A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Did he regret taking a second wife so very different from his first?

  Marianne suddenly snapped out of her reverie. “But you mustn’t think on it overly much, Gemma. You are his wife now. You are here.”

  “But he isn’t.” She shook her head, feeling the weight in her chest. “What if I am always relegated to second best behind his first wife, Marianne? I don’t think I could bear it, being married to a man who was measuring me against another all the time. I don’t want to be his second rate wife.”

  “Oh, I doubt Blackmoor would do or think any such thing,” Marianne scoffed, sipping her drink again. “He knows how different you are, and he wanted you just the same. And quite badly, if you recall.”

  She could barely remember those times, and it seemed a lifetime ago. Or that it had happened to someone else entirely.

  “I don’t know what my husband would do or would not do anymore,” Gemma admitted with a bitter sigh. “I wonder if I know him at all.”

  “You know him,” Marianne insisted, sounding quite fierce. “You do.”

  Gemma only shrugged, looking away, pretending to glance around Lady Raeburn’s exquisitely decorated music room, far grander and larger than any else she had been in. She suspected it was meant to be a ballroom, but as Tibby had no use for such a place, she had converted it to a room for musical entertainment. It allowed her to host the most enviable musical events every year, and one was nearly as eager for those invitations as they were for any at the Rivertons’.

  The performances had gone well, and Gemma had been lauded and praised for her excellent violin pieces, though she felt a little lacking in energy. The Rivertons had attended, to the delight of all, and it had pleased her to see at least some part of her new family treating her as such. They were all very careful in their attentions, being public and in company, but she had felt their sincere praises and it had warmed her.

  If only her husband could be more like them.

  She frowned at the thought. She could not very well wish her husband to be someone else. She had fallen in love with him, after all, as he was and for who he was.

  The man he was now was not her husband.

  And that was the problem.

  “He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, you know.”

  She shook her head and looked at Marianne. “Who?”

  “Blackmoor.” At Gemma’s blank look, Marianne smirked. “Your husband?”

  “He wasn’t here,” Gemma reminded her poor, deluded friend. “He isn’t.”

  “Well, not anymore he’s not,” Marianne said with a light laugh. “The man escaped just after your final performance with Lily. Which means he missed Charlotte Truman, wise man.”

  “He… he came?” Gemma breathed, her heart pounding furiously.

  Marianne’s eyes widened perceptibly. “You didn’t see him?”

  She shook her head slowly, her mouth gaping a little.

  That brought a small, sad smile to her friend’s beautiful face. “Oh, my dear girl. If you could have seen him… The way he looked at you was breathtaking. I doubt anyone noticed, but I was so surprised at seeing him, given that he was not to attend, that I couldn’t help but stare. And then I couldn’t look away.” Her throat worked slightly and her smile grew. “There are some very deep emotions there, Gemma. While you were playing, he would look nowhere else. Nothing else existed.”

  “Why would he not come to me?” she whispered, unable to swallow, breathing suddenly difficult.

  Marianne chewed her lip, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know, but believe me when I say that nothing about you is second rate for him. I could see it. And you know I never speak kindly of anyone if I can help it.”

  Gemma laughed against her will and squeezed her friend’s hand in gratitude.

  Did it change anything, him being here for her? Though she had not seen him, did it matter that he had been apparently transfixed by her, unable to stay away despite his declarations?

  Her heart swelled within her and she had to smile.

  Yes. Yes, it did matter.

  It very much did.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Knowing his most trusted and capable friend was fully invested in his cause did little to comfort Lucas in the days following. Patience had never been his strong suit, and despite what he knew Rafe could accomplish, being the Gent and having the resources he did, offered only a brief satisfaction.

  He’d met with him only hours after the missive he had sent off under cover of darkness and with Rafe almost unrecognizable in his disguise. This was the man he had come to know in his younger years, who did everything with intensity and listened with more exactness than any person on the planet. He missed absolutely nothing, from the inflection of tone to the barest hesitation, and the questions were pointed and direct.

  It was a complicated matter, reconciling Rafe as the Gent with Rafe as the public knew him, or thought they knew him. It was no wonder no one in the world but a handful of people made the connection.

  Lucas knew, and had been informed, that in order to properly investigate the matters surrounding Gemma and himself, his past would have to be delved into, particularly with regards to Celia.

  “I have nothing to hide,” Lucas had informed his friend boldly.

  Rafe had met his eyes with a surprising amount of derision. “That does not mean I will not find things you’d rather I did not.”

  He’d grown instantly defensive, despite their friendship. “I didn’t kill her.”

  That had earned him a snort. “That, at least, I already knew, thank you very much.”

  The conversation had lasted almost an hour, and afterwards he’d felt drained, but he knew that someone else would be helping him now. There would be an extra set of eyes on Gemma at all times, and he could be assured of protection and help always.

  Although the idea of someone helping him now was a curious thought.

  The morning after the musicale hosted by Lady Raeburn, wherein Gemma had performed with all of the brilliance, majesty, and perfection he had known she would, he had received a note from her, asking if they might have Bennett Stanford to dine with them.

  A note requesting it.

  She had not come in person.

  His plan was working, then. Distance and separation would save her.

  But he, who craved anything and everything to do with her, would not be safe from it.

  He was powerless to refuse her anything, no matter how he might wish the puppy to be gone, and so he had agreed to it. And now he was to be on display for a young man who, though from a decent stock, had no more sense or intellect than a canary for no other reason than because his wife had somehow found something valuable in him.

  That irked him.

  Gemma was a kind heart, a sweet soul, but she was hardly naïve or insipid. What on earth could she find in Stanford to make him so worthy of her attention?

  As he watched the fop present himself at the entrance, Lucas hid a small groan. He was dressed for a night at the Rivertons, it seemed, and his effusive greeting was grating.

  But he was a decent enough lad, and a capable fencing partner. And apparently, he was devoted to both him and Gemma.

  Surely that could not be so bad.

  “Blackmoor!” Stanford called cheerily as he made his way down to him, grinning as though it had been years since they had seen each other as opposed to their fencing appointment the day before. “It is such an honor to be a guest in your home.”

  Lucas raised a brow at the man’s downturned head as he bowed, then remembered to respectfully bow himself. “Of course, Stanford,” Lucas said quietly. “It should have been done earlier, I expect.”

  The lad’s dark features brightened. “No matter, no matter, I am delighted to be here at last.”

  He saw the dark eyes look around almost eagerly, and something in the pit of his stomach started to twinge. “My wife will be down presently,” Lucas muttered, knowing he was correct by the faint color that appeared on St
anford’s face. Really, the boy was like a young miss fresh out of finishing school.

  “I have greatly enjoyed becoming acquainted with her, sir,” Stanford said with another respectful incline of his head. “She is a credit to you, in every way.”

  “She is a credit to herself and nothing else,” Lucas replied firmly, his cravat feeling too tight.

  Stanford leaned in a bit. “I say, old friend, are you quite well?”

  Old friend? Lucas nearly snorted at the presumption. They’d never been friends for their own sake, and the only thing he could honestly say about Stanford was that he lived up to every stereotype of younger brothers that Oliver had ever spoken of.

  “I do not mean to pry,” Stanford continued, misreading Lucas’s expression entirely, “only of late you seem… preoccupied. Fixated, if you will. Your fencing yesterday, for example.”

  Lucas barely avoided wincing. He had been very aggressive yesterday, losing control in his form and wounding three men in the process. Not seriously, but enough to draw comment. Stanford had stepped in to be his fourth, and he had nearly wounded him as well.

  “I apologize for that,” Lucas said in a low voice. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Stanford’s mouth curved into a half grin. “Something else on your mind, eh? Are you having… woman troubles?”

  Lucas looked at him in disbelief. “Woman troubles?”

  Stanford nodded in a very smug manner that did not suit his puppy image. “Indeed. I find whenever a woman is on the mind, a man is more wild and uncontrolled. So tell me, now, who is it? What sort of a woman can have a man like you so unhinged that he forgets himself in such a way?”

  It took all of his strength to avoid punching the smirk off of the younger man’s face. Did he really think that Lucas was the sort of man who would have such a low opinion and concern for his wife that he would take another woman for his own amusement?

  Other men would, and did, but not Lucas.

  Considering his family’s past, however, it was not that illogical an assumption.

  “I can assure you, sir,” Lucas said stiffly, raising his chin, though he was already a good six inches taller than the man, “I have never forgotten my wife.”

  He saw the surprise in the sudden widening of Stanford’s eyes and mentally smirked himself as the lad skittered back just a touch. “Of course not, Blackmoor. Forgive the implications, I meant no offense.”

  No, he probably did not. He doubted there was mental capacity enough to conjure up something designed to offend.

  “I trust you know best, of course,” Stanford continued, somehow still talking, “you are impeccable in your judgment. But if you should have need of anything, I hope you will think of me for support. I am at your service always.” He bowed deeply, no doubt thinking his vow an astonishing one.

  Lucas would most certainly not be calling upon him for anything, but a harmless lapdog was not the worst thing in the world. So long as he did not dote or become fawning, he could be as loyal as he thought himself. Lucas, however, would enjoy his solitude forevermore and forget Bennett Stanford existed as swiftly as he could.

  “Bennett!”

  Both men turned in surprise, and Lucas glowered as his wife descended, looking radiant and joyous. But not for him, her smiles were all for Stanford as he moved swiftly to kiss the air above her hand. And she had called him by his given name.

  Echoes of the past grated on his nerves and he clenched his hands tightly inside his gloves.

  “Darling Lady Blackmoor, I have told you before,” Stanford scolded with a teasing smile, “you must not address me so informally. Propriety, my dear peach, propriety!”

  Gemma laughed merrily and slapped his shoulder. “Oh, please, we are hardly in public. You are a guest in my home. I may address you however I please.”

  Stanford kissed the air above her hand again, and lingered too long.

  Lucas cleared his throat slightly, and both pairs of eyes turned to him at last.

  Ah, to be remembered.

  Gemma’s eyes dimmed a little, but somehow were still brilliant as they gazed upon him. Her smile softened, turned tender, and she came over to him, hand extended.

  “My lord Blackmoor,” she murmured, her voice somehow teasing despite her solemnity, turning his heart over in his chest.

  He drew her hand to his mouth, unable to resist running his lips over her knuckles, drawing the barest gasp from her. “My lady.”

  Her quick smile lit his insides. “You are looking rather well,” she told him, her voice softer than before. “Quite handsome. I forget that when I’m away from you.”

  He tried to find his voice, but he could only manage a weak clearing of his throat again, which made her smile knowingly.

  He tucked her hand into his arm and averted his gaze. “Shall we go in?”

  “Of course,” she replied. She glanced over her shoulder. “Come along, Bennett. You will love what our cook can do, she’s a wonder!”

  Gemma’s attention on him, however intense it had been, had softened his irritation briefly, but it soon flared up once more. That was the only time he had been involved in any sort of conversation beyond the bare politeness and the pretended consideration of his tastes and opinions. Everything else was between Gemma and Stanford, or Bennett, as she insisted on calling him.

  It was the absolute worst dinner of his life, and he had suffered through several with his father and brother, let alone those he had spent with Celia.

  Seeing Gemma smile and laugh for another man’s attentions, watching him draw out emotions and delight that Lucas had not accomplished in some time, and being an outsider to this flirtatious interlude… He couldn’t bear it. He could not leave, but how could he remain? His wife was infatuated with this young and handsome fop, and he was just as taken with her. His interest could hardly be blamed… Gemma was nothing short of perfection.

  And Gemma… Well, he had hardly been a husband worth her concern, given his distance and reserve. An attractive man paid her some attention and treated her with the flattery and praise she deserved, and it was only natural for her to respond so.

  All of this was true. It galled him to the core to admit it, but perhaps his precious Gemma ought to have been with someone like Stanford.

  Perhaps he should have left her alone, let her fall victim to the charms of a man who could make her giggle and smile and charm an entire room with a glance. She could have been the wife of a man who wouldn’t have so dark a past to haunt her steps. She could have been the toast of Society rather than a part of its derision.

  She could have had anything.

  And he had taken her.

  Knowing the sham of a life he could offer and the secrets contained therein, he had taken her for himself anyway.

  He glared at the pair of them, knowing neither would see it.

  Gemma was his wife, like it or not, and he was not about to give her up. He was not going to endure this again, not with her. She was not Celia, and he refused to be played for a fool again.

  He loved his wife, however little it might be apparent. Everything was different with her.

  And yet he sat here, watching them, silent in his misery.

  What could he do? Take away a source of what made Gemma happy? Bar Stanford from his home, her presence, and his club, and risk insulting a family that had always treated him fairly?

  He was powerless here. Gemma needed to be happy for him to be happy, and if Stanford made her happy…

  The thought made him cringe.

  Surely she would never truly stray.

  Surely she valued their marriage, perhaps even him, too much for that.

  Surely…

  Another lilt of her laughter rang through the room and his heart lurched.

  Suddenly he could not be sure of anything anymore.

  “I thought that might work, Bennett,” Gemma sighed heavily, tempted to lean back against the bench in the park. “I truly thought that having you over for company migh
t draw him out. You are friends, after all.”

  “Darling girl, I wouldn’t go that far,” Bennett laughed, giving her a scolding look. “We are friendly, and that is all I can say for us.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t call me ‘darling girl’, I am older than you by four months.”

  “Yes, but you seem so very young right now,” he shot back.

  She nearly stuck her tongue out at him, but that would only prove his point. “He barely said a single word,” she groaned, starting to fidget with her bonnet ribbons. “He spoke more to you in private than he did in my presence the whole evening.”

  Bennett chuckled and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles. “Gemma, your husband is not a particularly loquacious man. I trust this is not news to you.”

  She snorted once. “No, indeed, but for a man he respects as highly as you…”

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that my respect for him is returned,” he interrupted, suddenly stern. “I have yet to do anything to earn his respect at all, but he has mine eternally. He owes me no attentions or confidence, and I expect none.”

  She threw her hands up. “Then why did you encourage me to invite you for dinner?”

  He grinned raffishly, the effect long lost on her. “Because dinner with the Blackmoors puts me in high society indeed.”

  She rapped his knuckles sharply. “Wretch.”

  “But also,” he said more seriously, rubbing his bruised hand, “it allows me to spend time with people I care about. Your husband is troubled, Gemma.”

  “I know,” she murmured, looking away. “I don’t think he can stand me anymore, and I wish I could fix that.”

  Bennett tutted softly. “You know that is not true. He went to Lady Raeburn’s musicale for you, despite his declaration not to.”

  “And did not speak to me,” she reminded him pointedly. “I did not see him at all.”

  “More to be recommended for your good opinion, then,” he went on smoothly. “He wishes to observe you without being observed himself, as he did last evening.”