It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “Yes, Your Grace, but Lord Glenmore has also arrived. I put him in the library to avoid any awkwardness.”

  “Well done, Sims. Give him the same message.”

  To Jemma’s amazement, Mr. Sims—unflappably stalwart—didn’t even blink an eye. Her mouth, on the other hand, was gaping open. She knew because when she inhaled a sharp breath, the cool air filled her lungs, and she quickly snapped her jaw shut. As soon as Mr. Sims departed the room, she stood and brushed a hand over her gown to keep from twisting her hands together.

  Grandfather swiped a hand across his face. He eyed Jemma for a moment. “I did not count on you having any other suitors.”

  Jemma felt her eyes pop wide. He thought Philip a suitor? But of course it must appear that way! Grandfather didn’t seem angry, though, which didn’t suit his controlling nature at all. She must’ve been missing something.

  “Um, er…” She shook her head, trying to unscramble her thoughts. “Lord Harthorne is not a suitor. He’s simply a friend.”

  “Men and women cannot be friends,” Grandfather said with the slightest upturn of his mouth.

  The extreme worry she was experiencing must be getting to her. There was no way Grandfather would be pleased if Philip was courting her unless— Of course! How foolish she was for being confused at all. “You hoped Lord Harthorne wanted to court me?”

  He stood and came around the desk and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret. You are pretty. Lord Glenmore will offer even if there are no suitors to compete with him. Your future will be secure. Just show him how sweet you can be.”

  At that, her temper shot to the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll be sure to show him exactly how sweet I can be,” she said, forcing a false smile that made her cheeks feel as if they would split open from the hypocrisy of the gesture.

  Jemma stood, turned on her heel, and marched straight to the parlor, determined to warn Philip of Lord Glenmore’s presence so he would not be taken off guard and forget their goal for the evening. Tonight, she was going to make sure Lord Glenmore had no doubt just how insipid and vain she was, as Philip had instructed. And if that didn’t do it, she would somehow have to show the man there was not a smattering of passion within her veins, nothing there for him to control.

  Jemma raced into the library but stopped short at the sight of Mrs. Featherstone, Lord Glenmore, Anne, and Philip all gathered there. It took great effort not to laugh at the sight of Lord Glenmore’s foppish attire, especially when he was standing next to Philip, who looked so very dashing in his black waistcoat, trousers, and simply tied white cravat. There was nothing outlandish about Philip’s clothing. Nothing to call attention to him, right down to the basic gold buttons on his waistcoat, but it was hard for Jemma not to stare. He stood tall, proud, and with a presence that demanded one see the man and not the clothes, as if at any moment he would say something mesmerizing.

  Reluctantly, she pulled her gaze from Philip’s and met Lord Glenmore’s cold glare. She dipped an ungainly curtsy, this time not purposely awkward but made so by the laughter she was trying to hold in. Lord Glenmore was truly in the most ridiculous attire she had ever seen. His lavender waistcoat was bad enough on its own, but coupled with the enormous magenta cravat and violet silk trousers, it was more than one should have to tolerate without laughing. And the buttons on the man’s waistcoat! She’d never seen so many diamonds in her life. She started counting but jerked to a stop when Mrs. Featherstone clapped her hands together and smiled.

  “There you are!” Mrs. Featherstone said cheerfully. “I took the liberty of gathering everyone together so we could depart immediately. We don’t want to be late for the theatre.”

  “I detest tardiness,” Lord Glenmore said in a grating tone.

  The man had just handed her the first opportunity to show him just how much he detested her, as well. Her gaze flew to Philip’s and locked on him. He dipped his head, conveying without a word that he too thought this a grand opportunity.

  Jemma tilted her head as if she were contemplating a decision of extreme importance, then glanced down at her silk gown. “I must go change!”

  “What?” Mrs. Featherstone exclaimed.

  Anne frowned at Jemma before her eyes seemed to alight with understanding, and Philip, well, he grinned from ear to ear. It was the sort of grin that could only come from a man who surely knew how to laugh and laugh well.

  Lord Glenmore stepped toward her, his mouth drawn tight and disapproving. “We will be late for the theatre if you change.”

  She hoped her pout looked as genuine as it felt. “I cannot go to the theatre in this green gown. It clashes with all your different shades of purple, and well”—she waved a hand at him—“you are outshining me, and that simply will not do. I like to be the center of attention.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are a woman. Your place is to be meek behind the man.”

  Jemma curled her hands into fists by her side so she wouldn’t give Lord Glenmore the blow he deserved. “I don’t do well with meekness. I need to glow. And I always say it’s better to arrive late than ugly. I won’t be but a minute, you’ll see.” Before he could protest, she dashed out of the library and took the stairs at a most unladylike, and very satisfying, two at a time.

  When she entered her bedchamber and shut the door, she could not hold back the laughter any longer. She laughed until her gut ached and tears rolled down her cheeks. Once she finally had control, she kicked off her slippers and flopped onto her bed. She cradled her head in her hands as she stared up at the ceiling and allowed the minutes to tick by. Hopefully, Lord Glenmore was growing intolerably angry downstairs.

  After some time had passed, she got the not-unexpected knock at the door from her lady’s maid, and she bid her to enter. She instructed Eliza to pull out several gowns so she could find the most dazzling one she owned.

  Considering how specific Grandfather had been that their gowns not be too revealing, which under normal circumstances she agreed with, none were overly alluring. However, there was one—a shimmery silver gown with a pearl-encrusted neckline—that Eliza exclaimed made her look like a walking vision of fire and ice when Jemma put it on.

  “Fire and ice?” she asked.

  Eliza gave a firm nod. “Your hair is the fire, and the gown is the ice.”

  A leisurely twenty minutes later—quite long enough that she knew they would indeed be tardy to the theatre—Jemma strolled back into the parlor to the severe frown of Lord Glenmore and a smile from Philip that she could swear held a sensual flame that heated the room as if a fire were roaring in the grate. Was he already practicing being a rake? If so, he was becoming very good at it very quickly. His look made her stomach flutter in a way she had never thought it would again. She did not like it at all.

  Chapter Eight

  For a man who was in dire need of securing a bride with money, the very last thing Philip should’ve been doing tonight was sitting in the Duke of Rowan’s theatre box between a man he detested and a dowerless woman he could not quit thinking about. But being seen with her would help him. He crossed his arms over his chest. The reasoning felt false. Perhaps it was because Jemma occupied his every thought, whether he wanted her to or not. It was as if she had cast a spell on him that made him agree to participate in—and even willingly volunteer for—every outrageous scheme she had planned. He’d even come up with a few schemes for her. Yes, yes, he told himself it was to protect her because she needed it and to help fortify his position as a rake, but was that even true? Was he lying to himself?

  He swiped his hand across his face and glanced sideways at her. Bedazzling. That’s what she was. She knew her mind, and she wasn’t afraid to follow it. It was unusual for a woman to have so much courage, and it was damned enticing. Couple that with the wounded, wary look that so often surfaced in her blue-green eyes, and the mystery that was Jemma was almost impossible for him to resist. Devil take it. He had lied to himself. He was a selfish bastard. He liked her, but he couldn’t. H
e needed to resist the feelings she inspired in him. He had to.

  His mother, and now his cousin Eustice, counted on him for her livelihood, and being enchanted by a woman who had no dowry would not do his mother or his cousin any good, nor would it be a boon for Jemma. He highly doubted marrying a desperately poor gentleman with a penchant for poetry was what she lay awake at night dreaming about. No, she certainly must hope to catch a man with a title and money, despite her claim to want no husband at all. That was likely her simply reacting to her grandfather trying to control her. She was clearly a woman who actually wished to care for her husband, not actively dislike him as she did Glenmore. Philip respected her greatly for that. A woman who longed for love was a woman after his own heart…

  Hellfire. He banished the last thought with a great force of will. He did not have the luxury of thinking about what he truly desired for himself, and he needed to damn well remember that and concentrate on helping Jemma rid herself of Glenmore quickly while she helped him perfect being a rake. He had a sudden vision of one of their lessons involving his kissing her very kissable-looking lips. He ground his teeth. That could never take place. That lesson would be a dangerous one, indeed.

  Determined to keep his course, he nudged Glenmore in the ribs to get the man’s attention. It was a hard, satisfying jab. Glenmore lowered his lorgnette. What sort of self-respecting man used a lorgnette? Philip almost snorted. Of course Glenmore used one. He was a peacock, as Philip had told Jemma, and the man certainly wasn’t self-respecting.

  “Miss Adair is a dazzling sight, wouldn’t you say?” gushed Philip.

  “I prefer a less ostentatious lady,” Glenmore clipped.

  Despite the fact that Glenmore’s irritated reaction to Jemma outshining him was the exact response Jemma wanted, a hefty dose of annoyance tightened Philip’s gut. Glenmore deserved a nice, hard facer on his snobbish aristocratic nose for his audacity in calling Jemma ostentatious. Philip knew he should let the comment pass.

  Glenmore pinched his nose. “She needs to be taught not to be so willful,” he said.

  There was no way Philip could keep silent now. He knew he should. Damned, but he couldn’t do it. He popped his knuckles one by one, imagining each snap to be a broken bone in Glenmore’s face. When he was finished, he stared at Glenmore for a long moment before speaking. “I’m almost at a loss for words that you, in all your purple pomp and ridiculousness, would dare to call Miss Adair ostentatious when she is, as any sane man would see, a vision. Nor do I think you have any right to say she needs a lesson in obedience.”

  Jemma’s leg brushed his for the slightest second and claimed his attention. His gaze followed the silhouette of her leg, vaguely there, hidden by the fine gossamer silk of her gown, up, up, up over her tiny waist, voluptuous chest, and long, slender, beckoning neck. He swallowed the flare of desire her neck inspired in him. Good God, this was bad. If her neck made him ache with need, what would one taste of her lips do?

  She licked those very lips and his mind went on a winding, whirling path of flashes of words to describe her mouth. He hadn’t felt so inspired since…since… Actually, he’d never felt such deep, soul-stirring inspiration to write due to the mere look of a woman. Mary had never inspired one poem in him until she’d left him. That should have been a sign.

  Jemma offered him a warm smile and gave Glenmore a seemingly innocent one that Philip knew was spiked with scorn. “Lord Glenmore, ignore Lord Harthorne. He thinks he is being gallant, but I take your words as a compliment. I adore everyone looking at me, and I dress with such care to make it so. I always will. Why, one of my fondest wishes is to find a husband who wants to dwell in the shadow cast by my brilliance.”

  Philip blinked. By the saints, the woman was a secret sorceress with words. He almost believed what she’d just said.

  Glenmore’s face twisted as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I was under the impression you liked to dress rather simply.”

  “Heavens no,” Jemma said. “Whyever would you think that?”

  “Because of the simple white gown you were wearing when I met you.”

  “That pathetic gown,” she said in a tone full of distaste that was worthy of the finest actress on the stage today, “was my grandfather’s doing. I’ll not wear any such as that again.”

  “This is most unsettling,” Glenmore grumbled.

  The music from the orchestra rose then, cutting off any further attempts to dishearten Glenmore for a while. Philip sat back and feigned interest in the play as long as he could before he found himself studying Jemma. Her brilliant eyes met his, and she grinned.

  Well done, she mouthed and touched the edge of her fingertips to his hand, which was beside his leg and hidden from anyone else’s view other than Jemma’s. The warmth of her skin was gone as fast as it had come, but his muscles tensed and twitched as if her hands were running up and down his legs, massaging and caressing. He tugged a hand through his hair and yanked on his cravat until it loosened and he no longer felt as if the heat she’d caused in his body would set him aflame.

  By the time intermission came, Philip was in dire need of some fresh air to cool his lust and get his thoughts back under control, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to leave Jemma to the mercy of Glenmore. They strolled as a group to the lobby, meeting Frazier as they did so. The light that came into Jemma’s sister’s eyes when Frazier was near was unmistakable and reminded Philip of his other mission: to ascertain whether Frazier had honorable intentions toward Miss Anne. Philip doubted it, but he’d try not to judge the man without proof.

  As to his other purpose here tonight—to help Jemma rid herself of Glenmore—Philip needed to continue his and Jemma’s plan. He knew that Glenmore held a disdain for artists, so perhaps Philip could give Jemma an opening to oppose the man or say something to make herself less appealing. “Tell me, ladies, what’s the most exciting thing you did today? I need inspiration for writing.”

  “Writing is a waste of your time,” Glenmore interjected. “You are a nobleman and should act like one.”

  “If that advice came from men I admired such as Wordsworth or Coleridge I might heed it,” Philip said in the most pleasant tone he could muster. “I’m of the opinion that a truly noble man does not need to pretend to be a certain way. His honor will remain, no matter what passions he pursues.”

  “Brava, Lord Harthorne,” Miss Anne said. “I couldn’t agree more.” She was talking to Philip but staring adoringly at Frazier. The oddest surge of jealousy clenched Philip’s gut. Not for Miss Anne’s admiration. It wasn’t that at all. He simply wanted a woman to look at him with her eyes shining and full of love, just as Miss Anne’s were when looking at Frazier. In Philip’s current situation, especially given that he’d already scratched two debutantes off his list, he’d likely have to settle for a woman he could tolerate being married to for eternity.

  “What do you think of Harthorne’s penchant for penning poetry, Miss Adair?” Glenmore asked.

  Jemma smiled sweetly. “I don’t care to think much beyond fashion.”

  Philip frowned. Clearly, Jemma could do better than that. He cleared his throat purposely to encourage her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I do so love to think on the weather, as well. Will it be cool tomorrow or warmer than usual? Will we have rain? The weather dictates what one wears, and one must always be prepared.”

  Glenmore let out a derisive snort. “I’m sure you have other interests besides fashion and the weather.”

  She shrugged. “Not particularly. Is there much more in life, Lord Glenmore? We have to dress every day to suit the weather. Are the two not joined?”

  “There’s embroidery,” Philip interjected, feeling rather jovial.

  “Oh, I do love embroidery,” Jemma practically purred. “The thread reminds me of fashion, and I am careful to embroider only things that will complement my wardrobe.”

  “Surely, you jest,” Glenmore said.

  “No.” Jemma shook her head,
her eyes wide with false innocence. “I don’t make jokes. That would not be ladylike at all, and I strive to be a lady at all times.”

  “Now I know you jest,” Glenmore snapped. “You’re a hoyden, through and through, which will suit my needs in certain circumstances.” His lips curled into a smirk.

  A dark cloud passed over Jemma’s face and Philip half expected her to forget herself and slap Glenmore, but she simply narrowed her eyes. Philip balled his hand into a fist. Glenmore’s beady gaze was locked on Jemma, almost tauntingly.

  Philip felt his own control slipping. “Apologize to the lady.”

  “Why?” Glenmore demanded. “I’ve not said anything that isn’t true based on the rumors I’ve heard.”

  “Should I believe all the rumors I’ve heard about you or only some of them?” Philip asked bluntly. Glenmore’s face turned red as a cherry, indicating the man knew exactly to what Philip was alluding. Some in the ton whispered that Glenmore was a sodomite. It was false as far as Philip knew. The other rumor—that Glenmore enjoyed torturing the women he slept with—Philip knew for a fact was true.

  Philip raised one eyebrow as Glenmore glared in his direction. “Well, Glenmore?”

  “I apologize,” the man bit out.

  “That’s quite all right,” Jemma said in such a sweet voice that Philip would have guessed she wasn’t even bothered if he hadn’t seen the pulse beating on the side of her neck.

  Mrs. Featherstone pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “This room is too hot. I feel quite dizzy. I need to sit.” She nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I need to sit.”

  Philip was about to step forward and offer to help her but Jemma spoke, instead. “Dear Lord Glenmore, would you be so gallant as to escort Mrs. Featherstone back to the box? We shall all return momentarily.”

  Philip struggled to restrain his grin. Jemma was quite a cunning woman.

  Glenmore’s lips pressed together with obvious annoyance, but he jerked his head in agreement. “Of course.” He proffered his elbow to a flushed Mrs. Featherstone, and they disappeared into the crowd.