“What things? Not you, surely.”
“Just… things.” He swallowed and said, “Don’t ask me, Gemma. Please.”
It was then that she realized that there were some things in her betrothed’s life that she might not be privy to, now or perhaps ever. He liked her, and very much, from what she could tell. He had revealed more to her than she had ever expected, but there was more, so much more. She could see it in his eyes, in every feature, in the stiff posture he adopted in such moments. He could not share it, and that pained her.
Someday, she vowed, he would trust her enough to let her in.
But for now, she would let him hide that place, so long as he did not live there.
“What shall you wear to the wedding? Shall I ask my mother to help you find something suitable as well?” she asked brightly, moving past the darkness, grinning at his accompanying groan.
Chapter Eight
It had been a perfect day for a wedding. Abundant sunshine, clear blue skies, and warmer than average, and the wedding itself had been full of guests who seemed to truly wish them well.
None of those things had kept Lucas’s palms from sweating or his throat from feeling constricted by the proverbial noose, but it was noted all the same.
Only a handful of the people at the church had been there for him. The relatives that nobody knew about; Marlowe and his associates, though none of them sat near each other; former schoolmates that he would not have missed but had been pressed to invite… Kit had stood with him, and his wife had sat with the rest of their friends, whom he supposed he could count as his own, though his association with them was limited at best.
He cared little for any of that. He could have done with a small ceremony in a drawing room with only a minister and witnesses. The fuss and noise, the flowers and the church, the guests and this ridiculous spectacle of a breakfast, were all endurable, however, for the woman that was now his wife.
She was a vision; his very own ray of sunshine. Her gown had been of a simple form, but of the highest quality and suited her to perfection. She had informed him a few days before that she and her mother were both satisfied with it, which was a miracle, and she had conceded to the slightly more detailed veil, to please her mother and sister.
He echoed their wishes, just this once.
Had any bride stolen the breath from her husband in such a manner?
Her brilliant smile had lit into him as fire, and he could scarce believe that this woman, a far more bewitching and delightful creature than he had ever predicted, would have found something in him worth admiring. And to consent to marry him, beyond that! To be paired with her forever, to see such a vision of cheer and loveliness daily… Could he ever hope to deserve such a privilege?
The rational man within him knew that all of this would fade, that it was only the newness of it and the surprise of being so fortunate. Once this day, and the days following, had commenced, it would all become routine and mundane. He was fully aware of that. This was only sentimentality flooding him, and it, too, could pass. He could even admit, though it irked him, that Celia had been a more classically beautiful bride than Gemma.
His first wedding day had been overcast, ironically enough, and far more grand of a spectacle, which he had expected, given her tastes and her family.
This, all of it, was far more suitable.
He watched Gemma as she mingled with guests at the wedding breakfast, milling about and smiling brightly for everyone. She had rid herself of the veil and excesses, and no one knowing she was the bride would ever have guessed, but for the flowers dotting her golden hair. He’d given her the family diamonds to wear, and they suited her far more perfectly than he’d thought.
He’d not recollected the diamonds until recently, and as soon as he had, he’d wanted Gemma to have them. There was not much of his mother’s that was worth passing on, but these he treasured. And Gemma had borne them with such reverence, though she knew nothing of his mother or the past, never knew just where the jewels had come from or their significance. She only knew they had been his mother’s, and that had caused emotion enough.
And he’d never informed Celia of their existence.
He had an inkling of what that meant for him, but refused to dwell on it.
Could he really keep the darkness of his life from tainting his new wife? There was so much, too much, and now that he knew her well, cared for her more than he thought possible, he hated himself for the prospect before them.
He’d expected several voices to protest the wedding, yet none had. Gemma had given her vows with clear answers and bright eyes, and a teasing wink for him as he gave his own. Their kiss had been sweet and stirring, despite the polite briefness, and her soft sigh of delight had nearly buckled his knees.
She was too good for him. Too good, too much, and it was impossible to imagine life with her as his wife.
It was more impossible to imagine any life without her.
He was trapped between heaven and hell and there was nothing to do about it.
Gemma looked over at him from where she was and her smile softened. She continued to listen to the others, but her eyes never left him.
Slowly, his weight and anxiety ebbed away, and his breathing came easier. Doubts and fears faded to the background of his mind, the future and all its facets vanished, and all he could see was his lovely, vibrant, vivacious wife, radiant with joy.
How did she know he had needed the relief that only she could provide?
When had she become the only consolation that could reach him?
He felt himself exhale, the last of his tension evaporating from his shoulders. Gemma saw it, and her smile grew just a touch. She held out a hand, tilting her head in question.
He was moving to her side before he decided he wanted to, and seized her hand at once.
Collecting himself, he gently brought it to his lips, and turned to pretend to join in the conversation, tucking Gemma’s hand safely in his arm.
It seemed her relatives had come out of the woodwork for her wedding, though none had ever given her a moment’s thought before, from what he could tell. She did not seem to mind, nor did she question his lack of family in attendance.
When would the questions start? He knew they would have to at some point, she was far too curious and intuitive to let things go entirely. But how long would her patience hold out?
And when the day did come, what would he say?
“You’re drifting,” she murmured, tugging at his arm.
He shook himself and looked down at her. “Was I?”
She nodded, rubbing the place where her hand rested. “What’s troubling you?”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped when he caught her expression. She knew him
as well as anyone in the world, for all his secrecy and reserve, and she would not believe him. He shook his head slightly. “The past is haunting me, I fear,” he finally said, covering her hand with his.
She twisted her hand to intertwine their fingers. “Don’t let it, Lucas,” she pleaded, looking up into his eyes. “Not today.”
He gave her a regretful look. “It’s not something I can easily dismiss.”
She sighed and touched his jaw with her free hand. “I’ll get rid of those shadows, just see if I don’t.” Her voice was fierce and a little sad, and he couldn’t have that.
He turned to kiss those fingers, and felt his lips curve. “If anyone can, it’s you.”
She brightened, and her expression turned teasing. “Won’t you smile on our wedding day?”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “Does it count that I feel like smiling whenever I look at you?”
She beamed and leaned closer. “Not for the wager, but it certainly counts with your wife.”
“Well, as her opinion is all I care about,” he told her in a very low tone, brushing his lips across hers, “I can be content with that.”
Gemma made a soft noise, and pulled back, her eyes narrowing. “You still should smile. You wouldn’t want people to think you are displeased with me, would you?”
He snorted. “I just kissed you in public. Is anyone going to question that?”
She shrugged, her golden tendrils of hair bouncing near her ears. “How should I know? People question all sorts of things, but never a smile.”
His lips quirked, and he shook his head slowly. “Oh, Gemma, what am I going to do with you?”
“You keep asking me that, and I keep saying you may do whatever you please,” she responded lightly, turning him so they might go speak with others. “What is it about me that seems to confuse you?”
“I ask myself that daily.”
“And?”
“And I married you.”
“Poor man.”
“Thank you.”
She elbowed him swiftly and he laughed in spite of the pain, which made several turn in surprise. Gemma, however, only beamed in delight and held his arm tighter, keeping him close by her side at all times.
A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7) Page 9
