Even in the still of the night, with no hint of guests about, her heart doubled its beat. Following her discovery at the steward’s hands that evening, the risks in seeking out Lord Westfield reared, more real than they’d been before. To be found gallivanting about the duke’s property and sneaking about his home, unchaperoned, would result in immediate ruin. Fortunately, Gemma had long escaped Society’s notice and was afforded certain freedoms. This, however, would result in the height of scandal from which no lady could recover. If she was found pursuing the marquess… A little shiver shook her frame, and she thrust aside the dire musings. Why, if that were to happen, she might as well don red and declare herself a fallen woman.
And what if you were discovered kissing the nameless steward, all the while shamelessly hungry to know more of that man’s embrace?
She forced her ragged breath into a semblance of calm and thrust that coarse stranger from her thoughts and, instead, focused on the most imminent threat. Gemma turned the corner and slammed into a solid wall. Her scream died on her lips. “Emery,” she blurted.
Her brother stood with arms folded at his chest eying her with the proper degree of suspicion. “Gemma,” he drawled. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”
Oh, blast and double blast on Sunday. How to explain her furtive sneaking to a person who’d long known to be wary of that very sneaking? Emery winged an eyebrow upwards. Why could she not have been one of those ladies with clever responses? Instead, she stood, unblinking like a dratted owl perfectly caught by her brother. “Is it late?”
“It is,” he repeated, his ever-narrowing eyes conveyed his wariness.
“There you are.”
Brother and sister swung their gazes as one to Beatrice who stood with her hands propped on her hips and a smile wreathing her guileless face. Salvation came in the most unexpected, but most welcome, form as Beatrice strode forward. The mischievous twinkle sparkling in her cornflower blue eyes belied that perception of innocence.
Some of the tension drained from Gemma.
The consummate gentleman, Emery dropped a bow. “Lady Beatrice.”
As though they met in a formal parlor and not in the empty corridors of the duke’s largely slumbering household, Beatrice curtsied. “Lord Smithfield, may I steal Gemma away?”
He studied Beatrice through suspicious eyes a moment and with a slow nod, took a step back. “Of course. Please, do not let me interfere with your enjoyments.”
Fighting a wave of guilt, Gemma leaned up on tiptoe and pecked her brother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Emery.” Then, sliding her arm through Beatrice’s, she allowed her friend to lead her onward.
“Gemma?” Her brother called out, bringing the ladies back around. Gemma stared questioningly at him. “Behave.”
A guilty heat slapped her cheeks and she mustered a smile. “Don’t I always?”
“No,” he said automatically, swiftly killing her false grin. “You do not.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat. “Lady Beatrice.”
The ladies waited a moment and then resumed their path in the opposite direction.
“That was close,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, stealing a look over her shoulder. “You must take greater care.”
Again, the duke’s steward slipped into Gemma’s thoughts and her lips tingled with the remembered feel of his mouth on hers. At the peculiar look Beatrice shot her, Gemma forced a response. “I know.”
Giving a pleased nod, Beatrice marched them with military-like precision and purpose through her father’s sprawling home. They descended the stairs and reached the main landing. Then, all hint of flawless, too-proper miss thrown aside, Beatrice grabbed Gemma by the hand and tugged her along. “You do not have much time,” she whispered. “Robert is alone in the billiards room.”
Gemma furrowed her brow. Generally, gentlemen retired for drinks with the other men, desiring an escape from polite company. Or, that had been her observation as a younger sister, anyway. It was as though there was some unspoken, unwritten masculine pact among those titled lords to avoid marriage-minded ladies. “Are you certain he’s alone?”
“Quite.” Glossing over the skepticism in Gemma’s question, Beatrice continued. “He takes drinks there by himself. More so since P-Papa…” She coughed into her palm.
Pain tugged at Gemma’s heart and she captured her friend’s fingers, giving them a slight squeeze. The words “I am sorry” were so absolutely futile and useless when presented with the unspoken sadness blanketing this house.
“Come, none of that,” Beatrice said, and winked. “I’d focus on happy things like rainbows and rides through the countryside at midnight and your pursuit of Robert.”
A strangled laugh lodged in Gemma’s throat. What sorry days, indeed, when a lady was the one to bring a gentleman up to scratch. She wrinkled her nose. Though, in truth, there was something empowering in seizing control of one’s destiny.
Gripping her by the forearms, Beatrice steered Gemma forward. She gave her a slight nudge between the shoulder blades. “Off you go. Third door down the corridor, on the right. Make him see reason.”
Gemma frowned. Make him see reason? Wasn’t love about illogical thought and maddening passion? The manner of dizzying desire that had gripped her in a stranger’s arms. She turned to ask her friend as much, but like a slip of fog rolled back by the morning light, Beatrice disappeared. With a sigh, Gemma forced her legs to move.
If Mother knew Gemma even now crept down the silent, candlelit corridors, seeking out the company of a gentleman… Alone. Unchaperoned. Which, in thinking, really was quite redundant, the whole alone and unchaperoned business… Gemma gave her head a clearing shake. Even nervous in her silent musings.
She paused at the end of the hall. Third door down the corridor, on the right. Third door, on the right. Gemma stole one more glance backward. After all, a person could never be too certain there weren’t servants about. Or in the case of the early evening…stewards about. Stewards with firm lips and thick, chestnut hair and wicked, if mocking, grins. Her skin heated as she thrust thoughts of the duke’s steward aside and fixated on the task at hand. More importantly, avoiding discovery so she might profess her love, at last.
Holding her breath, Gemma continued on to the billiards room. She would have explaining to do if it were say, Mama and not Emery, who’d found she’d snuck off in the dead of night. “And what would she say if she knew it was all an attempt to see a gentleman—alone?” she mumbled to herself. The dashing, charming brother of her dearest friend but still, a clandestine meeting was a clandestine meeting, and one that were she to be discovered would no doubt find Gemma packed off to an abbey.
But some men were worth braving scandal over and Lord Westfield was one of them.
Yes, he was whispered about as something of a rogue, but surely even a charmer such as he would not go about kissing young women he did not know and grab them closer than ever could be appropriate. Her lips burned from the memory of earlier that evening and she paused in the corridor, touching her fingertips to her lips. Then, gaining control of her thoughts, she refocused on Lord Westfield. She didn’t give a fig if he was a duke or destitute. She’d loved him since he’d rescued her from a dance-less debut at Almack’s. She’d loved him for being a devoted brother who cared about the happiness of his family, when most lords only cared about wagering and carousing. And she loved him for every kindness he’d shown her through every painful London Season.
Gemma wiped her damp palms along the sides of her wrinkled skirt and continued walking. Except, with each step, her courage deserted her. She touched the handle of the door…and then froze.
What are you doing, Gemma Reed? Young ladies did not steal upon a gentleman who sought privacy, declare their love, and make an absolute cake of themselves all in the hopes that he would return those very sentiments.
It was that small lingering hope that he would, in fact, profess his love that compelled her to press the handle, entering the quiet r
oom. She closed the door behind her so softly the faint click barely registered with her own ears.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened billiards room. But for a handful of candles, the thick black of night shrouded the room in an eerie quiet. She searched the grand space adorned in crimson curtains and heavy, red mahogany furniture. She stilled as her gaze found the tall figure seated on the leather winged back chair. As if sensing her presence, Lord Westfield stiffened in profile and then made to rise.
“D-do not!” she called out, and he froze. “Stand, that is.” Her voice echoed around the room. Digging deep for the courage to share the words she’d kept silent for too long, she drew in a slow, steadying breath. “It would be easier if you were to sit there for me to say this. To say what it is that I need to say. What I’ve been longing to say.” She flinched at her jumbled ramblings. “You have captivated me since the moment I first met you.” Her impassioned declaration echoed off the walls. “From the moment I first saw you smile, I’ve longed to tell you how good and kind and loyal you are.” He is not a blasted hound, Gemma!
She took a step forward, appreciating his silence that allowed her the courage to continue. “I would have you know the feelings I’ve carried.” She held her palm up, forgetting a moment that he could not see her. “But I love you. I’ve loved you for so very long and given the party hosted by your father, I thought you should know how ardently I admire you, as I carry the hope that you might feel the same way, too. You are my heart’s greatest yearning.”
Gemma cringed at the silence, which met her impassioned profession. Her heart beat loud in her ears. As she waited, breath suspended in her lungs for Lord Westfield to say something. Alas… Gemma shifted on her feet. She’d really settle for anything.
When it became apparent he had little or no intention of saying anything more on it, she cleared her throat. “Will you not say anything to me?” Where did she, so often without words, find the courage to toss that question out to him?
He slowly stood, unfurling to his full height. She swallowed hard and allowed herself one infinitesimal moment to believe the dimly lit room merely played cruel tricks upon her eyes. Except, she blinked.
And then blinked again.
For the man before her, the dark-haired, broad figure was so very different than the blond-haired, charming gentleman she’d sought.
And…
Oh God…
She curled her feet into the soles of her slippers as mortified heat set her body ablaze over the horrifying mistake she’d made. Shame spiraled through her being as a slow smile formed on the steward’s hard lips; lips that had covered hers, giving her, her first kiss, earlier that evening.
He sketched a bow. “What is there to say? Other than I’m flattered. Now, may I ask the name of the woman so hopelessly in love with my smile?”
Oh, my God. “No, you may n-not,” she squeaked. Gemma winced at that high-pitched, broken utterance. “And I was not commenting on your smile. I don’t even know your smile.”
The steward leaned against the chair, cradling a drink in his hand. “Well, that is not altogether true.”
She groaned. For it wasn’t. She did know his smile, just… “Not well,” she said tightly. “I’ve seen but one of your grins.”
The steward smiled all the more. Now two grins. And even if it was a slightly wicked, slightly teasing, expression, she’d certainly not admire it. Not from a man whose name she did not know, and only just met. Her mind slowed, stalled, and then resumed a rapid spinning pace. Oh, God. “You are not the duke’s steward.”
Hers was a statement borne of horrified fact.
“I am not,” he confirmed, anyway, with yet another of those seductive, teasing grins.
Which could only mean…. “You are a guest?” Please let him be an insolent servant nipping brandy from his employer. Please let him be anyone other than a guest who’d witnessed her two humiliations and who’d kissed her senseless.
“I am, indeed.”
Her mind scrambled to put together who this stranger was. Who, when with her three-year friendship with Beatrice, she’d met this man not once. She’d not seen him at a single event. She peered into the dark, up at him, trying to place him.
“I am a friend of—”
Do not say it. Do not say…
“Lord Westfield’s.” He spread his arms wide. “Mr. Richard Jonas.”
Oh, God. He’d said it. Gemma closed her eyes and shook her head despairingly. Of all the rotted luck. Of all the ill-timing and tricks of fate. Then memory of their scandalous first meeting sank through the quagmire of her thoughts. She flared her eyes wide in horror. “You ki—”
“I returned your kiss,” he supplied for her. “Yes.” He took a step closer. “And it was an enjoyable one, wouldn’t you say, sweet?”
His words rang a gasp from her and she ignored that shockingly improper question. Gemma moved in a whir of skirts, placing the billiards table between them. “Returned my kiss?” she choked out. He painted her as a wanton and, with his flippant words, made her first kiss something shameful. Granted it was scandalous to go about embracing strangers but still, it had been a thing of wonder. Annoyance blended with mortified anger in a violent dance—with him and herself. “First,” she stuck a finger out. “It takes two to waltz.” His lips twitched, only fueling her outrage. “And second,” she dropped her voice to a hushed whisper, “you, sir, kissed me.”
He made a tsking sound and she gritted her teeth. “Ah, disappointed that I was not another?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, willing him to silence.
The gentleman continued coming toward her. “You were searching out a particular gentleman who was…” He winged an eyebrow up and stopped beside her. “Good, kind, and loyal.” Another mocking grin pulled at his lips. “You would do very well with a terrier.”
Despising that his own mocking thoughts aligned so very shamefully alongside her earlier ones, Gemma’s skin burned hot. She dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “You should have alerted me to your presence.”
“I did. I made to rise and you urged me to sit.”
“Because I believed you were another,” she said, exasperation creeping into her tone.
He set the snifter in his hand on the edge of the billiards table, bringing her attention briefly to that very nearly empty glass, and then she jerked her attention back to his. “Regardless, considering I know not only the taste of your lips.” He continued over her outraged gasp. “A taste of mint and honey—”
“Mr. Jonas!” She’d never believed even one’s ears could go hot with embarrassment.
“I also know your heart’s greatest yearning.” His lips twitched with amusement and filled with the need to plant the lout a deserved facer, her fingers curled into reflexive balls. “Then at the very least I can know your—”
“My name is Miss Gemma Reed,” she gritted out, settling her hands on her hips. After all, there was something wholly wrong in receiving one’s first kiss from a complete stranger, and then confessing the most intimate pieces that dwelled inside her heart. “And I am a friend of Lady Beatrice Dennington.”
“Then we are a perfect pair, friends both to the Denningtons.”
Gemma threw her hands up. “We are nothing. You are an aggravating, infuriating, exasperating—”
“The latter two mean the same.”
“Lout. And I’ll not stand here and be mocked by a man who should conceal his identity and—”
He dipped his head and swallowed the remaining words with his mouth.
Gemma stilled under this gentle assault, so very different from the explosive meeting of mouths earlier that evening. She fluttered her lids and stretched her hands up. To push him away. Solely to push him away. And yet…
A warm fluttering danced in her belly and a slow heat built inside, growing and spreading until every corner of her being trilled awake at his tender ministrations. Of their own volition, her fingers found purchase in the fabric
of his black coat, and she tugged at it, leaning into his kiss.
His kiss.
She froze.
Nay, their kiss.
Her second kiss. Neither of which belonged to Lord Westfield and both belonged to this Mr. Richard Jonas; dryly mocking, and constantly teasing.
Gemma sprung away from him and knocked painfully against the billiard table. The hard mahogany bit into her hip and she welcomed the dull, throbbing ache that served as a distraction from the guilt of her betrayal. She stuck up a quavering finger. “Do not,” she rasped, her chest moving hard and fast in time to the frantic beat of her heart.
Except he was stock still, eying her through impossibly long, chestnut lashes, she’d have traded both of her smallest fingers for.
“That should not have happened.”
“Because of your heart’s greatest yearning?” He lowered his head slightly shrinking the space between them. “Tell me, though, Gemma—”
“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”
Richard stroked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip and her mouth trembled at the faint caress. “I believe our kisses merit such familiarity.” His gruff baritone washed over her, dulling her senses, thickening her blood.
Oh, God, he is going to kiss me—again. This man, more stranger than anything, whose name she’d only just gleaned, and yet who knew so very much about her. “Is your heart’s yearning a product of the desire for a future title of duchess or the marquess’ wealth?” She’d have to be deaf as a post to fail to hear the thread of mockery underscoring that question.
The momentary fog of desire he’d cloaked her in lifted. A growl of frustration worked up her throat. “You sir, are no gentleman,” she seethed and jabbed her finger into the hard wall of his chest. He didn’t so much as flinch. Not even a hint that he so much as noted her poke. She shoved her finger into his chest once more for good measure. “I’ll have you know that my love for Lord Westfield has nothing to do with the gentleman’s wealth or title.” Gemma ticked her chin up a notch. “Nor do I expect one such as you to know a jot about the emotion of love. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With head held high, Gemma swept past him, pulled the door open, and slipped into the hall.
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 84
