“Oh, good lord, Will,” Sophie suddenly muttered, her polite mask vanishing at once.
“Is that my sister?” Lily asked in surprise, coughing a little.
Gemma glanced up to watch, along with the rest of the room, Captain Riverton waltzing with Rosalind Arden, and thus scandalizing the eligible females in the room, for Captain Riverton by all accounts never waltzed. And no one in their right mind and reputation would waltz so close together.
Yet they were, and they did, and it was an oddly stirring sight, for they were quite good at it.
“I daresay that is nigh unto an engagement,” Sophie scoffed, shaking her head. “Mrs. Granger, welcome to the family.”
Lily laughed and shook her head. “Don’t put so much stock into it. My sister is as stubborn as they come, and if this is truly more than a show, it will take a great deal to persuade her into anything serious.”
“I think you underestimate Will’s charms.” Sophie chuckled, and then sighed. “I think this will do the trick. They will talk about this for weeks.”
Gemma nodded, sensing the question was directed at her. She glanced around, and sure enough, the room had completely forgotten about her, and her husband’s behavior. It would come back later, as it always did, but for now she was safe.
“Are you all right?” Lily asked gently from her side.
She shook her head, unwilling to pretend for even a moment.
“If you want to sneak away,” Sophie said, keeping her eyes on the waltz, “now would be the time.”
Gemma swallowed and offered a shaky nod.
At that precise moment, Colin Gerrard appeared before her and bowed. “My lady Blackmoor, might I persuade you to accompany me for a moment? My wife wishes to consult with you on a musical selection.”
Gemma frowned, knowing that Susannah Gerrard was not musical by her own talents, but she trusted Colin, and allowed him to help her from her seat. He smiled broadly and somehow managed to get her out of the ballroom with only a handful of people noticing them.
“What does Susannah need?” Gemma asked, curious and weary and desperately longing for home.
Colin snorted. “At the moment? I daresay some cake and comfortable bed. She’s quite done for.”
She frowned up at him. “She doesn’t have need of me?”
“We all have need of you, sweet,” Colin assured her with his wild grin. “Right now we all need you to go home to your husband and not come out until something is mended. I don’t know how Lattimer got an invitation, I know we did not send it.”
“Is it a problem that he was here?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, as far as I know. No, the Lattimers have never said a word about the situation, not even after… Well, their silence, coupled with Blackmoor’s, made for all kinds of speculation. They never made any accusations, never said a harsh word against him, not a thing to indicate their feelings one way or the other. But things tend to be awkward when both parties are in the same place. It happens so very rarely, however, that no one ever expects them. Lattimers never come up for the Season; they stay in Brighton and Italy all year, I thought.”
Gemma exhaled and found more tears at her disposal. “I wish we had never come to London,” she whispered.
Colin encircled her shoulders protectively as he led her to her coach. “I know. Go to him, Gemma. I think he needs you.”
“I think he needs his wife,” she muttered. “His real wife.”
Colin gave her such a dark, scolding look that she actually reared back. “And that would be you, pet. Don’t forget it.”
He nodded at the footman, who opened the door, and Colin helped her in, then signaled to the coachman, waving at her as she barreled off.
She barely avoided biting her lip, anxious and terribly apprehensive. He was right, of course. She was Lucas’s wife, and it was time she reminded him of that.
He could love his first wife, she would never ask him to forget her. But he could not forget Gemma in the process, and she refused to be second to a memory.
She was going to claim her husband whether he liked it or not.
That was who she was.
Lady Blackmoor.
For better or worse.
Chapter Twenty-One
The house was dark and silent when she arrived, not even a servant to greet her or collect her things. No doubt Lucas had sent them away, and she was grateful for it. No one would need to see or hear this, and she could not promise that she would be able to contain herself. There was a great deal to be said, and it would be said at very great volumes, if it came down to it. Lucas was not a man of temper, but there was no accounting for what provocation could draw forth.
She knew exactly where to go, and needed no candle as she mounted the stairs, untying her cloak and letting it fall to the ground behind her, sending her long, white, pristine gloves after it. She may be Lady Blackmoor by title, and by determination, but she was also simply Gemma.
She was a woman of all heart and little finery.
The gallery door was slightly ajar, which was a sure indication of the trouble within. Lucas was always careful to keep his brooding to himself, and needed no audience for his displays.
She opened the door further, slipped in, and shut it firmly behind her. The only light in the room came from a candelabra on a table, all three tiers lit, and illuminating a man who sat in a straight-back chair, facing the grandest and most imposing portrait in the gallery.
Celia.
Her cold, yet laughing eyes stared at her audience, no matter their identity, and drew forth questions, uneasiness, and envy. Her figure was perfection in every way, and one could not help but admire the sight of her, no matter the personal opinions.
Gemma hated her, and felt no shame about doing so.
And Lucas was captivated and tormented, his gaze unwavering upon her.
He had to have heard Gemma enter, but he did not move.
How then to begin?
Gemma exhaled silently and pushed off of the door, her slippers making no sound on the carpet beneath her feet. He did not stir at her approach, and she halted mere feet from him, watching him. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, his cravat lay on the back of the chair, and his hair was mussed as if he had run his hands through it. Though it had been barely an hour since she had seen him, he was so altered she might not have known him.
Her heart swelled with emotion, and it took a moment before she could collect herself
“I am sorry,” she said quietly to the empty room and empty man.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” he asked, his voice hollow and scratching against his dry lips.
“You have suffered an upset and I am sorry for it.”
He nodded in response, but still he did not look at her.
She sighed softly. “You should not have left me again,” she told him, scolding a little. “I could have…”
“You seemed to be doing well enough without me,” he interrupted, the words cutting though his voice was flat. “I thought removing myself would be best for your efforts.”
“My efforts at what?” she snapped. “All I am trying to do is be a good wife to you, to honor your name, everything that a viscountess should be. It might help if my husband would do something to aid in the efforts.”
“I am. The less of me, the better it is.”
“Better for whom?” she demanded. “I don’t know what this is, Lucas, what is going on, what torments you, why you suddenly cannot bear me… But I am your wife, and so help me, that is not something you can just toss aside.”
He winced and turned his face more away from her, still staring at the portrait.
“What?” she asked, seizing upon that expression. “What have I said to affect you? Do you wish to toss me aside? Are you unable to condone what you have done?”
He shook his head slightly, and she knew instinctively that was not in answer to her, but a reaction of himself.
She glanced up at Celia’s portr
ait, and snarled at it. “Is it because of her?” she asked sharply.
Impossibly, Lucas stilled even further.
That was all the answer she wanted.
She folded her hands before her and stiffened. “I can’t take it anymore, Lucas. If you still have feelings for her, tell me so at once.”
His head came around swiftly and he looked up at her. “What?” he half whispered, half growled.
Gemma met his eyes steadily and shook her head. “I cannot continue on in this way knowing that you still pine for her like this. I won’t play second to any woman, let alone a dead one. You can love her as you must, but you will not abandon me for it.”
He surged to his feet, startling her. “Her? You think I love her?”
He whirled and grabbed the portrait, wrenching it from the wall and sending it crashing to the ground. “She could not be loved by anyone,” he spat with more venom than she would ever have expected from him. “I hated her, and she hated me! She was nearly the ruin of all I held dear!”
Lucas shoved at the frame with his boot, sending it forward several inches, despite the weight of it. “She was cold, heartless, and cruel. I rejoiced in the accident that took her life.” He shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as his uneven breathing slowed. “But still she haunts me, mocks me, torments me… I cannot scratch her out, no matter how I try.”
His voice broke a little and he raised his head, glancing back towards Gemma but not facing her. “I love only one woman, one sweet, innocent fairy who was born out of sunshine, and I married her, knowing I was dooming her to a life bound to a monstrous wreck that was once a man.”
Stunned by his behavior, she had not moved from her place. Now, with those words, she felt her knees begin to buckle and she clutched at the chair before her. “What?”
Slowly he turned to face her, his expression raw, his eyes dark and luminous in the candlelight. “Oh, darling love. My sweet Gemma, can’t you see it? I love you more than I dare to comprehend. More than life, more than air, more than I hate myself, I love you.”
He shook his head, and she felt all the longing and torment in it. “I ought to apologize for marrying you, for loving you this much, but I can’t. Celia ruined me, Gemma. She broke me more than I thought a man could break. You are my only hope of restoration, and so I took you for my own, never considering what you would suffer by it. I’ve ruined your life, but you have saved mine. Am I to be damned for loving and taking so selfishly?”
Tears began to roll down her cheeks and her heart pounded furiously within her chest, threatening to explode entirely. “Lucas…”
“I tried distancing myself from you,” he said hoarsely. “I thought it might turn the tide of rumors away from you. I couldn’t bear to hear what they were saying, knowing I had brought you to this. It would be nothing for them to speak ill of me, to grow even worse than before, if it came to it.” He slowly shook his head, his shoulders drooping. “But not you. I couldn’t let it touch you. So I foolishly thought distance would save you, and save me, but I can’t bear the distance from you any longer. I am so sorry, my love. I never meant for you to suffer for my conduct and my past, to tie your fate forever with so dark and horrifying a creation.” He swallowed harshly and shrugged. “Perhaps distance could protect you, but I am not strong enough to endure it. I should be, but I’m not. You may do as you please, of course, I’ll not bind you in any way. I wouldn’t blame you after what I’ve done.”
Gemma’s heart burst and she rushed at him, throwing her arms around him and clinging as her tears streamed without mercy. “Oh, Lucas.”
He stiffened slightly. “Don’t pity me, Gemma,” he choked out, his arms twitching as if longing to hold her. “I cannot bear it.”
“This isn’t pity,” she told him through her tears, her breath catching on the words. “My heart is breaking for you.”
“Don’t. It’s not worth it.”
She continued to hold him, undeterred by his lack of response, his arms hanging by his sides still. “Nay, it is! Nothing could be more worth it. When will you see, Lucas, that no part of your past, however dark, could taint you in my sight?”
His frame shuddered, and she felt his face rub against her hair. “Don’t be kind to me, Gemma,” he rasped, his words tickling her skin.
Gemma shook her head. “You know me too well for that, Lucas. I never say anything I don’t mean.”
With a low groan, he wrapped his arms around her at last and pulled her close, tucking his face into her neck. “Gemma, you have no idea what you do to me. I’m only alive because of you.”
She ran her fingers into his hair and stroked the back of his neck. “You are alive because of yourself, Lucas. Your own heart is to thank.”
“My heart is yours, failing and poor excuse for one that it is,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her shoulder.
Gemma’s breath hitched on more tears, and she tightened her arms around him. “If your heart should fail you, I pray you take mine.”
A rough exhale escaped him, the air rushing across her hair and skin. “A heart so pure and good would never do for this frame.”
“Yet it is yours for the taking.”
He pulled back and looked at her, eyes wary. “What are you saying?”
She smiled and touched his chin. “I give my heart to you, Lucas, fully and freely.” Going up on tiptoe, she brushed a feather soft kiss against his unmoving lips, whispering, “I love you.”
He took in a shuddering gasp. “You can’t…”
“I love you,” she said again, kissing him more firmly.
His whole body began to quake slightly. “Gemma…”
Gemma took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. She stared into his disbelieving yet hopeful eyes, and then kissed him gently, tenderly, and smiled. “I love you, Lucas Sinclair,” she whispered.
Releasing something between a sob and a groan, he hauled her against him, and buried his face into her shoulder. Then, with frantically showered kisses along her neck, he made his way back up to capture her lips in a searing kiss.
There was nothing gentle or tender in his ministrations, everything passionate and wild and poignant, wringing exquisite pleasure and delight from every fiber of her being. She clung to him and returned it measure for measure, spiraling desperately out of control as lips and arms and hearts and desire melded in a frenzy of heady rapture that threatened to consume them both. She could not get close enough, yet his hands were everywhere, scorching her and driving her and soothing her at once. There was no kiss deep enough, no embrace tight enough, no restraint strong enough to withstand the onslaught and fire bombarding them, and they were entirely lost to it, and each other.
Hours later, exhausted and sated and exhilarated, Lucas lay awake in his bed, his arms still running up and down Gemma’s back in light caresses. He could not let go of her, could not stop touching her, and had begged her again and again to say the words that he could not yet comprehend.
She loved him.
She’d said it over and over, as many times as he’d asked and then some, the shock of hearing them never lessening, nor diminishing the depth with which they were said. He’d been unrelenting in his attentions, desperate to show her how he felt, what she meant, how much he needed her on every level that could possibly exist in human form. And then he ventured for more, feeling more alive and free than he ever had in his life.
He was the most fortunate of men, it seemed, and he was well aware that he would never deserve such goodness, but he was not about to refuse it.
Something rare and exquisite had happened between them, something so deep and profound that poets and playwrights could have only imagined it. Yet he had it, had experienced it for himself, and felt the lingering euphoria of it still.
And the shocking thing was, for all the involvement of body, it was entirely a matter of heart.
He’d never thought he had much of a heart, yet it ached and pounded and yearned with a fie
rceness now that was entirely centered and focused on the woman in his arms.
As impossible as it was to believe, she matched his fervor and passion, his need and his love. She was his match in every way.
How did any man bear such a thing?
The darkness of the night before crept into his thoughts and he leaned his head back against his pillow, groaning to himself. Would he ever be rid of them?
He slipped his arms from Gemma and sat up, moving to the edge of the bed. He swung his feet over, and rested them on the rug below.
“Where do you think you are going?” Gemma murmured sleepily from behind him.
He smiled softly, but did not look. He could see her in his mind’s eye well enough. “Nowhere in particular.”
He felt her rustle in the bed, then sit up. She scooted closer and pressed her lips to his back gently. “I think you need to talk, Lucas.”
Her hair brushed against his skin and he restrained a sigh, loving the slight nuzzle of her. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, afraid of exposing himself in such a way. Not to her, he knew he was safe in her keeping, but to himself… Had he ever been that raw and vulnerable?
Gemma wrapped her arms around his back and pressed herself close. “Try. I’ll hold you and let you say everything without interruption. Just try.”
“It is dark,” he whispered.
She kissed his neck and laid her head along his. “I love you.”
The words rippled through him and he sighed, clutching her hands as they encircled him.
It was time.
Slowly, softly, he spoke of the years with his family before his marriage, the embarrassment of their association, the shame of his name, the determination to salvage something, anything of value. He spoke of his eagerness to marry Celia, a rare half-Italian beauty with a fortune and a reputation for liveliness and warmth that could save the family name.
He made no attempts to hide anything from Gemma, admitting his attraction and his hopes and desires for a real marriage, rather than the sham he had seen in his own parents’ marriage, the pain of unrequited affection and neglect. Yet the veil had fallen from his eyes within the first two weeks of marriage, finding Celia with a lover in their home, and the identity was that of a man who had once been a friend to Lucas.
A Wager Worth Making (Arrangements, Book 7) Page 24