“Didn’t the late viscount have a bit of a reputation?”
There was a derisive snort from one of them. “A bit? The man was a drunk and a gambler, and it was usually other people’s money he gambled with. He never had half a crown to his own name, and the debts were extreme. The family was hardly in a fine position generations before, but there had never been a Lord Blackmoor so ruinous as he. Every estate was lost saving for the family holdings, which were left in a bad way.”
“Is it true they had to do away with maids in the house because of him?”
“Oh, yes. Him and his son.”
“The current viscount?” someone asked with a gasp.
Gemma went cold at the blatant suggestion.
“No, you goose, his brother! That one gave his father a run for his money with bad behavior. It seemed they were determined to out-scandal the other.”
“Oh, yes, he was a wicked one. He was only permitted in Society briefly until at least ten fathers of young ladies made certain accusations. And then he only lurked in the darkest corners of London, sowing temptation and ruin wherever he went.”
“Surely not.”
“Oh no? Don’t you remember how he died?”
Gemma stiffened and her eyes focused on the pinched looking woman currently fanning herself with a poorly painted fan. She would not dare reveal any truly scandalous information at a gathering such as this.
But then, she had already said so much.
She leaned forward and Gemma had to strain to catch her words.
“He died in the Seven Dials of a laudanum overdose. While intoxicated. In a brothel.”
Shocked gasps echoed around the circle, and several fans moved a great deal faster.
Sensing she had a captive audience, the cruel woman smirked. “Ladies of ill repute draped about the room, in all manner of undress. Two other rakes nearby, only slightly better off. And the rooms had not been paid for.”
The women tittered and Gemma ground her teeth together.
Something brushed her arm and she jerked to see Kit there, looking murderous and cold, his eyes fixed on the women as well.
“I cannot bear it,” she hissed.
“Drink your lemonade,” he replied, taking a sip of his own.
She glanced down at her hand, wondering when the cup had been placed there. She was tempted to toss it aside. “I have no…”
“Do it.”
She glowered and did so.
“Well, the late Lord Blackmoor died in a duel,” one of the other women laughed. “Over a horse, wasn’t it?”
Someone snickered. “Yes, a badly placed bet. Don’t remember all the particulars, but he questioned the breeding of the horse, the honesty of the owner, and claimed he had been duped into placing his entire sum on an ill-bred nag.”
“He was killed in the duel?”
“Run clean through.”
“Dueling is illegal.”
“It was not a matter of legality. A magistrate was there and oversaw it, for heaven’s sake. The matter would have proceeded accordingly, but after the duel, he attacked Sir Preston again, and Sir Preston had no choice but to defend himself. It was no loss to anyone for the viscount to die, and they left the corpse there in the field for his own kind to dispose of however they saw fit.”
“That’s not polite.”
“Politeness has no place with people like that. The whole family is a bad lot, and the mother died in the midst of all of that, wilted away into nothingness because of the behaviors of her family, from the shame, ignored and neglected. Weak little creature, nothing left to live for, and the will to live bled out of her slowly, and then all at once.”
“Kit, I can’t…” Gemma pleaded softly.
“Steady,” he murmured, setting a hand at her elbow.
She shook her head. “Take me away.”
He nodded once and began to do so, far more dignified and composed than Gemma could have done.
“And the current viscount?” some impertinent young woman asked.
Gemma pulled to a halt, jolting Kit beside her.
“He never did anything to stop any of them, did he? He could have done that at any time. But no, he was a passive bystander and let his family destroy itself.”
Gemma snarled and turned to unleash her fury on the group of women only to find Lucas standing in her path.
“Leave it alone,” he whispered, his voice hollow and his eyes vacant.
She shook her head fiercely. “No. I will not let them slander you and your family like this.”
“It’s all true, Gemma,” he bit out, his voice catching as if someone had stolen his breath. “Every word.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved past her and left the room.
She glanced back at Kit, who had also watched Lucas go. His eyes flicked down to Gemma, a question in them.
“Please,” she murmured with a nod.
He dipped his chin once and made his way to follow Lucas out of the room.
Gemma put a hand to her brow and moved to a nearby pillar, leaning against it with a heavy sigh.
“Surely the viscount is more respectable than that,” a quiet woman asked timidly. “I’ve never heard of…”
“The murder?” someone interrupted in a sharp snap. “The current viscount is exactly like the rest, my dear. He is more discreet and mysterious about it, to be sure, and who knows what sort of depravities he is engaged in? He merely learned from the behavior of his father and brother, and the ancestors before them, and has seen the effects of the publicity of such actions. Time will tell, though. All secrets are revealed at some time or another.”
“You really think he is as bad as the rest?”
“Worse, my dear. He will prove to be far worse.”
Gemma straightened up, clenched her hands into fists, and moved out of the safety of her hiding place. She marched over to the circle of women and faced the shrewish one who had spoken so much. The entire group fell silent, watching her.
The woman’s eyes narrowed malevolently. “Lady Blackmoor.”
Gemma had no idea who the woman was, nor did she care. She would not engage in politeness. After all, she was a Blackmoor. And politeness had no place with them.
“You will cease your gross abuse of my husband and his family,” she told the woman, but spoke to the circle as well. Somehow, she kept her tone even and the tremors remained in her chest without spreading to her limbs. “You will behave as the proper ladies you are reputed to be and leave us alone.”
“Oh, will I?” the woman sneered.
Gemma lowered her chin just a touch, her lip curling. “Yes.”
The woman blinked uncertainly, and looked down at her hands in her lap.
“I know your husband, madam,” another woman broke in coldly, and Gemma glanced at her. “And there is far more I could say on the subject.”
“I know my husband, madam,” Gemma snapped. “Perhaps if you knew yours, you would have a worthwhile thought to share with the world. As it is, you know nothing on the subject of any husband, yours or mine, and I will thank you to take your ignorance and…”
“My dance, Lady Blackmoor,” Colin Gerrard suddenly exclaimed jovially, seizing her hand and jauntily pulling her away as if his eagerness could not be contained.
When they were far away, he let his grin fade and he shook his head a little. “Good lord, Gemma,” he chuckled softly. “Did you not listen to anything Marianne said?”
“Marianne would have said worse under the circumstances and you know it,” she muttered, her face flaming.
Colin laughed and winked. “True enough, but you really must learn how to contain it. Channel the rage constructively, use subterfuge, whatever you must. Blatant attacks won’t work here.”
“I should have been a soldier.”
He grinned and tapped her cheek before taking her to the dance floor. “Aye, that would have been a fine fit for you. But this is an entirely different sort of battlefield. And at the moment, lo
oking happy and smiling and dancing is going to help your cause more than dealing with those women.”
It felt false and betraying to smile at the moment, but Colin was right. He knew Society and its navigation like no other, and would it would be wise to heed his counsel.
For now.
She stayed as long as she could bear to, and then a few moments longer, before finding Kit, who informed her that Lucas had left the ball when he had stormed out, but the carriage was still available for her use. She had suspected as much, knowing her husband. He would not be able to stay after hearing such things, especially given the shadows she had glimpsed in his eyes.
It was all true, he had said. But how could that be?
She wondered on that the entire ride home. It could not be. It was too horrible, like the lurid details of a particularly salacious novel that no sensible person ought to enjoy. Surely they were mistaken.
She disembarked from the carriage and hurried into the house, mind awash with the information she had received tonight.
What horrible details to live through, what misfortunes to endure… What was truth and what was not?
No matter what Lucas said, it could not be all truth.
She let the maid help her with her cloak and tugged her gloves off. “Where is he?” she murmured.
The maid looked at her with wide eyes, then folded the cloak over her arms, lowering her gaze. “The gallery, madam.”
Gemma nodded, thanked her, then made her way quietly up the stairs in the darkened house.
The gallery spanned much of the second floor, and there was no light at all within but the moonlight through the windows.
It took Gemma a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she saw him.
He sat in a chair, but only at the barest edge, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He was without coat, cravat, or waistcoat, and there was no hint of the fine man that had been seen in the Eastbourne ballroom hours ago.
His hands slid from his head across his face, then flopped loosely before him, his head dropping. He looked somehow small and diminished thus, his shoulders slumped as if the entire weight of the world rested on him.
The sight of him sent her heart to her throat. This was a man tormented beyond belief, haunted by something far worse than shadows. In that moment, she knew that he had not been mistaken at all. Every word of that horrible conversation had been true. It was inconceivable for him to be so pained if it had been anything less.
These were the horrors he lived with and faced on a regular basis. And when confronted by them, he brought himself here to surround himself with the likeness of the very people who had driven him to this.
She had been so wrong about him, about the darkness that wore on him. He bore a heavy burden, several of them, and the weight was crushing him.
He seemed to shudder a little, and she clamped down on her bottom lip to keep her distress contained.
How he must suffer! He was so proud, so strong and immovable at all times. This was sheer and utter anguish, and witnessing it was too much.
Feeling it could only be infinitely worse.
Slowly, not wishing to startle him, Gemma moved further into the room. He gave no indication that he noticed her in any way, but she was undeterred. She walked carefully over to the chair until she was directly before him.
He did not raise his head; he did not stir in the least. His breathing was unsteady and his shoulders seemed to shake with tremors, but no sound emerged from him.
Tears filled her eyes as she reached out gently and touched his hair. He stilled beneath her hand, but made no move. Encouraged, she began slowly running her fingers through the dark locks. She stepped closer and let both hands wander through his hair, stroking and soothing, his fingers barely brushing the edge of her skirt.
A soft exhale escaped him and he seemed to lean into her touch. She smiled through her tears and continued the strokes, letting him nuzzle as he would.
His hands slid up and rested on her hips, pulling her closer. He pressed his face against her stomach, releasing another harsh breath.
Gemma slid her arms gently around him, cradling his head against her, fingers still running through the dark tresses. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and her heart filled with love for this man in her arms. She would hold him for the rest of her life if he would let her. She would have borne his burdens if he would share them.
But this was enough.
After a few long moments, Lucas lifted his head, resting his chin against her and looking up into her face, his expression worn and weary, lost and alone. His eyes were soft and tender, so gentle and open, her heart broke anew for him.
She brushed a hand along his cheek, his jaw, meeting his eyes gently as her other hand cupped the back of his head, toying with the locks there. Gracefully her fingers stroked along his face, lightly scratching the stubble at his jaw and his chin, tracing his ear and cheekbones, memorizing every feature.
His breathing deepened and he slowly rose, his hands still on her, his eyes never wavering. Her hands slid to his neck, one moving to rest on the exposed skin of his chest, where his erratic heartbeat pounded.
Lucas cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone, making her eyelids flutter in delight. He leaned down and captured her lips gently, slowly taking them again and again, exquisite playing that made her knees shake and her heart race. She pressed the back of his neck, and he responded, taking her deeper, longer, receiving her kisses as earnestly as she was his.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her so close she hardly knew where she ended and he began, and her body thrilled at the familiar pressure. His mouth slid from hers to her cheek, her jaw, down the column of her neck to the barely exposed shoulder. She cradled his head against her as her breath raced, as her heart soared, as she turned to kiss his neck in return.
He worked his way back up, taking her lips once more, hot and tender and wrenching all at once. A hand slid into her hair, tangling within it, and she gasped in delight.
He paused, his lips barely touching hers.
She waited, heart frantic.
Then he scooped her up into his arms, and his mouth was on hers again as he carried her from the room, her arms twining around his neck as her tears renewed. And when he had kissed those away, he kissed her still, carrying her all the while.
Chapter Fifteen
Eventually, Lucas had told her everything he could about his family. Things he had never told another living soul, the childhood he suffered through with the members of his family, watching his mother waste away under the abandonment and disregard of his father… It was gut wrenching to relive, but she was steadfast and sure throughout the telling, never once offering him the pity he feared or the disgust he expected.
She listened patiently, holding his hand, and when he had told all, she had curled up beside him, rested her head on his chest, and held him, scattering soft, fleeting kisses where she could.
Just once, she whispered, “I am so sorry.”
But other than that, the subject was never breached again. No probing questions, no sounds of distress, no recoiling.
Gemma was an inquisitive person, and an emotional one. Yet she had somehow contained all of that and let him get through his confessions without interruption for her comments, questions, or expressions. And then, remarkably, she had soothed him, just as she had last night in the gallery.
He fought a lump in his throat as he sat in his study now, in the early morning hours. She was a remarkable woman, and the love for her that he had felt before, seemingly a fervent and abiding adoration, was suddenly eclipsed by the depth and breadth of what the dawn had found in him. She was everything, and by some miracle, she was his.
He had meant to tell her about his past and his family at some point, when he had reconciled the idea in his mind. He would never have imagined all of that to be trotted out at a public event for her ears so unprepared and unaware. It was not fair for her to be bombarded in tha
t way, no matter how true the unpleasant details were.
His wife could very well have left him after having heard the horrors of his family. The heritage was not one that anyone would wish for, and it was that reason that kept him from discussing it with anyone, let alone being upfront with her before the marriage. His family had little enough to do with him… he had truly been the passive bystander as they ruined themselves… but he alone had to live with the repercussions. He had been the one to pick up the pieces and try to salvage something.
No woman would wish for such a life.
But Gemma had been unfazed by the revelations, thinking only of him and his comfort, welfare, and well-being.
He did not deserve her.
And she did not deserve this.
He frowned as he sat back in his chair. Why were these things being discussed again? It had been years since anyone had thought of his father or brother; no one ever talked about them. He thought they were long forgotten.
Why now?
It was unsettling, to say the least.
What else could come out?
He shuddered as the image of Celia flashed across his mind, laughing and taunting as she always had been.
He ought to tell Gemma about her. The truth. But doing that would expose him in such a way that he was not sure he could bear it.
Gemma thought his family’s past was all the horror he lived with.
She had no idea how much worse it got.
Lucas shook his head as he slid some papers to the corner of his desk. He ought to tell her, she deserved the truth from him.
But how?
A small note, sealed as unobtrusively as ever, unaddressed, appeared from under the documents he had pushed aside and he stared at it, his breath catching painfully.
It had been over a week since the last.
Penance.
He had paid penance every day of his life, and more yet again only last night.
Fingers unsteady, he reached for the missive and broke the tiny seal.
The same scrawling hand had penned the words, Is it enough?
Lucas dropped the note with a harsh exhale, staring at it as though he could engulf it in flames by doing so.
A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7) Page 17
