“Which I gather by your tone you’re rubbish at?” he interrupted.
“Oh, quite,” she said with an automaticity, never breaking stride. “The proper way to hold a fan.” She made a show of holding an invisible hand and fluttering it before her face.
Richard swung his leg back and forth, elegant in his repose. “And I take it you have not perfected the art of using a fan?”
She sniffed. “Do I seem like the manner of lady who would perfect the art of using a fan?” She slashed her hand through the air. “No, my thoughts and knowledge of them are of the practical sort.”
He rolled his shoulders. “Practical sort?”
“Ladies are expected to use them to signal a message to gentlemen,” she said, coming to an abrupt stop so they faced one another. “But royal servants of Egyptians, they would use them for fanning insects and inciting flames to stir a fire.” A mayfly landed on Gemma’s cheek and she brushed it back, giving Richard a pointed look. “Do you see how a fan would be helpful for this? But no.” She firmed her mouth. “Instead, the ton expects a lady to hold it to her mouth and send unspoken messages that can be interpreted one way by a gentleman where she really might mean an altogether different thing, and—” She let her breath out on a slow exhale as tension cloyed at her chest, threatening to suffocate her. Gemma searched Richard for signs of amusement.
She’d despise him if he made light of her. And yet, there was nothing but a stoic calm to his rugged features as he studied her. Faced with his silence, Gemma clasped her hands together and studied the interlocked digits. “But regardless, Society has their expectations of skills and attributes a lady should possess and, as such, it is ordained.” Expected. Without an appreciation that not all women fit within the same proverbial mold of Societal perfection. That some ladies were invariably horrid singers, with clumsy fingers as it pertained to the pianoforte and embroidering. She sighed and drifted closer to the edge of the patio. “As such, it, as you indicated earlier, was awful. It, as in the recital and my singing.” Gemma stared blankly out at the fountain of Diana and the water that spurted from the stone statue’s arrows.
Richard reached a hand out and captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Her skin tingled from his touch. “The recital was awful, but you, Gemma Reed, were the one thing sincere about the whole event.” His expression grew contemplative. “Perhaps, the sincerest thing about the duke’s entire summer party.”
Charged silence met that powerful declaration. Her breath froze and parting her lips, she looked up at him.
Richard dipped his head and a hint of brandy and honey caressed her lips. No gentleman had a right to that blend of scandalous and sweet upon his breath. Her lids fluttered and she leaned up on tiptoe—
The press of a door handle resonated like a shot in the night. Richard wrenched away with a quiet curse. In one fluid movement, he hefted himself over the edge, landing on his feet with a quiet thump of his boots.
She gasped and peered over the edge as he strode over to the duke’s towering fountains.
“Miss Reed.”
Heart racing, Gemma spun around. Lord Westfield stood at the end of the patio with a bemused expression on his face. “L-Lord Westfield,” she squeaked. She fluttered her hand about her throat, expecting him to leave, and was further shocked as he pushed the door closed behind him.
Beatrice’s brother stood contemplatively eying her the length of the expansive patio and then proceeded to walk toward her. Toward her. She gulped. Perhaps he was here to meet another. Gemma stole a glance about. After all, what was there to explain his appearance here, and…?
She leaned forward and searched for Richard. But he may as well have been a shadow swallowed by sunlight.
Lord Westfield cleared his throat, and she wheeled back. “I enjoyed your performance,” he said softly, not taking his gaze from the stretch of countryside in the distance.
Gemma glanced around for the lady he spoke to, and…
He shifted his gaze to Gemma and she blinked. There were all manner of suitable replies she’d been schooled in by her mother, governess and nursemaids; the most obvious of which was “thank you”. Instead, she blurted, “My performance?” A wry grin formed on her lips. “Did you refer to my singing or my flight from the recital hall?”
He favored her with a smile. “You have a lovely voice.”
Either the Marquess of Westfield was stone-deaf or the kindest gentleman in the realm. She settled on the latter. So why did she appreciate the sincerity in Richard’s earlier honesty? “Thank you,” she forced herself to say when he continued to stare at her.
The marquess strolled closer and Gemma did a quick search about. If Richard was discovered here, she would be literally and figuratively ruined. The moon’s glow rained down beside a towering replica of Michelangelo’s David, spouting water, illuminating Richard behind that statue.
She rushed away from the edge of the balustrade and walked in the opposite direction, toward the crystal, floor-length windows lining the patio. Lord Westfield came to a stop. He took in her hasty movements through thick, golden lids. Gloriously blond lashes she’d long admired, that shielded the warmest, kindest eyes she’d known. Eyes that did not, however, smolder.
Not that she preferred a smolder. Smoldering was dangerous and she’d little interest in anything but a perfectly content, harmonious life built on happiness and love with the marquess.
An awkward pall of silence fell between them and Gemma searched her brain for something, anything, appropriate to discuss with this man she’d have as her husband. The words remained jumbled in her mind as they invariably always were around Lord Westfield and everyone. Everyone who was not Richard Jonas, it would seem. “A-are you not enjoying the evening’s entertainments?” She stammered the insolent question that earned one of his patently charming smiles, revealing two rows of perfectly even, white teeth.
She tipped her head. It really was a glorious smile. With his tousled golden hair and easy grin, he had the look of the Lord’s avenging angel, Michael. And how many times had this very man rescued her from misery during her London Seasons?
So why does my heart not race?
He inhaled the summer air and skimmed his gaze over the star-studded sky, and then leveled Gemma with his stare. “I watched your departure.”
Her flight. There was hardly anything dignified or ladylike about her retreat. Gemma curled her toes. How long would this refrain of whispers go on from the other guests present? Unless there was another equally awful lady to follow, it would, no doubt, serve as a valuable source of gossip for the other guests present.
…The recital was awful, but you, Gemma Reed, were the one thing sincere about the whole event.
She wetted her lips and the marquess dropped his gaze, lingering on that slight movement. Heat slapped her cheeks. Oh, dear. In all her dreams, that was the precise hot stare she’d hoped for, but never expected from this very man. “S-singing, when one truly considers it, is a perfectly harmonious technique that requires the lungs, chest, tongue, and palate.” Oh, bloody hell, now she’d gone and mentioned body parts. Again. And not in the natural way of discussing as it had been with Richard, but rather the inane ramblings of a lady wholly uncomfortable with the gentleman she’d admired for years. She gave her head a hard shake. Loved. The gentleman she’d loved for years. “Such a natural process, performed the same by all, and yet yielding such different results,” she prattled. Inexplicably her gaze was drawn below and she adjusted her eyes in the dark to make out that statue concealing Richard Jonas’ broad, powerful frame.
“But then how dull it would be if everyone yielded the same results.” His breath fanned her cheek and she closed her eyes a long moment, willing the fluttering in her belly and rapid loss of senses. Remarkably unaffected, Gemma slowly opened her eyes. “I-I should—”
“You should not be cowed by Society, Miss Reed. You are kind where so many are cruel and there is something to be said of that.”
She smiled. It was words such as those that set this gentleman apart from so many others. “Thank you,” she said softly. But her heart still did not race. Perhaps it is because I still do not know his kiss. “I should be going.” Gemma hesitated for a fraction of a moment; that pause borne of a need to know if Lord Westfield was so overcome with desire for her that he’d take her in his arms.
The consummate gentleman, he sketched a bow. Gemma took a step. When he spoke, his deep baritone brought her to a stop. “Will you take part in the archery display?”
Oh, it was assuredly a display. “I would not miss it, Lord Westfield.” Where the other ladies present would be angling their bodies, using their bows as instruments to catch the marquess’ attention, archery was the one ladylike endeavor she’d quite taken to as a girl. It was not a sport she used in a futile bid to capture a gentleman’s regard.
The young marquess hooded his lashes. “I am glad,” he murmured quietly.
Gemma called forth the butterflies and fluttering. Once more, that blasted enthusiasm escaped her. Gemma dropped another quick curtsy and hurried past him. And only when she’d made her escape and reached inside the duke’s home with the door closed between them, did she search for a way to explain her relief at that parting.
Chapter 8
The following morning, Richard stood at the edge of the Duke of Somerset’s property. His mount, Warrior, lazily munched on the thick brush. Sheltered by the thick copse of towering oaks and with flask in hand, Richard purposefully worked his gaze over the lords and ladies gathered on the well-manicured lawn.
In this next grand show for the guests invited to the duke’s summer party, archers’ targets had been set up. Various shaped bows in their hands, ladies angled those respective instruments, using them to show their figures off to advantage as they practiced taking aim upon an imaginary target. One of the things he’d singularly loved about Eloise had been her disinterest in the peerage. Oh, she’d gone on to wed an earl but she had not melded with the world of Polite Society. That had set her apart from all others. It made her unique…
He looked about for Gemma.
Or rather, it had made her unique. That was not the case, any longer.
…Women are paraded before noblemen. They are to fit within Society’s stiff expectations and excel in each ladylike skill deemed worthy…
With her words flitting through his mind, Richard took another drink. He settled his gaze briefly on Westfield at the center of the collected guests; the gentleman for whom Gemma intended to profess her love.
Just a step below royalty, Westfield’s coffers were vast enough to rival a small kingdom. Yet, when such wealth made other men pompous prigs, Westfield was the manner of man who’d befriend a viscount’s younger son, and throw his loyalty and support behind him. A gentleman who’d leave a recital hall in search of a young lady who’d fled in embarrassment.
From their first meeting, he’d questioned the lady’s motives where Westfield was concerned. Now, Richard acknowledged the truth: why should Gemma not love Westfield? The man was a bloody paragon.
He took another swill of his drink, absently studying a lady taking aim at the target and sending her arrow sailing. The distance muted the polite clapping, as the young woman stepped out of the way, allowing the next lady to come forward.
So why should it bother him that Westfield was a bloody paragon? Nay, it was not that Westfield was a paragon, but rather that Gemma Reed concurred and, as such, joined the fray of prancing, preening ladies.
The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips as he recalled her fluttering an imaginary fan before her face. Not that Gemma Reed would ever be one to fawn. There was such a raw honesty to the lady, missing in most of polite ton, that she was incapable of any such artifice. She was…
He squinted into the distance and did another sweep of the guests collected on the lawn.
Missing.
He frowned. Richard did another cursory look at the guests assembled. At the center of the bustling activity stood Westfield and, yet, even after her assurance to the contrary, the lady was conspicuously absent. Why would the lady seeking to cull the marquess’ notice fail to take part? Not unlike her quick flight from the patio upon Westfield’s appearance last evening, the lady did not seek to immerse herself in the fray of matchmaking.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of yellow fabric caught his notice. Richard froze and looked to the opposite end of the copse where…
He furrowed his brow.
Where…
Gemma stood surveying the guests assembled. She shifted something in her arm, revealing a flat bow. He slowly pocketed his flask and continued to study her furtive movements. What in blazes was the lady doing on the fringe of the morning amusements? Then, even with the distance between them, Richard noted the precise moment she locked her gaze on Westfield. Richard gritted his teeth. Westfield, the bloody paragon. Westfield…
Richard widened his eyes as she settled her bow on her shoulder.
Westfield the man she intended to shoot?
With a silent curse, Richard sprinted through the copse. The lady glanced wide-eyed in his direction.
“Rich—”
He knocked into her slender frame and the abrupt movement sent her arrow flying through the air. As he took Gemma down, the bow tumbled to the ground beside them. “What are you doing?” he bit out against her ear. He opened his mouth to deliver a stinging diatribe upon her foolish ears when his body registered her soft, pliant form pressed to his. A surge of desire ran through him, blotting out words, obliterating rational thought, so all he felt and knew—was her.
Gemma stared wide-eyed up at him. Her chest moved quickly in a rhythm to match his own rapidly beating heart. “Richard,” she whispered.
He really should be fixed on the madness in her letting loose an arrow at the man he’d called friend for over twenty years, except, his body responded to her nearness in form as he appreciated her in ways he’d not at their initial meeting; the gentle rise of her small breasts, the trimness of her waist, the delicate flare of her hips.
Gemma wiggled, shifting her hips.
His shaft leapt in response even as a pained groan lodged in his throat. In the distance, muffled cheers went up and that revelry had the same effect as a bucket full of frozen Thames water. He rolled off Gemma and jumped to his feet. “What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed. For it was far safer to focus on the lady’s impulsive actions from moments earlier than his body’s unwieldy response to hers.
“Beg pardon?” She shoved up onto her elbows and her loose chignon gave way under those efforts. The endless tresses cascaded about her back like a satiny waterfall. The sight of her sprawled on her back conjured all manner of wicked images, all involving those strands draped over his pillow and—
Richard closed his eyes and counted to five. He forced them open and found her eying him with her head tipped at that perplexed angle. “What did you think you were doing, aiming at Westfield?” With a quiet curse, Richard bent and scooped Gemma up. He set her on her feet and alternated his stare between the damning arch bow on the ground and the mad arrow-wielding lady.
Gemma rushed over and rescued the expertly crafted elm bow. Looking at the bow, she furrowed her brow. Then her eyes formed round moons. She jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Never tell me you believed I was going to shoot the marquess?”
At the incredulity coating the inquiry, he yanked at the collar of his jacket. “I did not believe you intentionally sought to maim or wound,” Or kill. “Westfield.”
Gemma folded her arms at her chest, her possible weapon awkwardly jutted toward him, as she peered at him through suspicious eyes. “You think me incapable of shooting a bow,” she said with a dawning understanding.
Another cry went up in the distance and Richard looked hopefully toward the far-off chatter. “If you are so eager to shoot a bow, I expect you are also eager to return to the activity planned by the duke.”
Gemma remained with her
booted feet planted to the ground and fixed an I-am-not-going-anywhere-until-you-reply-something-to-that-statement look.
Picking through his words carefully, Richard said, “I did not think…” She gave him a prodding, knowing look.
And he knew that look was intended to be more than faintly chiding and all he could note was the glimmer that set her eyes aglow in the summer sunlight. That gleam stole his thoughts, held him transfixed, until he no longer knew…
“I knew it,” she muttered, cutting across the momentary blanket of madness she’d pulled over him. Then, in one fluid movement she grabbed up her arrow, positioned it within her bow, and with more than three hundred paces between the copse and the duke’s party of guests, she took aim. Gemma let the arrow fly and it sailed unfailingly straight past the collective crowd of guests, gliding a hairsbreadth from Westfield’s ear, and then finding its mark upon the center of the target.
“Bloody hell,” Richard muttered. And as shocked gasps went up amongst the duke’s guests, Richard launched himself at Gemma and took her down, once more. He brought their bodies in line with a towering oak.
She gasped. “What are you—?”
He glowered her into silence. “Unless you care to be discovered alone in my company,” with nothing but ruin facing them, “by every last lord and lady gathered who are now trying to determine the whereabouts of the person who launched that goddamn arrow, then I suggest you remain quiet, madam,” he said tightly against her ear.
The color leeched from her cream white cheeks. He clenched his jaw. He should hardly be offended that the lady was so loath to the possibility of being discovered with him. They were, after all, almost strangers, with her having marital aspirations trained on Westfield. So why did annoyance tighten his belly?
Thrusting aside the befuddled musings, he leaned his head around slightly. Ladies and gentlemen surveyed the area for the shooter of that mystery arrow.
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 88