It was a wonder he had not heard of Sybil Maitland before, but John was a recent arrival in the district and it took the people of Ware years before they warmed sufficiently to newcomers to gossip with them. No doubt this morsel had been too juicy for Jenny and Sarah to keep to themselves.
Gemma ripped off her hat and swatted at a fly that buzzed round her as she trudged the two-mile walk back to the Hall. She had not wanted John Talbot as a suitor. In fact, she had tried her best to hold him at a distance, but his rejection hurt more than she had thought possible.
Why did she keep hoping things might be different? By now, she should know not to put her faith in human nature, but she kept falling into that same trap. And she was disappointed every time.
Gemma blew out a shaky breath. She could almost be glad she was leaving Ware.
On a small rise, she paused to look down at the golden expanse of her home, as she had done so many times, with a thrilling sense of ownership and pride. But she had no real stake in Ware, and little hope of ever convincing Hugo to give her one unless she showed him how much Ware needed her. Rising profits, the good heart of the land, and the general contentment of its people had not convinced him. Perhaps her absence would.
For once, she shortened her walk and cut through the fields. She fitted her hat on her head and climbed over a stile that led to a meadow. Raising a hand to greet the workers cutting wheat in the next field, she tramped through the sweet-smelling grass. Her habit was a trifle heavy for this weather. The grey broadcloth absorbed the sunshine and its high military collar itched her throat. By the time she reached Mainwaring Hall, she felt hot, thirsty, and considerably bruised in spirit.
As she sipped the sweet, tart lemonade Reeves brought her, Gemma realised she looked forward to her journey to Laidley. Since Sebastian arrived, her ordinary life at Ware had begun to seem a little stifling, if she must be honest.
She traced through the droplets of moisture on the outside of her glass with one gloved finger. Was it very stupid of her to want to be with him a little while longer? She did not mind being alone, but she did not want to end up alone and lonely, dissatisfied and bitter like her aunt.
She could not rely on her mother for companionship, that much was clear. Gemma set her glass down and removed her York tan gloves, easing them off one finger at a time. Sybil seemed further distanced from Gemma than she had ever been, despite her intention to remain in England. Aside from that first discussion upon Sybil’s arrival, Gemma had not caught the chance to speak with her alone. Bellamy shadowed Sybil’s every movement, as though he could not bear to let her out of his sight. Perhaps he did love her, after all.
Or perhaps he did not wish to give Gemma the chance to present a case against him.
She handed the butler her empty glass. “Where is everyone, Reeves?”
“Sir Hugo is in the library, miss. His lordship and Mr. Bellamy have gone riding, and Miss Mainwaring is paying calls.”
“And Mama?”
“In the rose arbour, I believe.”
“Thank you.” She jabbed her hairpins through the hat, handed it to him with her gloves, and walked out onto the terrace and down the steps. Rounding the corner, she followed the gravel path to the walled garden, where her mother sat on a rustic bench, twirling a Pomona green parasol and staring with a faint frown into the distance.
“Stop that, Mama, or you will give yourself wrinkles.” Gemma walked towards her and inhaled the sweet scent of roses. Sybil was like a rose. Soft, fragrant, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, but try to hold her too tight and she pricked your hand.
Sybil laughed. A merry, musical laugh, not the artificial titter many ladies affected. But then, the graces other ladies studied with anxious diligence came as easily as breathing to Sybil Maitland.
“Who cares for wrinkles?” Sybil patted the seat next to her. “Come sit by me, darling. Isn’t this sunshine glorious? Who could be out of sorts on such a day?”
Gemma suppressed a sigh. This mood did not augur well for the discussion she had in mind. She sat next to her mother and tried to frame a sentence introducing the subject of Bellamy, but the words would not come.
“Darling, I am glad you are here because I think we should have a talk.” Sybil’s hand fluttered over Gemma’s. “I am worried about you.”
The world suddenly spun in reverse. “You are worried about me, Mama?”
“Yes, and I must speak before you go. You do not mind, do you darling? Only, I could not let you leave with Sebastian if I did not warn you.”
Gemma put up a hand to forestall her. “I know what you are going to say. Sebastian is supposed to be a terrible rake, but—”
“No, that was not what I was going to say. I am quite sure you are up to snuff and you know he did not get a reputation like that from sitting at home twiddling his thumbs. But reputations can be misleading, my dear. No one knows that better than I.”
A large, brown grasshopper sprang onto Sybil’s lap. She did not even flinch, but brushed it off with the handle of her parasol and watched interestedly as it flickered its wings and flew away.
Gemma frowned. Her head began to ache. “Are you warning me that Sebastian may turn out not to be a rake?”
Sybil laughed. “Good God, no! Just that seduction is not the only thing you must be wary of, that is all. Sebastian has led a certain mode of life for a few years but his character was formed much earlier than that. The face he shows to the world is not the real one. I am persuaded he is not as careless as he seems.”
“But isn’t that a good thing?”
“Well of course not! Oh, lud, I am making a mess of this.” Sybil sighed. “What I mean to say is that regardless of how he behaves with all his ton friends, Sebastian is a young man of deep, strong passions. Do not play with fire, my dear, unless you are sure that you wish to be burned. And I do not mean lovemaking—I know you are too sensible to let it go that far. But I also know he kissed you on the terrace last night.”
Gemma felt herself flush, pink as the roses climbing the wall behind her, no doubt. “How—”
Sybil grimaced. “I recognised the look on your face. Goodness knows I have seen it often enough on my own. But it would be folly to follow my example, you know. And I should be criminal if I did not advise you against it.”
She snapped her parasol shut. “Now, that John Talbot seems a solid sort of fellow, and his land marches with ours. I should think he would make you an excellent husband.”
Yes, but he knows who you are and now he does not want me.
Sybil observed Gemma with a faint smile, reached over and gently stroked her cheek. “Have your fun at Laidley, my dear. Lord knows you have had little enough of that buried alive in this place. But make sure at the end of it you can forget this foolish link with Sebastian and be content without him. Because you can never be comfortable with a man like that. It is all uphill and down-dale with them.”
“Whereas Mr. Talbot is a nice, smooth, flat road,” said Gemma.
Sybil beamed. “Exactly so! Believe me, you will be less likely to come to grief if you choose that course.” She paused. “You will have to marry someone, you know, darling. Hugo will never make you mistress of Ware.”
The familiar pain burned Gemma’s chest. “Everyone says that, but I have no idea why it should be. I have given Ware my all and still, it is not enough.”
“That is not the issue. You have done an excellent job of helping your grandfather with the estate. But Hugo wants to see you happy with your own family about you.” She clasped Gemma’s hand. “He is a stubborn old man, my dear, but in this I think he is wise. You must not close your mind to marriage.”
Gemma looked away. It was impossible to confront Mama with the truth. That no gentleman would marry the daughter of a notorious femme fatale. He might have other uses for her, but giving her his name would never enter his plans. Gentlemen saved marriage proposals for ladies with reputations and pedigrees above reproach. And if Sybil now meant to create more talk by marr
ying a man more than twenty years her junior, there would be even less hope for Gemma than before.
“I do not see you taking your own advice, Mama,” she said lightly, trying to turn the subject.
For an instant, Sybil’s smile froze. Then she gave her slow, sensual smile. “Oh,” she said. “You may be sure, my dear, that I have never been lonely.”
She dug the point of her parasol into the gravel at her feet and rose. “Do let us go in. I must change my gown before Charles comes back.”
INVIGORATED after their strenuous ride, Sebastian left Hugo’s well-kept stables with Bellamy and strolled up to the house.
He had shown the younger man all of his and Gemma’s old haunts as they hacked about the neighbouring countryside. Revisiting them was like stepping back to his youth, to a time when he had not thought beyond the moment. Now, everything seemed planned, controlled. Even the lighter side of his life followed a pattern almost monotonous in its predictability. He anticipated the end of each affair before it began, and his amours grew ever shorter and more frequent. He did not believe he had broken any hearts, though. He preferred his women without them.
But Gemma owned a heart as big as the sun, so what had he been about last night? He hardly knew. She had looked so lost and angry standing there at the drawing room window, his first thought had been to take her mind off a kind of misery that simply did not have a place in her life. He should not have kissed her, had not meant to advance the kiss further than a brief, chaste touch of the lips. But her response had been so free, so quintessentially Gemma, desire had flamed within him and he could not let her go.
He remembered Gemma telling him she had experience of kisses. Had she kissed other men like that? Sebastian hacked his whip at a blameless daffodil. He did not want to think about it.
He could not let it happen again. She had disturbed something in him he had thought was dead and buried, something he had been content to let rest. He did not want her rousing it further. He must leave her be.
They reached the south lawn, and Bellamy’s voice broke his thoughts. “Now this is a pleasing prospect! Is that a Roman ruin on the other side of the lake?”
Sebastian followed the direction of his gaze. “The folly? Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid. I believe Sir Hugo’s father had it built. We used it as a boathouse.”
“Such gentle countryside, so green and welcoming,” murmured Bellamy. “Yes, I believe I could live here.”
Sebastian’s brows snapped together. “What do you mean, you could live here? There is no question of you living here.”
Bellamy turned to face Sebastian, then his gaze shifted and slid away. “It was merely a figure of speech. I meant, of course, that I could quite easily live in the English countryside. Countryside like this.”
Sebastian did not believe him. It was time to get to the bottom of this mystery. “But aren’t you removing to a little house in Kensington in a month or two?”
“Oh, no, I . . . Well, that is to say . . .”
Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. “Prefer to keep separate lodgings, do you? I admire your forethought.”
Bellamy stiffened. “I do not take your meaning, my lord.”
Smiling, Sebastian balanced on the balls of his feet. “Easier to come and go more freely that way, wouldn’t you say? Always a sound policy to have more than one string to your bow when it comes to women.”
When Bellamy’s fist flew towards him, he was ready for it, and dodged. The boy must mean marriage, then. Gemma would soon call Bellamy “Papa.”
“Good Lord!” Sebastian stepped back out of range and held up his hands in a conciliating gesture. “I see I’ve entirely misjudged the situation. Pray accept my apologies and forget I mentioned it.” He bowed and turned, ready to continue on their way.
“Am—am I to call you a coward, my lord?”
Sebastian froze. Slowly, he turned back. “I beg your pardon?”
Fear darted across Bellamy’s bronzed face, but he stood his ground, fists clenched by his side. “I believe you heard what I said. Are you a coward?”
Softly, Sebastian replied, “If you cannot tell the difference between a sincere apology and cowardice, then I might just have to show you. Take off your coat.”
Bellamy’s fingers already fumbled at his buttons. He yanked one arm free. “With pleasure, my lord.”
Stripping was no easy feat for either gentleman. If Bellamy had not been white-lipped and shaking with rage, Sebastian could have laughed at the sheer ludicrousness of them both struggling out of their tight-fitting coats before having at one another on Hugo’s lawn.
He eyed the younger man critically. Perhaps the lad’s prettiness had misled him, for now as he looked closer, he realised Bellamy was well up to his own weight. Sebastian pulled off his gloves, blood rushing at the prospect of a good fight.
His challenger barely waited for him to throw down his hat before charging at him with far more energy than science. Sebastian blocked and feinted and sparred, gauging his opponent’s skill, giving Bellamy time to master his fury. This youth’s obsessive passion reminded him of himself at that age.
“Keep your head still, for pity’s sake,” he ordered, when Bellamy took another wild swing.
He had meant it as friendly advice, but his words acted as a goad. Bellamy’s golden eyes flashed and he rained blows on Sebastian, blows that met with nothing but air and fists.
A shout came from the terrace. “Scovy! What on earth?” Distracted, Sebastian’s gaze flickered upwards and Bellamy landed a glancing punch to his cheekbone.
Sebastian staggered and palmed his stinging cheek. “Damn it, Gemma.” He ducked another of Bellamy’s swings, and put up his guard. “Go away! Can’t you see we are sparring? Bellamy here is just getting the hang of it, but he is glaringly abroad. Hardly a sight for ladies.”
“Scovy, stop! Right this minute.”
“Go into the house, Gemma.” Sebastian wanted to end it, but he did not wish to do that while Gemma stood by. She always turned queasy at the sight of claret and he had a mind to draw Bellamy’s cork. Letting some of that hot blood might calm him down a trifle.
As Sebastian wove and jabbed, he heard nothing more and assumed that for once, Gemma had obeyed him.
Until a pair of small hands caught his upper arm and hung on with all their might.
As Sebastian pivoted to regain his balance, Bellamy’s flailing right hook connected with his jaw and knocked him clear off his feet, sending Gemma with him.
They landed on the turf with a double “Oomph!”
Sebastian tasted blood, and his jaw screamed agony. He opened his eyes to the blue sky and groaned.
“Miss Maitland, are you hurt?” Bellamy’s anxious voice sounded above them.
“No, I’m perfectly well,” said Gemma. Panting, she wriggled from beneath Sebastian’s arm and raised herself on one elbow. “No, don’t help me up. I just want to stay here for a moment and catch my . . . catch my breath.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian watched her do just that, with a pleasantly heaving bosom and her wondrous, bright hair snaking about her shoulders. She glanced at him and their gazes melded and time stood still. He could lose himself forever in those midnight eyes.
Bellamy’s voice snapped Sebastian out of his trance. “My lord, I am truly sorry. I did not see Miss Maitland there, or I would not have . . .”
Sebastian squinted up at him. For the moment, he’d forgotten the fellow was still there. “Oh, the devil, go away! Haven’t you done enough?”
“With all due respect, my lord, if you had not impugned the honour of the sweetest, most blameless lady, I should not—”
Gemma gasped. Sebastian felt her wide gaze upon him. “Scovy?”
He dragged his palm down the good side of his face and mumbled something deliberately incoherent. The prospect of confessing he had insulted Gemma’s mama did not appeal. Wincing at the throb in his jaw, he slowly raised himself to a less supine position. “I trust you are sati
sfied, Bellamy. Or shall I ask my friends to wait on yours?”
“A duel won’t be necessary, my lord. If you do not require my assistance, Miss Maitland, I shall bid you good afternoon.”
Sebastian watched Bellamy collect his accoutrements with shaky dignity and stalk towards the house. Avoiding Gemma’s gaze, Sebastian collapsed, closed his eyes . . .
And waited for the next blow to fall.
A tender hand touched his cheek. “Your poor face! I’m so sorry, Scovy. I did not think.”
Relief made him wheeze a laugh. Always expect the unexpected with Gemma. “Oh, don’t mention it! I doubt Bellamy is proud of milling me down with a woman’s help. He certainly could not have done it without you.”
“Are you so good, then?”
“No, he was truly awful.”
“Hmm.” And I suppose if I ask you what the fight was about, you will say it is none of my affair?”
He should have known he would never be safe. Gloomily, he replied, “That is the line I should like to take, but I doubt it would do any good.”
“None at all,” she answered cheerfully. “But it can wait, I daresay.” She patted his arm. “Let’s get that pretty face of yours seen to.”
“Pretty?” He grimaced. “I’d prefer ruggedly handsome.”
“Mm, no.”
He quirked a brow. “Devilishly attractive?”
She grinned and shook her head. “Your jaw looks like a squashed plum. I shall put some ointment on it if you like.”
He rose painfully to his feet and followed her.
Gemma as ministering angel. The idea struck him as delightfully erotic. Watching the slight sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him towards the terrace steps, the devil in him wondered if he could persuade her to tend to all his aches.
He groaned. Of course not. Gemma was a gently bred lady, not some light-skirt in the green room at Drury Lane. If he did not stop thinking of her that way, he would compromise them both, and then he’d have to marry her.
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