“Who’s next on the list?” Sophia asked.
“Lady Beatrice,” he replied.
Sophia nodded. “Excellent. She’s quite sane, I swear it.”
“I’m no longer sure I should take your word,” he said, only half-joking. She had, after all, put Lady Barbara on his list.
“Pishposh,” she said with a giggle. “I’ve not known Lady Barbara that long! You said debutantes with large dowries. You never specified anything else.”
“Being in one’s right mind is a given. I should not have to say it,” he grumbled. “Is there anyone else on the list you don’t know well enough to know of her sanity?”
“I know the rest of them all quite well, so rest easy.”
He nodded and sketched a quick bow before descending the rest of the steps and climbing into his carriage. He wouldn’t rest easy until this whole distasteful venture was behind him. And then he had the sobering thought that if love was not part of his life, he might never rest easy again.
Jemma shifted from foot to foot as she waited for her grandfather to settle himself behind his desk. She’d requested a moment of his time so she could tell him that Philip would be escorting them to the theatre. As her grandfather sat down, he grimaced and gripped the edge of his desk.
Jemma frowned. “Is everything all right?”
He focused his keen blue eyes on her. “If you consider the pains of age ‘all right,’ then everything is perfect,” he groused.
That was the most personal statement her grandfather had made to her in all the time she’d lived here. It took her a moment to determine how to respond. She was used to being angry with him, or even tense, but now, shocking concern crept in. Yes, she was at complete odds with him, but that didn’t mean she wished pain on him.
“Is it your back?”
He nodded. “And my knees. They ache when I sit. Of course, they ache when I stand or lie down, as well, but the initial motion of sitting seems to cause the sharpest pain.”
“Mother used to have achy knees,” Jemma blurted.
Her grandfather’s eyes rounded, then narrowed. “I wouldn’t know since she ran off and left me behind.”
Jemma clenched her teeth. She had promised herself to never be drawn into an argument about Mother with her grandfather, but she refused to sit by and let him think he was blameless. “Well, you did disown her. I suppose she didn’t feel very wanted.”
Grandfather raised his bushy white eyebrows high. “Is that what she told you?” His voice held a note of disbelief, as well as a softness she’d never heard before. He was certainly superb at acting the part to get what he wanted. She tried not to scoff.
He laid his palms flat on his desk. “Lilly told you I disowned her? That she was not wanted by me?”
Jemma nodded as her stomach tensed.
“You’ve the wrong of it, young lady. I refused to offer a dowry if she married your father because I could see that he only wanted her money. And I was correct.” His voice had grown low and unforgiving. This was the man she was used to, the man who had never tried to know her or her sister, or reach out to her mother once she’d defied him. He narrowed his eyes. “I never suspected she would run off with your father.”
“She loved him,” Jemma bit out.
“He left your mother the minute he truly understood I would not relent and give her the dowry, just as I knew he would. I was right about him.”
Jemma balled her hands into fists. She would not argue. She would not. It was a pointless endeavor. He would simply continue to lie anyway in order to manipulate her the way he always did. Yet her anger bubbled up, and she could not hold her tongue. “Did that make you happy?” She seethed. “Did being right about Father please you?”
“No,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “It broke my heart. First, I lost my wife and then your mother.”
Her anger grew so immense that heat seared her. “You lie so convincingly,” she snapped, completely throwing caution to the wind.
His eyes grew hard and flinty as he stared at her. For a long silent moment, he held her gaze, and then, as suddenly as his eyes had grown cold, they softened. Emotion flickered across his face. It appeared almost like sadness. She found herself leaning forward to get a closer look, but the emotion disappeared and he simply looked weary.
The longcase clock chimed eight o’clock, and Jemma gaped. Philip was to be here now, and she’d not even told Grandfather yet. “Never mind,” she rushed out. “Let’s agree that we won’t agree on this, shall we?”
Grandfather furrowed his brow as if he was utterly confused, but he nodded.
“I came in here to tell you Lord Harthorne kindly offered to escort Anne, Mrs. Featherstone, and me to the theatre tonight, and I accepted.” She tilted her chin up, fully expecting him to say no, but it was too late unless he planned to be very rude to Philip. She bit her lip. Actually, she would not put it past him to do so. Anxiety made a rush of words tumble forth. “Lord Harthorne is my friend Amelia’s, the Duchess of Aversley’s, brother. I’m sure you’ve met him. He—”
“Jemma!” Grandfather snapped. “Quit prattling. I know Lord Harthorne. He is a fine gentleman, but I already told Lord Glenmore he could escort you.”
She grimaced. Of course he liked Philip! Philip was a rich, titled lord.
At that moment, the butler scratched at the door.
“Enter,” Grandfather bellowed.
Mr. Sims entered the room and inclined his head toward Jemma, as was proper. She’d give the man that. She knew he didn’t like her, but he never let on to Grandfather that he didn’t like her. The man was crafty, and she admired and rather respected it. It was likely how he’d survived so long serving Grandfather.
“Lord Harthorne is here, Your Grace,” Mr. Sims announced. “I’ve put him in the parlor.”
Grandfather gave a disgruntled sigh whereas Jemma fought not to grin. Really, Philip’s timing could not have been more perfect.
Grandfather flicked a hand at the butler. “Tell Harthorne the ladies will be but a minute.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but Lord Glenmore has also arrived. I put him in the library to avoid any awkwardness.”
“Well done, Sims. Give him the same message.”
To Jemma’s amazement, Mr. Sims—unflappably stalwart—didn’t even blink an eye. Her mouth, on the other hand, was gaping open. She knew because when she inhaled a sharp breath, the cool air filled her lungs, and she quickly snapped her jaw shut. As soon as Mr. Sims departed the room, she stood and brushed a hand over her gown to keep from twisting her hands together.
Grandfather swiped a hand across his face. He eyed Jemma for a moment. “I did not count on you having any other suitors.”
Jemma felt her eyes pop wide. He thought Philip a suitor? But of course it must appear that way! Grandfather didn’t seem angry, though, which didn’t suit his controlling nature at all. She must’ve been missing something.
“Um, er...” She shook her head, trying to unscramble her thoughts. “Lord Harthorne is not a suitor. He’s simply a friend.”
“Men and women cannot be friends,” Grandfather said with the slightest upturn of his mouth.
The extreme worry she was experiencing must be getting to her. There was no way Grandfather would be pleased if Philip was courting her unless— Of course! How foolish she was for being confused at all. “You hoped Lord Harthorne wanted to court me?”
He stood and came around the desk and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret. You are pretty. Lord Glenmore will offer even if there are no suitors to compete with him. Your future will be secure. Just show him how sweet you can be.”
At that, her temper shot to the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll be sure to show him exactly how sweet I can be,” she said, forcing a false smile that made her cheeks feel as if they would split open from the hypocrisy of the gesture.
Jemma stood, turned on her heel, and marched straight to the parlor, determined to warn Philip of Lord Glenmore’s presence so he
would not be taken off guard and forget their goal for the evening. Tonight, she was going to make sure Lord Glenmore had no doubt just how insipid and vain she was, as Philip had instructed. And if that didn’t do it, she would somehow have to show the man there was not a smattering of passion within her veins, nothing there for him to control.
Jemma raced into the library but stopped short at the sight of Mrs. Featherstone, Lord Glenmore, Anne, and Philip all gathered there. It took great effort not to laugh at the sight of Lord Glenmore’s foppish attire, especially when he was standing next to Philip, who looked so very dashing in his black waistcoat, trousers, and simply tied white cravat. There was nothing outlandish about Philip’s clothing. Nothing to call attention to him, right down to the basic gold buttons on his waistcoat, but it was hard for Jemma not to stare. He stood tall, proud, and with a presence that demanded one see the man and not the clothes, as if at any moment he would say something mesmerizing.
Reluctantly, she pulled her gaze from Philip’s and met Lord Glenmore’s cold glare. She dipped an ungainly curtsy, this time not purposely awkward but made so by the laughter she was trying to hold in. Lord Glenmore was truly in the most ridiculous attire she had ever seen. His lavender waistcoat was bad enough on its own, but coupled with the enormous magenta cravat and violet silk trousers, it was more than one should have to tolerate without laughing. And the buttons on the man’s waistcoat! She’d never seen so many diamonds in her life. She started counting but jerked to a stop when Mrs. Featherstone clapped her hands together and smiled.
“There you are!” Mrs. Featherstone said cheerfully. “I took the liberty of gathering everyone together so we could depart immediately. We don’t want to be late for the theatre.”
“I detest tardiness,” Lord Glenmore said in a grating tone.
The man had just handed her the first opportunity to show him just how much he detested her, as well. Her gaze flew to Philip’s and locked on him. He dipped his head, conveying without a word that he too thought this a grand opportunity.
Jemma tilted her head as if she were contemplating a decision of extreme importance, then glanced down at her silk gown. “I must go change!”
“What?” Mrs. Featherstone exclaimed.
Anne frowned at Jemma before her eyes seemed to alight with understanding, and Philip, well, he grinned from ear to ear. It was the sort of grin that could only come from a man who surely knew how to laugh and laugh well.
Lord Glenmore stepped toward her, his mouth drawn tight and disapproving. “We will be late for the theatre if you change.”
She hoped her pout looked as genuine as it felt. “I cannot go to the theatre in this green gown. It clashes with all your different shades of purple, and well”—she waved a hand at him—“you are outshining me, and that simply will not do. I like to be the center of attention.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are a woman. Your place is to be meek behind the man.”
Jemma curled her hands into fists by her side so she wouldn’t give Lord Glenmore the blow he deserved. “I don’t do well with meekness. I need to glow. And I always say it’s better to arrive late than ugly. I won’t be but a minute, you’ll see.” Before he could protest, she dashed out of the library and took the stairs at a most unladylike, and very satisfying, two at a time.
When she entered her bedchamber and shut the door, she could not hold back the laughter any longer. She laughed until her gut ached and tears rolled down her cheeks. Once she finally had control, she kicked off her slippers and flopped onto her bed. She cradled her head in her hands as she stared up at the ceiling and allowed the minutes to tick by. Hopefully, Lord Glenmore was growing intolerably angry downstairs.
After some time had passed, she got the not-unexpected knock at the door from her lady’s maid, and she bid her to enter. She instructed Eliza to pull out several gowns so she could find the most dazzling one she owned.
Considering how specific Grandfather had been that their gowns not be too revealing, which under normal circumstances she agreed with, none were overly alluring. However, there was one—a shimmery silver gown with a pearl-encrusted neckline—that Eliza exclaimed made her look like a walking vision of fire and ice when Jemma put it on.
“Fire and ice?” she asked.
Eliza gave a firm nod. “Your hair is the fire, and the gown is the ice.”
A leisurely twenty minutes later—quite long enough that she knew they would indeed be tardy to the theatre—Jemma strolled back into the parlor to the severe frown of Lord Glenmore and a smile from Philip that she could swear held a sensual flame that heated the room as if a fire were roaring in the grate. Was he already practicing being a rake? If so, he was becoming very good at it very quickly. His look made her stomach flutter in a way she had never thought it would again. She did not like it at all.
For a man who was in dire need of securing a bride with money, the very last thing Philip should’ve been doing tonight was sitting in the Duke of Rowan’s theatre box between a man he detested and a dowerless woman he could not quit thinking about. But being seen with her would help him. He crossed his arms over his chest. The reasoning felt false. Perhaps it was because Jemma occupied his every thought, whether he wanted her to or not. It was as if she had cast a spell on him that made him agree to participate in—and even willingly volunteer for—every outrageous scheme she had planned. He’d even come up with a few schemes for her. Yes, yes, he told himself it was to protect her because she needed it and to help fortify his position as a rake, but was that even true? Was he lying to himself?
He swiped his hand across his face and glanced sideways at her. Bedazzling. That’s what she was. She knew her mind, and she wasn’t afraid to follow it. It was unusual for a woman to have so much courage, and it was damned enticing. Couple that with the wounded, wary look that so often surfaced in her blue-green eyes, and the mystery that was Jemma was almost impossible for him to resist. Devil take it. He had lied to himself. He was a selfish bastard. He liked her, but he couldn’t. He needed to resist the feelings she inspired in him. He had to.
His mother, and now his cousin Eustice, counted on him for her livelihood, and being enchanted by a woman who had no dowry would not do his mother or his cousin any good, nor would it be a boon for Jemma. He highly doubted marrying a desperately poor gentleman with a penchant for poetry was what she lay awake at night dreaming about. No, she certainly must hope to catch a man with a title and money, despite her claim to want no husband at all. That was likely her simply reacting to her grandfather trying to control her. She was clearly a woman who actually wished to care for her husband, not actively dislike him as she did Glenmore. Philip respected her greatly for that. A woman who longed for love was a woman after his own heart...
Hellfire. He banished the last thought with a great force of will. He did not have the luxury of thinking about what he truly desired for himself, and he needed to damn well remember that and concentrate on helping Jemma rid herself of Glenmore quickly while she helped him perfect being a rake. He had a sudden vision of one of their lessons involving his kissing her very kissable-looking lips. He ground his teeth. That could never take place. That lesson would be a dangerous one, indeed.
Determined to keep his course, he nudged Glenmore in the ribs to get the man’s attention. It was a hard, satisfying jab. Glenmore lowered his lorgnette. What sort of self-respecting man used a lorgnette? Philip almost snorted. Of course Glenmore used one. He was a peacock, as Philip had told Jemma, and the man certainly wasn’t self-respecting.
“Miss Adair is a dazzling sight, wouldn’t you say?” gushed Philip.
“I prefer a less ostentatious lady,” Glenmore clipped.
Despite the fact that Glenmore’s irritated reaction to Jemma outshining him was the exact response Jemma wanted, a hefty dose of annoyance tightened Philip’s gut. Glenmore deserved a nice, hard facer on his snobbish aristocratic nose for his audacity in calling Jemma ostentatious. Philip knew he should let the comment pass.
Glenmore pinched his nose. “She needs to be taught not to be so willful,” he said.
There was no way Philip could keep silent now. He knew he should. Damned, but he couldn’t do it. He popped his knuckles one by one, imagining each snap to be a broken bone in Glenmore’s face. When he was finished, he stared at Glenmore for a long moment before speaking. “I’m almost at a loss for words that you, in all your purple pomp and ridiculousness, would dare to call Miss Adair ostentatious when she is, as any sane man would see, a vision. Nor do I think you have any right to say she needs a lesson in obedience.”
Jemma’s leg brushed his for the slightest second and claimed his attention. His gaze followed the silhouette of her leg, vaguely there, hidden by the fine gossamer silk of her gown, up, up, up over her tiny waist, voluptuous chest, and long, slender, beckoning neck. He swallowed the flare of desire her neck inspired in him. Good God, this was bad. If her neck made him ache with need, what would one taste of her lips do?
She licked those very lips and his mind went on a winding, whirling path of flashes of words to describe her mouth. He hadn’t felt so inspired since...since... Actually, he’d never felt such deep, soul-stirring inspiration to write due to the mere look of a woman. Mary had never inspired one poem in him until she’d left him. That should have been a sign.
Jemma offered him a warm smile and gave Glenmore a seemingly innocent one that Philip knew was spiked with scorn. “Lord Glenmore, ignore Lord Harthorne. He thinks he is being gallant, but I take your words as a compliment. I adore everyone looking at me, and I dress with such care to make it so. I always will. Why, one of my fondest wishes is to find a husband who wants to dwell in the shadow cast by my brilliance.”
Philip blinked. By the saints, the woman was a secret sorceress with words. He almost believed what she’d just said.
Glenmore’s face twisted as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I was under the impression you liked to dress rather simply.”
My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) Page 11