Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “I am so sorry,” she said gently, as some of the uncertainty around him lifted. Having lost her own father years earlier, she knew the pain of loss; particularly a beloved parent. She drifted closer and hovered at his shoulder.

  He gave a terse nod and then returned his attention to the neatly arranged bottles. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but then he gave his head a clearing shake and swiped the nearest decanter. “My father expects me to wed before…” The blood in his knuckles drained under the force of his grip upon his glass.

  At his silent suffering, Gemma took another step closer. In times of grief and suffering, she’d come to appreciate that no words were needed. There was no need for ramblings or useless platitudes. Oftentimes, the assurance of another’s presence, the truth that one wasn’t alone in their misery, brought a soothing solace.

  “Yes,” he cleared his throat. “Well, he expects me to wed,” he finished, neatly omitting the painful particular that had brought the lords and ladies together.

  Distractedly, Gemma brushed her fingertips over the edge of the sideboard. “Isn’t that the way of our world?” she asked softly. “They expect you to make a match even when sadness is sucking at your senses and stealing your thoughts.”

  He started, and at those honest words to escape her lips, she retreated a step. Lord Westfield, for even with his earlier offering, she could see him as no one but the marquess, continued to study her in a contemplative manner so that she shifted on her feet under that scrutiny. “It is expected I wed.”

  It was expected they all would wed. Granted, a nobleman who would be in possession of one of the oldest, most distinguished titles would be held to even more stringent expectations than a mere viscount’s daughter.

  Beatrice’s brother, this man she’d long admired, propped his hip on the edge of the broad, mahogany piece and sipped from his glass of brandy. “If I marry, I would marry a woman I respect and admire. A woman who is loyal and trustworthy.”

  At having her own words, those ones she now saw as truly empty of all that mattered—love and passion…heat burned her neck. She cringed. What must Richard have thought when she made her confession to him earlier that week?

  Lord Westfield took another swallow of his drink and then set the glass down with a soft thunk. “I admire and respect you, Gemma.”

  Gemma’s world came to a jarring, screeching halt. For what did he truly know about her? Just as she’d known so very little about him. “Me?” she blurted. Oh, he was a devoted brother and a kind man. Time had proven that. But did he enjoy kippers or roast? Did he prefer hazard to faro? Or did he avoid those games of chance all together? The little pieces that made a person who they were, she couldn’t even venture a guess, where the marquess was concerned.

  The ghost of a smile played on his lips. “You are surprised.”

  Gemma smoothed her palms over the fabric of her skirts and picked around her thoughts for a suitable reply. After all, this moment was one that for three years she would have traded her left smallest finger for. Now, she gave thanks that no rash offering had been made or she’d be a finger short. Incapable of a suitable reply, she gave him none. He shot a hand out and brushed it along her cheek.

  His touch, though sure and strong, was devoid of that jar full of electric energy. All the mad flutterings and tingles roused by Richard.

  “Will you marry me?”

  And after years of dreaming, there it was.

  “Why?” she asked quietly.

  The marquess swung the leg dangling from the sideboard back and forth, giving him an almost boyish quality. A small frown chased away his earlier smile. “We get along well enough.” Well enough? They’d hardly spent any time together. “You are clever and I believe we’d have diverting conversations.”

  Despite herself, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. In the scheme of romantic marriage offerings, the marquess’ would never be the manner of proposal that would find its way onto the pages of one of those shocking gothic novels or hopeful fairytales her mother enjoyed. Lord Westfield stared expectantly at her.

  With the same careful attention she’d put to the lectures she attended in London and her books, Gemma contemplated that proposal. She had no doubt if she married the marquess they would have a degree of happiness together. They would be a content pair; perhaps one of those wedded couples that used one another’s last name and title in discourse. A couple that would forever be subjected to Society’s scrutiny until her every smile was weighted in falsity. There would be no grand passion but rather a gentle companionship and she wanted more. Things that would never be with this man, because another had set her heart aflutter.

  “For three years, I have loved you to distraction, Lord Westfield,” she said softly and that admission brought his swinging leg to an abrupt stop.

  He flared his eyes, but otherwise gave no indication as to his thoughts to her revelation. Gemma held her palms up. “You danced with me when no one else would. You smiled at me and asked how I was doing, when others saw me as invisible.” With a wistful smile, she wandered away from him and stopped along one of the floor-length bookshelves.

  A horse book snagged her notice and she absently trailed her fingertips over the gold lettering etched on the spine of that tome. “I came here with the purpose of confessing my feelings to you.” She directed those words to the book at her eye-level. Gemma shot a look over her shoulder. “I resolved to not let anything stop me from telling you everything I carried in my heart and arrived with the intention of doing so, and now I can.” She turned her palms up once again. “Lord Westfield, for three years, I loved you.”

  He gave a tug at his previously immaculate cravat, saying nothing. She gave Lord Westfield a gentle, but understanding smile. This man would never be comfortable with admissions of love—at least, not from her. Because he did not love her. As Emery had said, the marquess had seen her for three years, but never truly saw her. Nor would he. And it was why she could easily reject the offer he put to her now.

  Richard was a bloody coward. There was nothing else for it.

  Because he was a glutton for self-torture, he’d stared blatantly at Gemma and Westfield performing the steps of a quadrille. The candlelight doused Gemma in a soft, shimmery glow, giving her an otherworldly beauty that marked her different than the sea of sameness that existed amongst the pallid ladies around her. His gut clenched. How had he ever believed her plain? How, when her eyes glittered with her every emotion; from tart-annoyance to unmitigated joy? A glow shined from those brown tresses that refused to curl, setting a lady already so wholly unique apart from the ladies lacking around her.

  Now, with the image of Gemma in the arms of his closest friend resonating inside the chambers of his mind, Richard slammed his empty flute down on the tray of a nearby servant. Careful to avoid any glimpse of the couples twirling upon that Italian marble floor, Richard strode along the length of the ballroom. He’d never been more grateful than when the pair parted ways and made off in opposite directions. Still, the memory of their pairing lingered and he hesitated. Unbidden, Richard searched her out, but found her gone.

  She’d asked to meet him, but now, staring out at the smiling dance partners, his feet remained locked to the floor. Mayhap you don’t truly wish to know what the lady says? Mayhap because you know all she wants is to enlist your support to win Westfield’s affection…?

  I need her to know. He fisted his hands hard as the truth slammed into him. Because if he did not at least confess that his heart belonged to her, then he would prove the same coward he’d always been.

  With a silent curse, he took his leave, making his exit through the back door. In the course of his life, he’d demonstrated a shocking and deplorable tendency of running. First from Eloise. Then, away from Eloise when she’d married his brother. He’d not be that same coward where Gemma Reed was concerned, too.

  As Richard turned the corridor, he slowed his steps. How long had he been running away from his unacknowledged, until now, in
securities that came from his birthright as second born son? For so long, he’d taken pride in his own accomplishments while secretly feeling an interloper in a world he’d been born to but, by rank, had only merited a place on the edge. With his footfalls muted by the thin carpet lining the corridor, he continued his forward path. As he walked, Richard looked at the stern-faced ancestors of the Somerset line peering down their ducal noses.

  By rank and right, Westfield was deserving of Gemma Reed. For that matter, what lady in the whole of the kingdom would pass over a dukedom? Particularly a young lady who’d harbored a tendre for that same gentleman for years. A woman who’d spoken of love and her heart’s desires.

  He reached the library door and paused.

  Yet, if he did not tell Gemma what was in his heart, if he did not tell her how she’d challenged him to look at everything he’d believed to be true for the course of his life, and then upended those unrealities in but five days, then it would be a regret that would dog him until he was a doddering gentleman with whitened hair and wrinkled hands.

  Richard grabbed the door handle. When Gemma’s voice sounded from the opposite side of the panel, he stayed his movements. He tried to make out her words but the wood panel muffled them. Richard’s lips descended into a frown. Who in blazes was the lady meeting—?

  “…Will you marry me?”

  A dull humming filled Richard’s ears. That voice he recognized. He recognized it because he’d been a friend of the man for more than twenty years. And hated himself for hating that same friend in this moment.

  He’d offered for her.

  Once again, in a trick of fate and time, Richard was too late. His stomach churned and he slid his eyes closed, an unwelcome and unwanted witness to this very private exchange. Yet, he could not force his legs away. Because he hung to the sliver of a fragile hope that she would say no. That Gemma had felt that same magnetic pull that had called to him from their first meeting in the woods. That Gemma would say no.

  “For three years, I loved you…”

  But she didn’t say no. As her soft, lyrical voice reached his ears, Gemma gave Westfield every blasted word she’d intended, but erroneously given to Richard at her arrival five nights earlier.

  Richard stilled and an unexpected pain scissored through him. It cut across his previous determined musings and left him standing there at sea. His hand fell to his side as he stood numb, staring at the door, staring as Gemma’s previously quiet voice was strengthened with passion.

  “…I resolved to not let anything stop me from telling you everything I carried in my heart…” He stood there, letting each word serve as a lash on his damned heart; a goddamn organ he’d thought incapable of this flood of emotions. “And I arrived with the intention of doing so, and now I can…”

  A painful groan climbed up his chest and he took a step away from the door, and then another, and another, until his back knocked against the wall, rattling a painting with his careless movements.

  Then, horror descended on his shoulders as he imagined Westfield opening that bloody door and finding Richard there, hovering outside. Mayhap, Westfield would invite him inside. Introduce him formally to his future duchess. Hands up, warding off the horrifying possibility, Richard tore down the hall as though the demons of hell were nipping at his heels.

  And with the agony knifing at his heart, perhaps they were. With the distant din of the ballroom echoing in the corridors, Richard bypassed the inane amusements unfolding in that sweltering room and strode on to his guest chambers.

  Chapter 13

  Odd how words had always escaped Gemma around the Marquess of Westfield and now, alone in his presence, with him putting an offer to her that any other lady present for this summer party would have sold her soul to the devil on Sunday for, it was so very easy to at last speak.

  Gemma wandered over to the empty hearth and stared down at the cold metal grate. She’d never wanted the marquess. Not truly. Rather, she’d wanted the dream of what he’d represented. “For three years I convinced myself I loved you.” She cast a sad smile over her shoulder, in his direction. “You were the greatest dream I’d carried in my heart for so long.” The hope of him had sustained her through miserable ball after miserable ball. Only to now discover a young lady needing to find a reason to brave those lonely affairs had merely fabricated that dream. He’d given her that hope, for which she’d be forever grateful. But gratitude was no grounds with which to form a union.

  The floorboards groaned, indicating he’d moved. “So why do I detect a rejection in your tone?” he murmured.

  She turned, facing him squarely. “Because there is a rejection there,” she said and then heat burned her cheeks. “A gentle rejection. A grateful one for your offer.” His lips twitched and some of the tension left her on a sigh. “But yet, it is a no. Though I am grateful for your offer,” she put in politely.

  The marquess rolled his shoulders. “You are certain?”

  She laughed softly. In all her grandest dreams of that magical moment of a gentleman asking for her hand, it had entailed beautiful words, promises of forever, and an avowal of undying love. Yes, for certain, romantic sentiments for a lady given to reason. That dream had never included a polite, if curt, “you are certain?”

  “I am,” she said, skimming her hand over the edge of the marble mantel. “But the truth is, I love another,” she murmured, and then froze as the significance in sharing that admission with this man more stranger than she’d ever before conceded. Love filled her heart and the words tumbled out. “And he is all those things; good, loyal, kind, but more, he makes my heart race,” Which the marquess had never done. “And I would be wrong to ignore the dictates of my own heart.”

  Silence met her pronouncement, which Lord Westfield broke. “He is a fortunate man.”

  He is your best friend. A spasm of pain contorted her face and she quickly dipped her gaze to the floor. For Richard would, no doubt, scoff at such a profession, particularly from a lady who’d days earlier attempted to give those words to Lord Westfield. “Perhaps,” she said at last.

  She stiffened as the marquess tipped her chin up with his knuckles. “No, perhaps. He is decidedly a lucky gent.”

  Gemma coughed into her hand, dislodging that touch. “Yes, well, it is a bit more complicated than that.”

  “Oh?”

  How singularly interesting that the most ease they should know in any discourse between them these years should be from this intimate exchange that involved talks of the heart and offers of marriage. “I am afraid the gentleman is in love with another.” There was, however, something cathartic in breathing the words into existence to this man who was not a loyal friend or devoted brother.

  “Then he is a bloody fool and I’m sure he’s not worth your affections. My offer still stands.” He waggled his eyebrows and a laugh exploded from her lips. “That is better, Gemma.”

  The lady given to logic, she’d spent her life being wanted, stomped her foot. Why couldn’t she love him? Why couldn’t she love him and he love her? Then this entire exchange would be entirely different and it would result in happily-ever-afters and not this dull ache in her chest that felt not unlike the miserable infection she’d had as a girl of ten. “What if I were to say he is your friend?”

  The marquess stared unblinkingly and then resumed a slow blink. “My…?” Then he widened his eyes. “Jonas.”

  There were a million follies in why breathing that admission into existence was dangerous. A lady did not share matters of the heart with other gentlemen. There was the risk of discovery and ruin, and… “Richard Jonas,” she said softly. But this man was Beatrice’s brother and Richard’s best friend. And even though he had no claim to Gemma’s heart, for the kindness he’d shown her through the years, he’d proven himself a loyal friend in ways. “As such, I suspect you know he is, in fact, deserving, and…” she grimaced. “Very much in love with another.”

  Lord Westfield’s eyes shuttered, concealing all hint of
emotion but not before she detected the flash of regret and understanding. For there was Richard’s Eloise and there would always be that paragon he’d exalted. Not unlike the way she’d raised Lord Westfield up as more than a mere mortal. Only Richard’s love had been built on years of knowing and a bond forged in childhood. A vicious envy snaked through her, momentarily cutting off airflow. “What will you do?” he asked quietly.

  “Tell him,” she said unhesitatingly. What else could she do but share what was in her heart? Even if her feelings would not be returned. Even if he could promise her nothing because there would always be another, she was not so cowardly that she could not give him the words. Would not. Her gaze slid to the ormolu clock. “He will visit me here soon.”

  Understanding glinted in the marquess’ eyes. “Ah, so this is why you are here.”

  She nodded once.

  In one quick movement, Lord Westfield downed the contents of his glass and set it down on the mantel. “Well, then, I must leave you to your meeting. Wouldn’t do to be discovered alone by Jonas, given the circumstances.” He winked, raising another small laugh, which died when the marquess captured her fingers and brought her hand to his mouth.

  “He is a good man, but you are decidedly a deserving woman.” He dropped a kiss atop her hand and then with five long strides, crossed over to the door, opened it, and then left.

  Gemma stared after him a long moment and then, fiddling with her skirts, claimed a spot on one of the leather winged back chairs at the hearth—and proceeded to wait.

  “Jonas.”

  Richard could pretend he didn’t hear that staying call. He could turn the corner of the hall and pretend he was so engrossed in his own thoughts and the distance between him and Westfield at the end of the hall so great, he’d failed to hear.