And then she began to laugh. She brought up one hand to cover her mouth like an errant schoolgirl, but her dark eyes glistened with tears of mirth.
Lady Carleton. It had to be. Gemma moved to take the lady’s uninjured hand. She urged her to sit on a small sofa that had escaped damage.
Lady Carleton pressed a handkerchief to her lips. Slowly, the shudders that ran through her slender frame subsided. She seemed to draw herself up, the lines of her body tensed, as if she needed to exert control over each and every muscle to stop herself disintegrating.
She even managed a polite, social smile. “I am so sorry. What a terrible way to greet a guest. You are Miss Maitland, are you not? I am Lady Carleton. Forgive me for not welcoming you before now.”
Gemma regarded her with concern. “Should you not be resting, ma’am? I am persuaded you are not yet recovered from your indisposition.”
“Oh, I am quite recovered, thank you. You must not trouble yourself about me.” She stared hard at Gemma, as though searching for something.
At length, she said, “You are very like your mama.”
“Thank you.” Gemma had learned to take such double-edged compliments at face value. Feeling as though the anticipated ordeal by social torture had begun at last, she waited for the next strike. Lady Carleton’s expression remained perfectly benign, but Gemma knew not to trust the smiling character assassins of the ton.
“Sybil was a great friend of mine, you know,” said Lady Carleton unexpectedly. “We both made our come-outs in London in the same Season. I’m afraid after Sebastian was born we lost touch. I had hoped that making Sir Hugo Sebastian’s godfather would . . .” She sighed. “But it was not to be.”
Had Lady Carleton not turned her back on Sybil, then? If that were the case, she must be unique among the ladies of her class. Gemma knew well that high sticklers did not tolerate Sybil Maitland. Aunt Matilda had described in luxuriant detail the treatment meted out to fallen women of the ton, a fate that could so easily befall Gemma if she did not take scrupulous care of her reputation.
Gemma had always supposed Hugo to have been friends with Sebastian’s father. They were much of an age, for the earl had married late in life.
However, it appeared the connection was on Lady Carleton’s side. Why had Sybil never contacted her friend? Perhaps she had not been sure of her welcome. Despite her vagaries, Sybil was unflinchingly proud.
Smiling, Lady Carleton touched Gemma’s hand. “At all events, you are here now, and that is the main thing!”
Perhaps she should raise her reason for coming to Laidley. The time seemed as opportune as any. “Sebastian mentioned Lady Fanny is to be married, ma’am, and I do so love weddings. I wondered if you might grant me a favour? Would you let me help with the arrangements? I am used to being occupied and I cannot bear to sit about plying my needle all day. I must be up and doing.”
Lady Carleton’s face lengthened. “Oh, my dear! Didn’t Sebastian tell you? The wedding has been cancelled.”
Gemma hesitated. “Sebastian thinks Fanny may well relent towards Romney, my lady.”
“Oh, no. Sebastian is quite wrong. Fanny told me herself.” With the air of repeating something learned by rote, Lady Carleton said, “Fanny would rather be boiled in oil and sold into slavery than marry that inconstant blackguard.” She chuckled. “I must say, I thought it most spirited of her to end the betrothal.”
Gemma spread her hands. “Sebastian seems to believe Fanny will change her mind, and I must admit, I am coming round to that view myself. You do not think it would be as well to continue with the preparations regardless? There is to be a house party, I gather, and—”
“A house party?” Lady Carleton squeezed her hands together and pressed them to her lips. “Oh, yes! But we don’t need the betrothal as an excuse to have a party. Not anymore.”
Eleven
SEBASTIAN visited his mother’s bedchamber, intending to see how she did, but Shelby informed him her mistress had already breakfasted, dressed, and sallied forth.
As he hurried along the corridor in search of her, he heard voices in his mother’s sitting room and ducked his head around the door to investigate. He saw Gemma and his mother enjoying what looked like a comfortable coze.
“Mama!” He strode in, annoyance sharpening his tone. “What are you doing here? This room is not fit for you yet.” Stiffly, he bent to plant an awkward kiss beside her mouth.
“I was becoming acquainted with our guest, Sebastian.” His mother looked into his eyes and her smile faltered. She gestured to the devastation around her. “But you must think me odd to keep you sitting about in here, Miss Maitland.” She gathered her skirts and rose with careful dignity. “I shall bid you both good morning.”
Sebastian stared after her as she left the room, then turned and caught Gemma regarding him with a troubled expression. He sighed. How could he explain his mother’s behaviour when she confused him as much as she confused everyone else?
“You were not very kind, were you, Sebastian?”
“Kind!” He gave a harsh laugh. “How kind do you think it was to pack a six-year-old boy off to stay with relatives, friends, school, anywhere but his home, where he wanted to be?”
He shook his head and turned away to gaze blindly out the window. “Don’t—don’t feel sorry for her, Gemma. You simply do not know.”
With a feminine rustle of skirts, he heard her approach. Though she did not touch him, her warmth surrounded him, drew him in.
“You are right,” she said softly. “I don’t know about the past. But perhaps your mother has changed, Scovy. I sensed deep remorse in her, though I could not guess why. Perhaps she feels sorry that she treated you so.”
Sebastian exhaled a sharp breath. “She has infinitely more to be sorry for than that.”
“What do you mean?”
He closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have said it. Now Gemma would pester him in gentle ways until he told her, just as she always did. But some wounds were too raw even for her tender touch. He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”
Her attention caught by the movement, Gemma looked at the slim volume he held with interest. “What is that you are reading, Scovy?”
“What? Oh, nothing. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” He squirmed under her candid gaze and tossed the book onto the sofa. “If you must know, I’ve been reading it to Mama.”
Gemma’s eyes gleamed approval. “Now, that is more what I would expect from you.” She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm and tilted her head towards the window. “Shall we walk outside, Sebastian? Will you not show me some of the estate?”
Grateful for the change of subject, he clasped her hand briefly. “We would need to ride to see it properly, but I can show you the gardens and the park if you like.”
“Yes, please. And then we shall ride early tomorrow, before breakfast. Will you wait in the hall while I fetch my bonnet? My skin has a dreadful tendency to freckle, you know.”
With a quirk to his lips, Sebastian watched her go. He found this small vanity in the usually practical Gemma endearing. Who would have thought she cared for freckles?
Which brought his mind to another consideration. If what he had seen of her wardrobe was any indication of the remainder, Gemma needed new gowns before the house party started. He must find a way to broach the subject soon.
He considered the matter as he jogged down the stairs to wait for her. He would only entrust Gemma to a top London modiste, but the logistics of fulfilling such a commission would be a challenge.
He smiled cynically. Madame de Cacharelle would oblige him, no doubt. She had received many similar commissions from him in the past—for less respectable women, of course, but to the avaricious Madame it was all the same, as long as her bills were paid.
When Gemma reappeared, she had changed her gown for a more becoming pale yellow muslin and added a chip-straw hat with a wide ribbon in the same shade as her dress. She looked like sunshine. The only thing left to do wa
s to get rid of those dreadful braids.
“Charming!” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They descended the front steps to the drive and he paused. “Now, where shall it be? The cascade? The rose arbour? The maze? We have an Elizabethan knot garden, after the style of Tradescant, which sports a particularly fine herbaceous border. Or perhaps sculpture is more to your taste? I believe my grandsire plundered most of the principal classical monuments to amass the rather fine collection that litters the paths in the Grecian walk.”
Gemma wrinkled her nose at his flippancy. “You must show me all your favourite haunts, of course! I did not come with you for a tour of the grounds as if I were a visitor on public day.”
“Favourite haunts?” He grimaced.
“Yes, of course. There must have been trees you climbed as a boy, lawns you played cricket on with your brother, a shrubbery where you played hide-and-seek.” She wrinkled her brow. “Are you telling me you have no fond memories of Laidley at all?”
He shrugged. “I was hardly ever here. All my favourite places are at Ware. You know that.”
Gemma stared up at him with the sun in her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Poor little boy.”
Sebastian decided he did not care for her sympathy. He paused for a moment, as if to think, then snapped his fingers. “Ah! Now I remember. There was a tree.” He caught her hand. “Let us see if we can find it.”
He strode off and Gemma tripped along beside him in a flurry of skirts and ribbons, holding on to her hat with her other hand.
The tree was entirely apocryphal, of course. He owned not one memory of Laidley free from the poison of his father’s relentless ambition, but if she wanted childhood reminiscences, childhood reminiscences she should have.
They crossed the drive and cut through the lime walk. When they reached the depths of the park, he picked an old oak at random and halted before it. “That’s the one. I used to climb this tree.”
He looked down at Gemma. The dappled sunlight shifted and played over her creamy complexion. A strong breeze tugged at her hat and ruffled the edges of the gauzy tucker she wore at her bosom.
She moved to examine the trunk. “But how would you find a foothold here? It is quite a way to the lowest branch.”
“What?” He inspected the tree. She was right. “Well, I was always tall for my age, you know. And . . . and the tree has grown since then, I daresay.”
She glanced at him oddly, but all sense and reason seemed to have flown from his head. He had wrestled most of the morning with his list of eligible bachelors, his mind filled with images of Gemma walking out of a church to the tune of pealing bells, with her delicate hand tucked under the arm of one man or another of his acquaintance— one man or another with the right to stroke the tender flesh of her breast; one man who would taste her lips night after night, feel her move beneath him, surround him . . .
“No, that’s not the tree at all. I was mistaken,” he said huskily. “We should go back.”
Gemma’s hand came to rest on his chest, restraining him. He hoped she did not feel his heart thump in response, as if trying to leap into her palm. He fought to calm his breathing. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t touch me, Gemma. We should not be alone like this. I can’t keep seeing you and not touch you. It’s driving me insane.”
Her eyes widened in shock. She tilted her head and incredibly, a smile slowly curved her lips, like heat and sex and sunlight all rolled into one.
With a strangled sound, Sebastian gripped her wrist and pulled her into his arms. In the same motion, he swooped under the brim of her hat to capture her mouth. One arm encircled her waist, one hand tipped her hat off her head. He kissed her ear, the corners of her eyes, her throat. She gasped, so he kissed her neck again, and worked his way back to her mouth, hungrily making a meal of all that lush softness.
This time, when his tongue touched hers she did not retreat. Triumphant, he deepened the kiss, stroking into her mouth, pressing her harder against him, feeling her, lush and inviting. She tasted so sweet.
He groaned and the hand at her waist moved upwards of its own accord to trace the outline of her breast, rub her taut nipple through layers of muslin and shift and corset. He’d wanted to do this since he first laid eyes on her again, and finally he had and she was letting him.
A small hand plunged through his hair and settled at his nape. She held him close and their kisses grew ever more heated, and the longing to lay her down on the soft grass and love her thoroughly coursed through him like a fever in his blood.
In all of his experience, nothing compared with this. Their first kiss had been light and tentative. Now, Gemma demanded as much as he. Her lips burned, she shifted and stretched under his hands and moaned softly in her throat, but she did not tell him to stop.
Could he stop? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he wanted was Gemma. To make his mark on her and brand her as his before some other man . . .
Oh, God. He wrenched his mouth away and stepped back, catching her questing hands. Her lids fluttered open. She was flushed and breathless. One edge of her tucker drifted loose while the yellow ribbon of her hat caught in a knot at her throat.
Sebastian muttered a curse. If anyone saw them like this, he could wave his comfortable existence good-bye. He adored Gemma, he craved her, but he would never make her—or any woman—his wife. Let his cousins beget heirs to the title and the estate. He wanted none of his father’s legacy, no hand in perpetuating such an abomination, such an affront to Andy’s memory.
“Gemma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She bit her lip and did not meet his eyes as she set her gown to rights. “No, that’s quite all right. I shouldn’t have, either, but the fact remains we did.”
The fingers that retied the ribbons of her hat trembled. “Perhaps from now on we might agree not to kiss anymore,” she said huskily. “It does terrible things to my brain, kissing you, Scovy. I don’t know why I keep doing it.”
He cleared his throat awkwardly, like a callow youth engaging in his first dalliance, and looked away. “Perhaps . . . perhaps the affection we feel for each other, our old friendship is confusing us.” He sighed and brought his gaze back to hers. “When I’m with you, I feel sixteen again, innocent and young and free, as if anything is possible. But it’s an illusion, Gemma. I am who I am, and I’d be criminal to pretend otherwise.”
She searched his face. “You should not need me to feel free, Scovy. The only pretence I see in you is the uncaring face you show to the world. It is not you, this . . . this reckless disregard for your duty, this cynical indifference.”
Her words stung like brandy on a raw wound. He bared his teeth at her in a smile and saw her recoil at his vicious expression. “If you knew the things I had done, you would not say that, my dear. If you knew the things I want to do to you, you would run screaming for the hills. Oh, no, Gemma. Make no mistake. What you see is the real Sebastian Laidley, a depraved, idle rake.” His jaw clenched. “And you would do much better to stay the hell away from me.”
She gasped. “Scovy, don’t!”
But he ignored her, turned on his heel, and strode back to the house—to pack.
HE had his hand on your breast! In the safety of her bedchamber, Gemma tried to shut out the voice of her conscience. But the voice of her conscience sounded like Aunt Matilda, and was equally difficult to ignore.
Gemma stood before the mottled cheval glass in her dingy chamber and saw the flush that still blazed in her cheeks. Her breast tingled, raw and aching, as if the ghost of Sebastian’s palm still stroked it, as if the tender flesh longed for more.
She raised trembling fingers to her lips and sank onto the bed, gripping the carved bedpost for support.
What did he mean by kissing her like that? Sebastian Laidley, the most determined bachelor in Christendom could not mean marriage. Even John Talbot, a respectable gentleman farmer, had balked at courting someone with her backgrou
nd.
More to the point, what on earth had she been about, letting him take such liberties? Inviting them, revelling in them like the veriest wanton. She had no more desire to marry than Sebastian. If she married him, she would have to leave Ware.
Her conscience tittered at her naivety. He is a rake. You are Sybil Maitland’s daughter. What do you think he means by kissing you? She groaned and leaned her forehead against the ugly carved mahogany of the bedpost. Even when he had mocked her and warned her against him, it had not felt like those other times when men tried to take what they expected would be easy pickings.
Perhaps the only difference lay in her.
She had to admit it: Sebastian moved her, excited her in a way no man had ever done before. Even now, her body craved his touch. Heat flashed in her belly every time she thought of his large hands moulding her curves, his firm lips, his unrelenting mouth ravishing hers.
Her cheeks burned hotter. Perhaps she was her mother’s daughter after all. Hiding away at Ware, she had never strayed from the path of virtue, but then, she had never been tempted. One look, one kiss from Sebastian had been enough to steer her frighteningly off course. What had happened to her? Why didn’t she have the strength—the will, even—to fight this dangerous attraction?
Her mind shied away from pursuing that line of thought. She took a deep breath. Sitting there thinking about it, reliving the encounter in her imagination would do nothing to restore her calm.
So she did what she always did when she did not want to think. She changed back to her shabby blue gown, donned her old baize smock, and threw herself into work.
As she left the last bedchamber in the house some hours later with a list of required repairs and purchases, Gemma almost collided with the butler. A lanky stick-insect of a man, Ripton loomed over her, the grey eyes in his angular face shifting under woolly eyebrows. Gemma opened her mouth to greet him, but he pressed a long, bony finger to his lips and beckoned her into a small saloon. Biting back a smile, she followed.
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