A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “Gem…”

  “It’s not enough to be poor, we must be poor and criminal.” She shook her head and looked away. “It makes no difference what they say about him or me or anyone. They know absolutely nothing.”

  Spencer was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. “I concede to your point. My brother and his friends think well of him, so I suppose I must reserve judgment.”

  “Please do,” she muttered dryly.

  Really, sometimes her brother-in-law was too superior for his own good. Becoming a member of Parliament had washed away any insecurities he’d had about being a second son, and he took the duties of exerting his influence over her whenever he could.

  She’d never wanted an elder brother, and the charm of having one wore off on occasion.

  “I only wanted to ask after the dance,” Spencer murmured, tugging at his ear. “I didn’t mean to attack him. Or you.”

  “He danced very well,” her mother chimed in, perking up at the word ‘dance’. “Rather catlike, and graceful for a man so tall.”

  Gemma deflated a little and folded her hands. “You came all the way over here to ask me about one dance with one mysterious viscount?”

  He flashed a grin. “He doesn’t dance, and it’s a bit illicit, all things considered. I wanted to see if he’d made any sort of indication as to why.”

  Gemma threw up her hands and rose. “You think that just because a man dances with me once, he must suddenly want my hand in marriage?”

  “Blackmoor won’t marry.”

  “Oh, so one dance ruins me,” she scoffed, marching past him. “How silly of me, to not have a care with my reputation!”

  “Gemma, stop!”

  She screeched and whirled to face him. “No, you stop, Spencer. I get enough of the marriage and reputation lectures from my parents, who seem to think that five Seasons isn’t quite enough to throw away ideas of a match of affection and fortune. It falls to me to save us all, but they refuse to entertain the idea of me marrying for comfort alone. And not that any of you care to notice, but no one is lining up for even that. So forgive me if I will dance with whomever I want, regardless of what anyone thinks.”

  Spencer stood gaping openmouthed in shock and she felt her cheeks flame as she exited the room with far more composure than she’d managed the entire interview.

  But her rage was sincere, and she fled the house rather than face anyone else. Truth be told, she worried far too often about their financial situation. Someone had to, and as her parents spent all of their energies putting up the front of being fairly well-to-do on a pitiful income, they were no help. They’d always had little enough to live on by Society’s standards, but recent years had only made things worse. Spencer and Caroline did what they could, but they were not able to relieve the extent of their problems.

  And Gemma… sweet, little, apparently never grew up Gemma… was the only one who could see the truth.

  If she didn’t marry soon, there would be no more London, no more balls, no more outings. Oh, she could visit her sister and continue on as she had been, but she could not infringe upon their family life forever. She would have to retrench with her parents, and live in a less expensive place and far beneath their current manner of living. They had already cut back so much to try to live more within their means, but outward appearances were more important than inward security, it seemed.

  More than once, Gemma had begged her father to just arrange a marriage with a respectable and wealthy man for her hand, as she had the sort of temperament that could get along with anyone. She had long since given up romantic notions, and she could very easily be an honorable and respectful wife to a sensible gentleman.

  Her father, however, was determined that Gemma would fall in love and would not consent to any other match.

  Well, he would have to deal with a spinster daughter, then, and there was no proper way to make ends meet there.

  Her mother was aging far sooner than Gemma would have liked, and was only growing ridiculous. She thought it delightful that Gemma had danced with Blackmoor, and after a thorough interrogation last night in which Gemma revealed nothing, was determined it would end in a shocking match that would make her infamous in Society. Gemma feared the day, should it occur, that Blackmoor set foot in her house. Her parents might never let him leave.

  Poor man. Whatever his past or his sins, no one deserved that.

  She fidgeted with the ribbons of her bonnet, which she had neglected to tie when she’d left the house. She had no patience for such things, and this bonnet was her oldest, and most tatty. She had others, but she was determined to wear each out to its fullest, thus saving her the trouble of needing to buy more. She had the funds herself, as she had been saving her pin money for years, and only occasionally dipped into it for her own amusement.

  Her whimsical wager with Lily and Marianne seemed fairly stupid now, but she doubted they would expect her to actually pay. But then, she could afford to pay them a pound each, should she be successful.

  She shook her head and sighed. Somehow, she’d make do. She’d done so for years, and the idea of ruination had lost the terrifying effect it once had.

  She looked up at the road before her and was startled to find Lord Blackmoor headed in her direction, his eyes on her, his expression one of mild surprise.

  “My lord Blackmoor,” she said faintly, finding him far more imposing by the light of day.

  He bowed to her. “Miss Templeton.” He gave her a carefully assessing look. “Are you out alone?”

  She nodded and shrugged a shoulder. “I fled the house before a chaperone could be found. A bit impudent, I know.”

  His lips twitched. “Why do I have the impression that you are always a bit impudent?”

  She grinned and playfully curtseyed. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea, my lord.”

  His pale eyes intensified for a moment as he looked at her, then they flicked somewhere beyond her. “May I escort you back home? Or did you have somewhere else to go?”

  Gemma chewed her lip for a moment, her smile still in play. “You may escort me, sir,” she told him, “but I’d rather not go home just yet.”

  Shockingly, he asked no questions and merely held his arm out for her, which she took, and he slowly led her in the direction of Hyde Park. It was still rather early in the day, and hardly anybody was about, but given her agitation, she was not sure she actually would have cared.

  Blackmoor was resolutely silent for a time, then inclined his head to say, “I was just on my way to your house to call on you.”

  She immediately shook her head. “Oh, you had better not do that. I had to answer a great many questions about our illicit dance last night.”

  He reared back, stunned. “Illicit?”

  “Their words, not mine.”

  His brow furrowed slightly. “Your mother disapproves?”

  Gemma scoffed loudly. “My mother had nothing to do with it. My brother-in-law, on the other hand…”

  “Mr. Hammond?”

  “Indeed. Troublesome wretch.” She shook her head, still glowering at his behavior.

  “I imagine he’s only protective,” Blackmoor said in a surprisingly sympathetic tone.

  She had to allow that and made a face. “You imagine right, but if he thinks one dance could ruin a girl, he’s got straw for brains, and I should never have let my sister fling punch on him.”

  “She did what?” he exclaimed on a startled cough.

  She glanced up at him. “Did you miss that? Yes, I suppose you must, as you were in Hampshire, I think.” She gave him the loose details of how Caroline and Spencer had met, and how Gemma had been there to assist in the master plan.

  True to his reserve, Blackmoor had no reaction or expression, but his eyes were far less composed. Despite what his face showed, his eyes were quite a different matter. He was amused by the story, and not at all scornful.

  Perhaps the stodgy and reclusive viscount was not quite so dreary after all.


  What a shocking thought.

  “Do you know, my lord, I think we should be friends,” Gemma said suddenly.

  He glanced down at her with one thick brow raised. “Do you?” he asked, his voice wry. “Why is that?”

  “You are not naturally talkative, and I can talk about anything for an exceptionally long time. You do not smile; I do. You are reserved and well behaved, I am open and rather impudent.”

  “Seems to me we are opposites,” he mused in an unreadable tone. “What makes you think we can be friends?”

  She quirked a smile at him. “Because of what we share, my lord. An overabundance of wit.”

  “I’ve never been accused of having an overabundance of anything,” he informed her. “Except, perhaps, mystery.”

  “All the more reason to be friends with me,” she replied with a light laugh. “There is no mystery about me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Miss Templeton.” He met her eyes and shook his head slowly. “Not in the least.”

  Suddenly, it was rather difficult to swallow, and she could not feel her face. But she managed to overcome herself with a brief shiver and said, “So we might be friends?”

  He considered the idea for a long moment, his eyes still on her. “For now,” he finally said.

  They meandered about Hyde Park a little longer, conversing lightly on several topics. Well, Gemma conversed, and Blackmoor responded when necessary. He asked her a few simple questions about herself, but nothing particularly revealing or insightful. Despite never feeling uncomfortable in the presence of any man, there was a remarkable difference in comfort with him.

  Comfort was there in abundance.

  It made no sense, as he probably ought to have made her uncomfortable, given his rumored past and his hard appearance. But she had no such discomfort, never once had a twinge of nerves or anxiety, and found herself perfectly at ease. Even his short answers and brusque manner did not put her off. She sensed that was simply his way, and it had nothing to do with her.

  In fact, if his eyes were any indication, he was quite interested in her. He focused on her with a rapt sort of intensity that skittered her heart, listened to every word she said with patience and attentiveness, and seemed as fascinated by her as she was by him. She was not anything special or particular, as she had learned over the years, and yet he seemed to see something worth attention.

  Friends for now indeed.

  He led her home afterwards, sparing her the awkwardness of having to explain his presence to anyone by letting her proceed the last block herself. He remained in his place and watched her go, as if concerned she would be attacked in the final unaccompanied stretch. She offered him a smile and a jaunty wave when she reached her door, and he straightened up a bit, touched his hat, and made no other response but a quirk of a brow.

  What would it take to make him smile?

  Gemma grinned at his retreating back and wrung her fingers. Her new mysterious friend had agreed to meet her again tomorrow, should the weather be favorable, on the Serpentine Bridge in Hyde Park, but only if she brought a chaperone as escort.

  She wouldn’t mind doing so, but she had no chaperone to spare. He would have to get over that.

  Shaking her head, she reentered the house and tugged off her bonnet.

  “Where have you been, Gemma?” her mother asked as she suddenly appeared from the drawing room.

  “Just a walk, Mama,” she replied airily. “The morning is quite delightful.”

  “Spencer was very distressed, I do hope you will apologize for your harshness.”

  “Of course, Mama,” she assured her, having no intention of doing any such thing.

  Her mother hummed and adjusted her askew lace cap. “He must mind his manners about dear Lord Blackmoor. We mustn’t scare the man off before his suit is official.”

  Her mother turned away and headed to parts of the house elsewhere, allowing Gemma to throw her hands up in the air. One relative fearing the worst of her associating with him, and another encouraging and anticipating the most drastic of opposites.

  Imagine what either would say if they knew she had just spent a full hour alone in his company.

  Chapter Three

  Why is it you don’t dance?”

  “I am not very good at it.”

  “Oh, nonsense, you dance very well.”

  Lucas restrained a snort and looked at the extraordinary woman walking beside him, her golden hair almost hidden beneath her rather shabby bonnet. She was not looking at him for the moment, but he knew what her expression would be. Content, clear, and with a light of amusement in her eyes and a hint of a smile on her full lips.

  She was not flattering him with her words. She was simply stating the truth according to her, as she always did.

  Nearly a week of these meetings between them, and it was still as refreshing. She saw him as a person. Not the viscount, not a murderer, not even man of great standing or fortune. He was simply a man to her, and he had not been something so simple in quite a long time, if ever.

  “You’re drifting away,” Gemma said, breaking into his thoughts and turning her head to look up at him.

  He returned her look. “Nothing of the sort. I am where I have always been.”

  She nearly rolled her eyes, which was a common occurrence for her. “You’re miles away, Blackmoor. Is the idea of dancing that unpleasant?”

  He nearly smiled, which was becoming a common occurrence for him. “Not under the right circumstances.”

  That earned him a quirk of her fine brows. “Which are?”

  “Someone who does not mind a partner with stinted conversation and barely passable footwork, all while wearing a completely vacant expression. Most women find that to be interminable suffering.”

  Gemma laughed and linked her arm through his. “It is not that bad. I’ve danced with you, and didn’t suffer a jot.”

  “Yes, well, you’re peculiar.”

  “And proud of it.”

  And she was, he could tell. He had seen it for himself. She had no desire to be an oddity, but she made no attempts to conform if it did not suit her. Gemma simply was who she was and she was not going to apologize for that.

  The impulse struck him that now was the time to ask the question he had been waiting on. Now he knew her better and she knew him, he could proceed with far more confidence. He was absolutely certain that she was perfect for his ends, more than he’d ever thought from afar. And if she hadn’t shied away from him yet, there was certainly hope.

  “Would your parents mind if I courted you?” he asked without preamble.

  To Gemma’s credit, she only glanced up at him with mild surprise. Then her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “I think my parents would weep over your boots in gratitude if they knew.”

  His eyes widened and he coughed. “That I asked?”

  She shrugged. “That anyone did.”

  “Ridiculous.” He shook his head, knowing that, despite what she claimed about her parents and their eccentricities, that could not be true. Gemma was a delightful woman, and very pretty, and the idea that nobody had asked to court her was impossible. He’d never seen someone pay her any marked attention before, but he could not pretend that he had been overly observant for all of her Seasons. Surely the men of London could not be so stupid.

  And the further suggestion that anyone would be grateful for his suit at all, let alone to that extent, was even more inconceivable.

  She leveled him with a rather impressive look. “Try it and see.”

  Her tone was so serious, so without inflection or amusement that he actually felt a little chilled from it. He wet his lips and looked at the path ahead. “… weep, did you say?” he finally managed, sounding far more unsure than he’d intended.

  She made a noise of confirmation and nodded. “With much wailing and overflowing compliments.”

  “Are your parents prone to such dramatics?” Not that it would put him off of his course entirely, but it m
ight give him pause.

  “Not usually. But they would make an exception here.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, frowning. That would be a hindrance to his courtship. He meant to court her, and eventually wed her, but overly emotional or excitable parents would be quite an inconvenience.

  Gemma laughed and adjusted her hold on him. “Perhaps keep it a secret, my lord.”

  He glanced down at her. “But we will be unescorted.”

  “Ideally, yes,” she replied, her eyes twinkling.

  He felt the urge to smile, but resisted it. “What of fear of being compromised?”

  She looked away with a pensive expression. “I daresay my mother has been praying I would be compromised for a few years now.”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. He would think that by now he would be used to her outspoken ways and extraordinary ideas, but she managed to continually surprise him.

  “Are you going to smile?” she asked suddenly. “You owe me money if you do.”

  He opened his eyes and glanced down at her, amused yet again. “How much is it again?”

  She grinned up at him, her bonnet sliding back a little, revealing wildly free strands of hair near her ears. “We raised the price due to the difficulty. One pound.”

  “A pound for a smile?” he asked in disbelief. It was a ridiculous thought, and he could not see why she bothered.

  She lifted a shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Ten shillings, if it makes you feel better.”

  It didn’t, but he would play along. He couldn’t resist. “Ten it is.” He lifted his chin and gave her a calculating look. “What about a laugh?”

  Gemma pursed her lips in thought. “A single laugh? Fifteen shillings. Any more and it will be an additional crown.”

  “Exorbitant.”

  “It’s your own fault,” she told him, looking disapproving. “If you were jovial, it wouldn’t be so expensive.”

  He cocked his head and studied her with interest. “But you like a challenge.”

  She wrinkled up her nose as she grinned. “I revel in them.”

  He gestured to a nearby bench and she took the offered seat, looking up at him expectantly. He stood before her, hands on his hips, and asked, “And what if I outright grin?”