Just Another Viscount in Love

by Vivienne Lorret

  Holt smirked. “But what about the debutante you didn’t mention—the one who receives wary, if not lethal, glances from the others? Am I to assume that she is separated not only from the main party but from your list of candidates as well?”

  So Holt had noticed too. Sam had wondered if he was simply being overly protective of Gemma, especially after last night and the silent treatment she’d received at dinner. He did not like the way the others were still keeping their distance from her, as if the acts of her father were a disease she wore upon her skin. It made no sense to him. If they would only give her a chance, they would see how clever and good-natured she was.

  Although he retained hope that the shy Miss Creighton and the sunny Miss Stapleton would come around. At least they’d tried to speak to Gemma. Lady Tillmanshire, Miss Ashbury, Lady Cantham, and Miss Leeds, however, had doggedly interrupted every attempt by diverting conversation to another topic. They’d even trod on his own efforts. And with Gemma’s place at the far end of the long table, he’d been unable to come to her aid without, he feared, bringing more spiteful behavior down upon her.

  If he had the chance to revisit the past, his house party would only include the dowager duchess and Gemma.

  “Assume nothing of the sort,” Sam said to Holt. “She is, most definitely, on the list.”

  “Dowry?” Holt shot an appraising look across the lane.

  Sam stepped forward, turning to block his friend’s view, and set the head of his mallet on the ground firmly between his feet. “If there is a dowry, it would be quite small. Nothing to interest you.”

  Those onyx eyes twinkled with mischief. “Now, I find myself all the more interested. Say, does this poor creature have a name?”

  Before Sam could answer, he heard Gemma’s voice from behind him.

  “Lord Ellery, I believe it’s your turn.”

  Sam pivoted on his heel to see the object of their exchange not three steps from him, and his irritation at Holt evaporated from the warmth of her smile. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, her skin glowing beneath the golden rays. The sight filled him with a powerful urge to pull her into the shade, press his lips to her bare flesh, and feel the heat rising from her skin. Here in the full light, he could see the spots of pink on each swell where the sun had left its mark on her, and he felt a ridiculous rise of jealousy for the blazing star, wanting to leave his own mark instead. When he gave in and briefly allowed himself to imagine just that, his mouth suddenly went dry.

  At the base of her throat, the faintest shimmer of perspiration drew his attention to the enticing V-shaped notch. If he were to dip his tongue into that spot, would she taste of warm spice and salt from her exertions? Or would she be more like the woodbine and have the essence of sunshine and sweet morning dew on her skin?

  He had an inescapable desire to know.

  She touched her fingertips there, and he swallowed. “Am I getting pink? Aunt Edith is forever scolding me for being out of doors without my bonnet. I should hate to give her a reason to be right—” Her eyes widened slightly, and her cheeks tinged to a dark rose. “Oh, you are not alone. I did not see that you were standing with . . . otherwise I would not have spoken so . . . regardless, I should not have asked you to comment on my . . . you know, you could be a gentleman and stop me at any time.”

  Sam grinned at the way she wagged her finger at him when she was flustered. “But you are doing marvelously on your own.”

  “The invisible Lord Holt at your service,” Holt interrupted, stepping forward with a bow. “It seems as if the two of you are old friends, and yet Ellery was in the middle of telling me absolutely nothing about you. Not even your name. I cannot account for it, only to say that it stands to wonder if he’s trying to keep you all to himself.”

  “I’m certain that is not the case,” Gemma said in a rush. “Lord Ellery and I have only just met, you see, so there is very little for him to know and an even smaller amount for him to tell.”

  Holt shook his head. “Impossible. My friend is far too cautious to invite a stranger to his party. He prefers watchfulness to spontaneity and likely has a list of interests and commonalities about each of his guests tucked away in his desk.”

  Gemma titled her head to study Sam. “Is this true about the list?”

  He had every name on it but one.

  Sam shrugged. “If you’ll recall, I mentioned having a cautious nature soon after we met.”

  “Yes, but I thought”—she hesitated, looking askance at Holt before she continued in a lower voice—“you were trying to charm me so that I would accept your invitation.”

  Holt clutched Sam’s shoulder. “All the years of uncontrollable—oftentimes brutal—honesty, and at long last, it has finally worked in your favor. Now, be a good man and introduce me at once.”

  Sam hesitated, wanting to keep her all to himself. Holt’s dark and aloof nature had always appealed to women in a way that Sam had never fully understood. Seemingly sensible debutantes and matrons alike fawned over and flirted with him, dropping fans, handkerchiefs, and whatnot at his feet in order to gain his attention.

  While Sam never lacked for admiration and had even been hailed as the toast of the ton this past Season, he’d often worried that it had been because of Holt’s absence. Was it too much to ask for a young woman to lose her wits, just a little, over him?

  “This is Miss Desmond,” he said, biting down on the urge to claim her as his. My Miss Desmond. My Gemma.

  “Desmond . . . ” Holt’s brow furrowed. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Beside him, Gemma stiffened, her delicate features set as if cast in hardened clay. There was a sudden pallor to her skin as well, and the light dimmed from her eyes. In that instant, her demeanor altered completely from the relaxed state he knew into that of a fortress prepared for attack. “My surname is that of a criminal’s. Likely, you recall it from the papers.”

  Feeling his own man-at-arms arise within him, Sam locked his jaw and straightened his shoulders. He was prepared to rail at Holt if he made a single derogatory comment.

  Holt shook his head and arched that brow once more. “Interesting conversation starter, but no, that isn’t where I’ve heard it. I pay no attention to the papers—ghastly, depressing news, day after day.”

  “Then I believe you know her cousins, the Duke of Vale and the Earl of Wolford,” Sam suggested, his voice edged with warning. “Her aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Vale, is just across the lawn.”

  “Ah! I know Wolford well, indeed. Even though I have been away from town for months, I heard the rascal was strangled by the marriage noose recently.”

  A breath left Gemma in a soft whoosh, and the rigid column of her spine relaxed into a softer curve. “My cousin wears his noose with great contentment. In recalling the years Liam vowed to live a full life and not marry until he reached his sixtieth year, I am thankful that he found his bride much sooner.”

  “Some men can afford contentment,” Holt said in a tone of wounded mystery that typically elicited female interest, or in the very least a desire to soothe him.

  Sam held his breath as Gemma’s lips parted for her response. Then to his surprise, she turned her full attention to him.

  “Ellery, are you going to force me to play your turn and then my own? I will, you know,” she said with a cheeky smirk. “And you’d likely end up the better for it. After all, none of my strikes has ended in the rough.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. There was a low iron arch in the way of a perfectly good shot.”

  She laughed. “The trick is to go through the hazards as if they were never there at all.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” he said, smiling. In that moment he could have sworn the sun shone a little brighter on the alley, and it filled him with the hope that he wasn’t imagining her interest in him.

  Later that afternoon, the women gathered on the stone terrace while the gentlemen visited the stables. Green-painted wrought-iron chairs sat in gr
oupings of four, surrounding several small tables of the like.

  From their spot, Aunt Edith and Gemma had a perfect view of the stables through a border of vibrantly blooming smoke trees. Miss Creighton and her aunt, also Miss Creighton, along with Miss Stapleton occupied the nearest table. Then sitting farthest from the group were Lady Tillmanshire, Miss Ashbury, Miss Leeds, and her young stepmother, Lady Cantham.

  It did not take long for Gemma to realize that these four were determined to ensure the near-biblical destruction of enjoyment. In fact, if there were such a book as a Bible for House Parties—and a book of Revelation therein—then these women would be the four horsewomen of the house-party apocalypse.

  Last evening, Gemma had noted that the Misses Creighton were a timid pair, both pale and brunette but with watchful eyes, the younger possessing lashes as thick as mink fur. All the better to shield her shy glances toward the Hollander twins, Gemma imagined. Both One and Two, as Sam referred to his friends, had flanked the bookish Miss Honoria Creighton at the table and, through their antics, had done their best to coax her out of her shell. Yet every time Miss Leeds or Miss Ashbury had spoken, she would startle and hastily look down to her plate.

  On the bright side, Honoria Creighton and the sunny Miss Aurora Stapleton appeared to be bosom companions. The latter of the two had nearly spoken to Gemma at dinner. They’d sat across from each other, their gazes and smiles colliding each time the Hollander twins shared an amusing anecdote. And while the gentlemen were good to include everyone in conversation, each time Gemma, Miss Creighton, or Miss Stapleton had the opportunity to speak, one of the four horsewomen had cut off their words most rudely.

  For Sam’s sake, Gemma had kept her comments to herself.

  Today, however, biting her tongue was proving to be far more difficult.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Tillmanshire began, her voice loud enough to send a flock of nutshell-brown willow warblers scattering to the sky, “I hope your nephew Lord Wolford and his new bride are faring well after their unspeakable ordeal.”

  Not one to be fooled by false concern, Aunt Edith offered no thanks but merely said, “Quite well,” and sipped her tea.

  Lady Tillmanshire, however, remained seated on her warhorse, not dissuaded from her topic. She pursed her thick lips over her camel-overbite. “I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to know that your own brother-in-law was nearly responsible for the countess’s death.”

  Miss Ashbury tilted her head and primped her auburn curls, sending a smug grin in their direction. But all Gemma could think about was how fortunate Miss Ashbury was to not favor her mother in looks. Though it was a little disconcerting to know that someone so vicious could be so pretty. Worse, she was quite good at concealing her true nature whenever the gentlemen were around. Gemma only hoped that Sam would see through it.

  As for the others at the table, Lady Cantham was a reputed beauty from last Season. Though Miss Leeds didn’t seem to mind that her stepmother was only two years her senior. They were thick as thieves. Both of the women were slender, possessing pale blonde hair and fair complexions, but Miss Leeds’s features were somewhat flatter—her mouth broad, her nose shallow—and on the odd occasion, she lisped like a viper disturbed from its basket.

  Growing up primarily in the desert, Gemma had always been wary of snakes.

  In response to Lady Tillmanshire’s comment, Aunt Edith turned slowly and offered a glacial stare. “There now. Are you satisfied that everyone present knows of his evil deeds? Good. We wouldn’t want anyone to misunderstand the point you were trying to make.”

  With a blanket of conjecture laid out plainly, the Misses Creighton and Miss Stapleton slid wary—but somewhat sympathetic—glances in Gemma’s direction. Then, with the excuse of too much sun, the elder Miss Creighton suggested that she, her niece, and Miss Stapleton might rest for a time before dinner.

  Gemma was sorry to see them go. She might have retired as well, if not for the fact that leaving would give the impression that the four had succeeded in running her off as well. Therefore, she decided that she would remain in this very spot. Until the end of days, if need be.

  The hard truth of battle.

  That evening, Gemma chose not to join the others in the parlor after dinner. She’d had her fill of close-quarters condescension for the past day and a half.

  So instead, she tiptoed toward the stairs and hoped that no one would spot her.

  “Surely that is not Miss Desmond sneaking upstairs.”

  Gemma stopped on the first step, her thoughts pleasantly interrupted by Sam’s sudden appearance. Stepping out of the partially opened doorway of the parlor, he crossed his arms but gave her a teasing smirk.

  “Sneaking is such a close cousin to lurking. I prefer . . . quietly treading,” she whispered, wanting to maintain a semblance of privacy here in the hallway.

  He did not stop moving toward her until there was only a curved banister between them. It was impossible not to notice how their faces were now at the same level. Should either of them be struck with a sudden passionate urge to press their mouths together . . . well, their proximity made it quite convenient.

  If it were any other man, she would have taken an automatic step back, not wanting to allow for any untoward ideas. Yet with Sam, she had plenty of her own. And his heated glance down to her lips told her that his thoughts were similarly engaged.

  “We are just about to begin our evening’s entertainment,” he said, the timbre of his voice low and intimate, his dark pupils reflecting the sconce light.

  Without conscious thought, she caught herself listing forward. Even in still night air, he smelled of fresh summer wind and the warm, spiced essence of the earth baked in sunlight. She couldn’t resist breathing in deeper.

  “I know, but I took the liberty of pilfering your library for an interesting book, and I plan to spend time reading in my bedchamber. Well, not my bedchamber but the bedchamber you chose for me,” she quickly corrected. Though her amendment didn’t sound any better. And why couldn’t she stop saying bedchamber?

  Her pulse accelerated under his intense scrutiny, beating raggedly at her throat and harder beneath her breasts.

  Then, realizing that she might have sounded as if she wasn’t pleased with his choice, she continued. “The soft shade of blue makes for a lovely bedchamber”—there she went again—“and I especially like the cozy window seat. I cannot imagine a more perfect spot for reading.”

  He drew in a breath, his nostrils flaring as his gaze climbed the stairs as if, for an instant, he imagined joining her. So, of course, she thought of it too. The pair of them ensconced in the snug window seat, side by side, his arm brushing hers by accident as he turned the page of a book. Gentleman that he was, he would offer an apology. In turn, she would lift her face to absolve him of any fault, which would leave her at the perfect angle to receive his kiss. But would she let him?

  The answer was embarrassingly easy. Yes, most assuredly yes.

  “Do you like my library as well?” he asked, cleverly maneuvering the topic away from bedchambers.

  It was for the best, she supposed. Her imagination was getting out of hand. “Very much, indeed. It is full of more books on history than I’ve ever seen in one place. We did not have many books when I was younger, so I am determined to read as many as I can. Though I will be lucky to get through one shelf before the party ends.”

  It was a shame she could not stay long enough to read them all.

  He lifted his hand to rest it on the polished rail between them, the blunt tips of his fingers curling around to her side, bringing him a little bit closer. Of their own volition, her slippers shuffled nearer, her toes tipping over the rolled edge of the runner.

  “I am glad you like it.” The way he searched her gaze, she sensed he wasn’t simply speaking about the room that inhabited his shelves, but his selection, his tastes, and perhaps even him. “But why not read in the parlor instead of in your bedchamber?”

  Oh dear. No
w she was thinking about bedchambers again, her mind racing past snug window seats and directly to the kissing. Her lips were tingling so fiercely that she had to press them together, and wait a minute—had she imagined it, or had he emphasized the words your bedchamber?

  Her heart thumped so hard she was certain he could hear it. She hugged the book to her breast to muffle the sound and glanced over his shoulder to the open door. Her thoughts were wholly improper. “I had better not.”

  His expression hardened. “If anyone has been unkind or made you feel unwelcome in my home, then I will—”

  On impulse, she laid her hand over his, and though she startled and tingled at the intimacy, she did not pull away. “It is nothing like that. Under the circumstances, your guests have been pleasant”—the four horsewomen were careful to keep their insults out of his earshot—“which is a debt I owe to you. You are well respected among your peers. I can never thank you enough for the joy you’ve brought to my aunt and to me.”

  He curved his thumb over her hand and tugged gently. “Then have more of it and come with me into the parlor. Bring your book, if you like.”

  Your book—why did those words sound so full of promise? Likely, the frissons of awareness teeming through her whenever he was near were starting to addle her brain. When he looked at her with such protective tenderness—something that had been absent for most of her life—she felt that everything and anything was possible. That she would have someone by her side, helping her to stand tall during the moments when she wasn’t particularly strong. And that her life could start again, right here, right now.

  It was a dangerous fantasy.

  She shook her head. “I am afraid that, should I sit in the parlor, someone may ask me to play cards.”

  “Ah.” His face transformed with his broad, easy grin. “Then if your reluctance comes from a lack of knowing the game, I should be more than glad to be your tutor.”

  For a moment, she contemplated an innocent pretense of knowing nothing about card play, for a wholly selfish purpose. However, that would not be honest or fair. Drat. “I would only be too happy if that were the reason.”