DEDICATION
Dedicated to all the fans who thought Ellery deserved a happily ever after. You made this happen. Thank you.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
How to Forget a Duke
About the Author
By Vivienne Lorret
A Letter from the Editor
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
August 1825
Gemma Desmond stopped at the pond’s edge and stared down at the horrid stain on her white muslin dress. By the look of the large oxblood-colored smear and trail of splotches, she might have slaughtered the wine-soaked pear instead of merely dropping it on her lap. And the poor fruit had put up quite a struggle too.
All she’d needed was an excuse to step away from the picnic, gaining a reprieve from the dreadful topic of husband hunting. She certainly hadn’t intended to be so thorough.
Looking over her shoulder to the top of the hill where her aunt lounged beneath the shade of a lace parasol, Gemma felt a twinge of guilt. She loved Aunt Edith dearly. But this was supposed to be a summer holiday trip, free of plotting and planning for the next London Season.
Gemma wanted to forget, for a little while, about the reason she needed a husband.
Yet she couldn’t escape it. After all, it was common knowledge that she had a mark against her name as black as her raven hair. Every member of London society knew of the evil deeds her father had done.
She was the daughter of a thief and would-be murderer. Because of that, the name Desmond was an iron ball shackled to her ankle, and she dragged it with her wherever she went. Even her aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Vale, had been tainted by it, losing standing among the ton by refusing to send her niece away. And Gemma would do anything to lift the burden from her.
Even marry a man, solely for his name.
Unfortunately, Aunt Edith had a list of helpful ideas for snaring a husband and hadn’t stopped offering them since they’d left London three blessed days ago.
Now that they were in Surrey, not much had changed. Yet at least the view was different, filled with verdant rolling hills that seemed to disappear into the bright blue sky. Instead of London’s brackish gray clouds overhead, white powder puffs hung suspended in place without much of a breeze to disturb them. Even the branches of the willows did not stir but hung like drowsy green pennants into the still water. Blossom-heavy woodbines grew in abundance here, scenting the air with their musky-sweet, glorious perfume.
Gemma drew in a deep breath. Before her, an oblong pond spanned quite a distance—nearly the length of a thirty-camel caravan and as wide as her cousin’s townhouse in Mayfair. The place where she stood resembled a bottleneck, tapering into a gulf where the water was so clear that she could see the speckled stones on the bottom and the shimmer of apricot-scaled fish making lazy passes near the bank.
She would be content to remain in this spot for hours on end, if not for her main purpose—the pear-compote carnage on her dress.
The trick of the problem was that she was currently wearing the soiled garment. And as modern-thinking and understanding as Aunt Edith was, she likely would not approve of exhibitionism, even though they were the only two picnicking here. However, with the pond so shallow in this spot, she might be able to wade into it and lift handfuls of water to the stain.
Deciding that was her best option, she surreptitiously stripped out of her shoes and stockings, leaving them tucked together on the soft grass. Then, gathering her skirts nearly to her knees, Gemma stepped into the cool water, causing a blur of shallow ripples to break the surface.
Instantly, the cool, silky caress worked like a magic elixir designed to banish worries. A sense of peace washed through her. For that small moment, she stopped thinking about plans for the upcoming Season and the hopeless search for a husband. She even stopped her irrational worry that her father might appear and force her to leave her family again, the way he had after Mother died. Instead, she focused on the smooth pebbles beneath her feet and the ripples that gradually faded into stillness.
After a while, the sight of a curious dappled blue fish captured her attention. He didn’t seem to mind or even notice that she was in his realm but swam in meandering patterns around her ankles. Unable to resist the impulse, she bent at the waist and slowly slipped her hand through her translucent reflection.
The creature suddenly stopped swimming and turned back to where her hand dangled, submerged from wrist to fingertips. She thought about offering a small waggle, pretending that her hand was the keeper of five pale worms, but quickly decided that this particular fish was far too intelligent to fall for such a ruse. And she was right. The creature did not nip at her fingers when he drew near but brushed his fin against her knuckles instead, before darting off. Then, as if to use her for a scratching post, he returned and swam around to the other side, briefly pressing his flat, scaly body against her palm. Her hand twitched from the slick, ticklish sensation and, on the mirrored surface, she caught the flash of her own smile.
In the same instant, she heard someone cough.
Startled, Gemma jolted upright. Her gaze flew to the spot where a man stood on the opposite bank. With waves of blond hair and cut, aristocratic features, he looked as if he might have stopped here shortly after descending Mount Olympus. No real man was that handsome.
She blinked twice to clear her vision.
Absurdly, he remained unchanged.
Standing with one leg bent, he rested the sole of his Hessian on a large mottled stone rising from the earth. And with a camel-colored coat slung over his shoulder, he had a calm, casual air about him. Then again, perhaps he was merely allowing her a moment to gather her composure, having been subjected to hordes of women struck senseless in his presence.
At the thought, Gemma recovered quickly. In her experience, gentlemen—and attractive ones at that—weren’t always to be trusted.
As a matter of precaution, she calculated the distance between them as approximately ten paces across the narrow neck of the pond, twice as many if he was inclined to walk the distance along the water’s edge. Certainly enough time for her to make an escape or send a shout to her aunt, who could summon the driver.
She checked over her shoulder to ensure that her aunt was still in their picnic spot. Sure enough, Aunt Edith was there, the parasol listing to one side as she offered a reassuring wave that said, “Never fear, my dear. You are under my protection.”
Such a simple gesture, yet it put Gemma at ease. Apparently, Aunt Edith didn’t find the man’s proximity threatening. Either that or she’d already sent the driver to fetch his pistol.
“I hope you can forgive me. I did not mean to startle you,” the man said, his baritone gliding seamlessly over the water without the need to shout. “I only came to enjoy the lovely view this day has brought to Dunnock Park.”
He offered a smile and inclined his head in greeting, the sun gilding the tips of his hair with the movement. He was close enough that she could see the angular shadows that accentuated his cheekbones and the squareness of his jaw. The strict edge of his nose seemed to point down in a straight line to the divot above his broad mouth and to the dimple in his chin. His pale blue eyes
were somehow brighter than the late summer sky and seemed to grow warmer as he appraised her in return, his gaze dipping to the water where she stood.
She looked down too and noticed she’d dropped her skirts. They were now sinking like gauzy nets around her calves. Water saturated the fabric, climbing upward, turning her petticoat and dress translucent—all the way to her knees. If she stood here a moment longer, she would have very few secrets from this stranger.
A rush of heat slid through her, and her reflection revealed the slow saturation of red tingeing her cheeks, as if her veins were flooded with Bordeaux and she was a poached pear.
“Then I shall leave the pond for you to enjoy,” she said quickly, before any more of her became stained in purplish red.
Carefully, she stepped onto the grassy bank, her dress dripping and plastered to her lower legs. She did her best to squeeze out as much of the water as she could while bending toward her shoes.
“Tell me, fish charmer,” he called out before she could slosh away, “would it have been better if I’d been selfish and not alerted you to my presence? At least then I might have learned your secret for luring fish into your grasp.”
She stopped and faced him, prickled by the thought of this stranger believing her capable of dishonesty. Even if only to a fish. She’d spent most of her life bearing the weight of her father’s many fraudulent schemes, even before society became aware of his deeds. Now that they knew, most of the ton labeled her with the same character. “ ’Twas no trick but a truth. The fish knew nothing of my hand, and could form no misgivings, unless through deception.”
“Ah. You are a philosopher,” he mused with a nod, the hint of a dimple lurking near the corner of his mouth. “I should like to hear your wisdom regarding a method to convince a certain pike—which has eluded me for years—that my hook is nothing more than a bit of silver.”
Gemma felt her shoulders relax as she realized she’d leapt to conclusions. She reminded herself that she was no longer in the desert with her father and his seedy associates, or even in London, where whispers ruined reputations. In fact, thus far in Surrey, she’d encountered the best of manners and friendliest of dispositions. So it was entirely possible that the gentleman across the pond was as kind and cordial as he appeared to be.
Though only time would tell, and she had no intention of staying around long enough for him to disprove her theory.
“If I were a fish, I should care nothing for silver.” She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You would do better to convince the pike that your hook is a worm in armor and requires a good bite to set it free.”
He laughed at that, the sound rich and effortless, like a man accustomed to the practice. Looking across the pond, she witnessed the natural way his smile lifted his cheek, his eyes half-closed in merriment. There was no rakish gleam winking at her, nor a dark and brooding mystery in his features. In fact, his expression was open and unreserved, and he all the handsomer for it.
A whirring sensation spiraled through her in a lopsided fashion, like a winged seed falling from a maple tree. It almost tickled. And now, strangely enough, it seemed ages ago that his presence had startled her.
Not that it mattered. With the state of her clothes, she could hardly spend another moment in his company, regardless of this foreign impulse to linger.
“I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors and bid you good day,” she said, detecting the reluctance in her own voice.
He sobered instantly and held out a hand, as if to stay her with an invisible thread. “Surely there are more than enough pleasant sights for us both to enjoy. And should a few words of conversation float in my direction, I would not be averse to casting my own in return.”
A grin tugged at her lips, but she bit down on one corner to keep from giving in to it.
“To prove I am in earnest,” he continued, “I shall sit upon the ground and keep a proper distance. Do you think your companion on the hill would mind?”
Without hesitation, he draped his coat over the stone and sank down to the grass with the effortless grace of a well-formed man who was comfortable in his own skin. And yet, he was more watchful than relaxed, as if waiting to see if she would choose to stay.
It was quite sweet. She especially liked the fact that he did not try to manipulate her. At least, no more than making it clear that he desired her conversation.
“If my aunt did mind, you would know it in an instant. She is quite formidable with a parasol.” Careful with her damp skirts, Gemma sank down on one hip, her legs curled beside her, and spread the muslin out to dry. From the corner of her eye, she saw his posture relax in the way he rested his forearm on his bent knee.
He seemed to belong here, as much a part of this park as the blue and brown thrushes that were contentedly warbling from the grayish branches of a nearby beech. “I can well imagine. I was only a lad when I learned a parasol was more than shade overhead but a wooden sword with shield.”
Just then, she could imagine him as a tousle-haired boy, playing the knight, and she was further charmed by him. “In the hands of my aunt, it is also a paper poker, a garden-snake flinger, and—though I shudder to inform you—a wayward bat catcher.”
His dark golden brows lifted. “Indeed?”
“Open parlor windows on summer evenings do not solely allow for a cooling breeze but occasionally a chilling flurry of wings as well,” she said with a grave nod, the memory still fresh from a month ago. Aunt Edith had been trying to swat the creature when the parasol accidentally opened with a poof. They’d both shrieked with alarm, which was likely what had stunned the flying beast enough to land inside. “My aunt caught the creature and summarily handed the net, as it were, to the butler for release in the wilds of London. By winter, I imagine he’ll find his way in through a chimney.”
“The butler?”
The ridiculous question took her off guard and a bubbling laugh bounded from her lips before she could think to stop it. “No, the bat. Though I do hope to see Mr. Arnold again someday too.”
His smile grew. “A rather extensive catalogue of uses.”
“The truth of parasols,” she said, feeling that whirring inside her lungs again. It seemed to fill them, suddenly, like a hot-air balloon meant to lift her from this spot. And she almost wanted to rise into the air, solely to float across the water and land next to him.
Concealing those thoughts from her expression, she turned her attention to the water, her fingertips skating lightly over the surface.
He plucked a dark green blade of tall grass and twirled it between his fingers as he glanced down to the water too. “Would it be too bold to inquire the name of the philosopher whose teachings I shall follow from this moment forward?”
Please don’t, she silently pleaded. She wanted to hold on to this light, joyful feeling for a while longer. Of the two of them, only she knew that her name was a curse that, once spoken, would end their brief acquaintance. “Too bold, indeed. My aunt would never forgive me for introducing myself to a stranger.”
He scoffed good-naturedly. “But I am no stranger to Dunnock Park and, as of now, neither are you. We could just as easily have the pike introduce us.” Then he glanced up toward Aunt Edith and her parasol. “There is also another solution nearby.”
Was he so determined to know her name that he would climb the hill for it?
Gemma’s pulse thrummed furiously at her throat—two parts anxiety and one part nervous excitement. Oh, how she wished . . .
“Or perhaps,” she began, “since Mr. Pike is such an elusive friend of yours, and my aunt is such a distance up the hill, we might pretend that we are old acquaintances, introduced at this very spot on a late summer afternoon, quite some time ago.”
He gave her another easy grin. “Ages and ages.”
“To you, I am simply . . . Gemma.” She said it quickly before she lost her nerve, but her voice was hesitant, too breathy, and might not even have reached him through the thick, honeysuckled air.
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br /> She waited for him to say that he had not heard her but then saw him mouth her name, his lips pressing together. That strange, lopsided, fluttering thing inside her took flight beneath her breast.
“And you know me as Samuel,” he said, his voice hushed and lower too, as if they were sharing a secret.
Samuel. Such a nice, honest name. It suited him and yet was too formal for an introduction by the pond. After all, they were old friends now. “Yes, of course, but I have always called you Sam.”
“I had forgotten.” His bright, clear blue eyes fixed on her.
A blush crept to her cheeks at the warmth in his tone, and all the thrumming and whirring rushed to her head, making her giddy. She had the urge to lie back on the grass and wrap her arms around one of the fat, downy clouds overhead.
Never before had she suffered such a terrifyingly romantic notion. She was a cynic by nature, if not by upbringing. Vicious realities and a criminal father tended to keep a young woman’s head perfectly level upon her shoulders and her feet firmly on the ground.
So then why was she allowing a few words from a stranger to fill her head with fluff and nonsense?
She did not know the answer. Whatever this sensation was, she had not felt it before, and did not particularly like being caught unawares. She’d learned to be more guarded than this.
At the thought, the giddiness receded in tiny prickles of sensation, like soap bubbles popping all at once. She glanced down to the water again in time to see her smile fade, the sparkle dimming in her eyes.
“I have kept my aunt too long,” she said, rising to her feet and pulling her damp hem away from her legs. By the time she looked up, she saw that he was standing too and glancing to the path around the neck of the pond, as if he intended to escort her.
She shook her head. The gulf between them was much wider than he knew. “She and I have miles yet to travel before we reach our rooms.”
He stopped, appearing to consider this. “Then you are merely visiting this park along your journey to . . . ?”
“Banfern Glenn,” she offered, not wanting to conceal anything more than necessary. She already felt guilty for deceiving him by purposely omitting her surname. Besides, telling him where she was staying mattered little. Once she was gone from this spot, she was certain never to see him again and to fade quickly from his memory.
Just Another Viscount in Love Page 1