“I suppose marriages have begun on worse,” he muttered into his glass. He shook his head. What was he going on about? This would not be a marriage. It had been a wedding at best, and that was questionable under the circumstances. There was no reason, not in heaven nor on earth, to remain shackled in this way.
The door behind him opened, and he turned as Gemma walked into the room. All thoughts left his head as he stared at her. She was no longer in a wrinkled gown, her red hair mussed by lying in a bed all night. She wore a pretty gown of blue silk that clung to her breasts before it cascaded over the rest of her slim form. Her maid had fixed her hair into a simple but very flattering style, so that little curled auburn tendrils teased around her pale cheeks. Cheeks where he now noticed just a smattering of unfashionable but wholly endearing freckles.
She was stunning. And in that moment his body reacted the way his mind did not want, filling with desire and hot, heavy need. He wanted to touch her, to taste her, to feel her arch beneath him in that marital bed he had just been scheming to destroy.
“Good morning again,” she said, her falsely bright voice mercifully breaking through his inappropriate thoughts and bringing him back to reality.
“Good morning,” he managed to say, amazing since he could hardly breathe as he looked at her. “I-I hope the bath was restorative.”
As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back, for the word bath conjured images of her naked in the water, peering up at him with beckoning eyes, her legs spreading to reveal—
“Thank you, it was,” she said, tilting her head to look at him. “You look different when you are shaved.” He blinked at the comment and the way her cheeks darkened with color. “That was a foolish comment,” she said as she turned her face. “I meant—”
He raised a hand. “This is awkward for us both, Gemma.”
He waited for her to correct him, but she didn’t.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed softly.
He motioned to the sideboard, filled with all of the cook’s best breakfast concoctions. She had outdone herself today, obviously striving to impress the new mistress, as temporary of a post as that would likely be.
“Would you like a plate?” he asked. “The food is wonderful. And I could pour you tea—or coffee if you would prefer?”
She looked at his glass before she took a plate and began to peruse the selections of meats and breads. “What do you have there?”
He cleared his throat. “I, er…it’s something to help with the aftereffects of so much alcohol.”
She hesitated in her selection of food from the sideboard and looked at him. “You have a drink to help you overcome too much drink?”
He looked at the glass. “It has no spirits in it. I don’t think. To be honest, I have no idea what it is, but my servants started mixing it up years ago for me.”
Her brow arched and she set her plate down. “You are very trusting, Mr. Flynn, to drink something that contains ingredients you don’t know.”
“Do we ever know what is in our food?” He laughed. “It isn’t as if I’m in the kitchen when it’s being cooked. Besides, if the servants wanted me dead, they have had plenty of opportunity to commit the crime over the years. They seem to like me well enough.”
She moved toward him. “May I taste it?”
He drew back. The question was unexpected. It could even be considered sexual, though when he looked into her gray eyes, he could see no hint of flirtation there, only curiosity.
“Of course,” he said, offering her the drink. “Though I warn you, it is vile.”
She pressed her lips to the glass and he shifted slightly. There was something very intimate about that act, like a kiss they hadn’t yet shared. Slowly, she tipped the glass back and took a sip of the brew.
Her face twisted comically as she handed it back to him.
“God, that is vile!” she said, half-laughing as she swallowed it with a look of horror. “How often do you drink it?”
He shrugged. “Too often, I fear.”
“I would stop drinking before I drank that,” she said, coughing.
He turned away, poured her a cup of tea, which he sweetened before he gave it to her. “This will help take the taste away. And perhaps you are right about the drinking. This potent concoction is only one of many unacceptable consequences of being too far into my cups.”
Her gaze flitted to him as she swigged her tea in a very unladylike fashion. “Dire consequences, indeed,” she agreed when she could speak again. But to his surprise, there was little heat to the statement.
“Will you eat?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, if only to get the taste out of my mouth.”
They laughed together and Crispin tilted his head to look at her. It was actually surprisingly comfortable to be with Gemma. At least for the moment. Which was good. He didn’t want every part of this odd circumstance to be filled with drama and emotion. There would certainly be enough of that later.
He filled a plate and joined her at the table where they ate in companionable silence for a few moments. Then Gemma took a sip of her tea, watching him as she did so.
“You realize I know very little about you aside from rumor and innuendo.”
He couldn’t help the way the corner of his lip lifted in a smile. Rumor and innuendo could have been his middle name. He was a Flynn, after all. He and his brother had once pilfered a very famous painting of a duchess and her dogs, and added…well, some very inappropriate cutouts to the image before they carefully rehung it in her halls. And that was the least of his sins.
“Why don’t you tell me the rumor and innuendo and I will tell you if it is true?” he said.
“You will make me say some of these things out loud?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Sometimes the truth is painful, my lady.”
She sighed. “Nearly had a duel with the prince.”
“A terrible misunderstanding, but true.” He shook his head. “The old fellow seems to like us well enough now. We aren’t invited to the palace, of course, but he nods quite magnanimously if he sees us out and about.”
Gemma was simply staring at him, forkful of eggs halfway to her lips. She blinked a few times. “I honestly thought that one was untrue.”
He laughed. “Why?”
“Because it has been said that you avoid high society at all costs, Mr. Flynn.”
He felt his smile fade. “Unfortunately, high society does not seem to avoid me or my family. Now what is your next rumor?”
She hesitated, as if she wished to pursue the subject further, but finally she let out a low sigh. “You danced on a table at a somewhat somber public event to celebrate the Treaty of Fontainebleau.”
Crispin considered that. Had he done that? It was very recent, after all, and most of his bad behavior in the past six months had been fueled by large amounts of liquor. But wait…wait…there was an image of staid formality now. Speeches. And…
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, there was something about that. But you know, why should a celebration of what we hope will be the end of a bloody war be staid? Should we not be dancing on tables? The folks around me thought so. I started a trend, I believe.”
Once again, he saw more in her eyes, a curiosity that she seemed reluctant to explore. He wasn’t certain whether to be happy or disappointed in that fact.
“And what about…” She trailed off, blushing suddenly. He braced himself for questions about the women. At least no one would ask about the specific woman, for no one knew about her.
“About?” he encouraged, rather enjoying the pink to her porcelain skin.
“I heard you ran naked in Hyde Park,” she burst out, the words running together as her gaze flitted away from his and suddenly her food became very interesting to her.
He couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Damned Rafe, he always tells that story wrong to make himself look better. It was he who ran naked through the park, no
t me.”
Her eyes were so wide now he thought they might roll from her head entirely. “So it is true? Why in the world would you…he do something so shocking?”
“A bet, of course,” he said, laughing. “My brother lost a wager, fair and square, and he had to suffer the consequences accordingly, as is the way.”
Suddenly she lowered her fork to the edge of her plate and her face drew down. “So you are accustomed to these kinds of wagers gone terribly wrong?”
Crispin flinched. He hadn’t even been thinking about the wager that had brought them to this dining table this morning. He should have been, of course. Their unwanted marriage should have been the thing on the very top of his mind.
And yet talking to Gemma in this very comfortable way had erased those unpleasant thoughts. Odd, really.
“There is a vast difference between wagering that the loser of a bet would have to run through the park in only what God gave him and wagering a wedding,” he said, as gently as he could. “I assure you I am not disregarding the seriousness of the former just because I can laugh at the latter.”
“But you said you cannot escape the consequences,” she whispered, her voice cracking. For the first time there was a break in her calm and he saw how devastated she truly was by this turn of events. He couldn’t take it personally. What woman wanted to be forced into a union with a stranger?
Especially a stranger with a reputation such as his.
Slowly, he reached out across the table and placed his bare hand over hers. It was the first time he had touched her, and electricity all but crackled as he did so, jolting him and making him jerk his gaze to her face. She wasn’t breathing now, just staring at his hand covering hers.
“Gemma,” he whispered. “I’ll fix this somehow.”
She met his gaze slowly and shook her head. “You don’t understand. For me, it is either stay here as your very unwanted wife or go back to my father, who would sell me off to settle a debt. You can’t fix it for me.”
His lips parted in surprise. He hadn’t thought of it from her point of view, only from his own. If he could manage to break this farce of a marriage, then he would be free. And she would still be in chains.
And suddenly he wanted to fix it for her so very badly.
He shook the feeling away, knowing where it led, and removed his hand from hers. “Well, we will figure something out, I assure you.”
She watched him closely, too closely, and he wondered what she saw as she stared. What she thought. How she judged him. Did she know he itched for a drink? Did she know he itched to kiss her even though this was temporary? Did she know he often wished he could run away and never come back?
She blinked and the spell was broken.
“I have one more question about rumor and innuendo,” she said, spearing the final remnants of her breakfast with her fork.
“That is?” he asked, doing the same.
She hesitated so long that he wondered if she’d lost track of what she was going to say. But just as he was about to press her, she looked him straight in the eye.
“I’ve heard you hate your brother.”
The words hit Crispin one at a time, like stab wounds, burrowing into his chest and stopping his heart. Was that what people thought? Said?
Was that what Rafe thought?
Of course, when he considered his behavior over the last year, why wouldn’t everyone believe exactly what Gemma had just asked? After all, no one understood the pain he had endured, the way his own loss had become entangled with Rafe’s loss of freedom.
“I don’t hate my brother,” he said softly.
“But—” she began.
“And what of you?” he interrupted. He could hear how hard his tone was now, but he couldn’t meter it sufficiently. “I don’t even have rumor and innuendo to go by when it comes to you, my lady.”
She shifted at the change of subject, that fetching blush returning to her cheeks. She took a few long breaths and looked at him. There was a hollowness to her expression that dug into his soul. He had seen that look on his own face in the mirror some days.
“I’m sure that will change, Mr. Flynn,” she whispered, her voice broken and bitter. “I’m certain that as news of our marriage gets out there will be floods of people who will rush to you, more than eager to fill your head with gossip. And if you break this marriage, they will tell you even more about how you dodged the greatest mistake of your life.”
He drew back at the angry words that fell from her lips. At the angrier expression on her face. Now he was utterly intrigued, for who could look at her loveliness and not desire it? Who couldn’t see her as a fine match, even if there was not money to be exchanged?
But she seemed insistent that she was not a good fit for him…for anyone.
“Why?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Wait and see, Crispin. They will tell my story with much more entertainment value than I could ever do.”
“Gemma,” he began.
She pushed to her feet and walked away to the sideboard. With her back to him, she said, “I think it is foolish for us to explore the past when our future will not be shared. After all, you claim you can break this marriage. Perhaps you will tell me now how you intend to do that.”
He hesitated. Should he press her on the past? He had an odd urge to do just that even though her words about them not sharing a future were very true.
Instead, he sighed. “I am going to be very honest with you, Gemma. After all, you know about the naked racing incident now. We must be friends, yes?”
She turned slightly, her eyes wide and her lips twitching. He wasn’t certain if she wanted to laugh or cry. Perhaps both.
“I appreciate honesty,” she said slowly.
He nodded. “I am not entirely certain I can fashion an exit from this mess. But I know people who could help us and we will go right now to see them. It is late enough we won’t be rousing them from sleep, I think.”
She shook her head. “Who?”
He shifted his weight. “Well, you inquired about my feelings regarding my brother. Perhaps you would like to see them in action. We’re going to see the Duke of Hartholm, Gemma. My brother, Raphael.”
Chapter Six
Gemma had lived in the company of the titled and landed gentry most of her life. She was…had been…a countess, for heaven’s sake. And yet, as the carriage made its way through rambling streets toward the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hartholm, her heart pounded and her chest squeezed with anxiety. There were so many stories about the couple that she feared what she would find there.
“Do you know my brother?”
She jolted at the question and looked away from the window toward her companion. Crispin was slouched down in the carriage seat, as he had been the entire ride, his hand over his eyes.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“I was praying for death, not sleep,” he said with a sigh as he straightened up and pulled himself together slightly. There was still a rakish dishevelment to him that was both frustrating and wildly attractive. He looked like a damned pirate. “Do you know him?”
She pursed her lips at his singular mindset. “I know of him. Everyone knows of him. But no, we never met.”
“I thought your husband was a…” He shook his head and she could see he was searching for the information in the foggy catalogue of his mind. “A…”
“An earl,” she provided for him with a frown. She tried not to think about Laurelcross when she didn’t have to do so. It was too painful. “But he wasn’t—he didn’t—we weren’t very active in Society. At any rate, he died close to the time your brother took over the dukedom, so we wouldn’t have met regardless.”
“Why?” Crispin straightened up even further now that he had a bone to nibble.
She stiffened. “Why did he die?” she squeaked out.
He shook his head. “Why weren’t you active in Society?”
/>
Relief flooded her. That was a topic she could discuss. It wasn’t that she wanted to share her deep, personal issues with this man she didn’t know, but being petulant and withdrawing wasn’t going to help her.
“He was much older than I was,” she began. “And he didn’t care for that sort of thing. He was more interested in heirs.”
The moment she said the words, heard them in the air around her, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She understood perfectly the implications of those words, and if Crispin’s widening eyes were any indication, so did he. His gaze flitted over her and she saw desire light up in his stare.
A desire her body answered automatically, despite the tenuous situation they were in, despite the fact that she didn’t know this person. Despite everything.
She felt blood heating her cheeks, felt her hands shaking with both humiliation and need. Felt everything in her want to shift toward Crispin Flynn and see if the rumors she had not dared discuss with him at breakfast were true.
Was he really the best lover in London?
The words rang in her head even though she hadn’t spoken them out loud, and she turned her face. Thankfully, they were just pulling into the drive at the duke’s home, and the moment a footman came to open the door, she hurtled herself from the vehicle as if the hounds of hell were behind her.
In a way, she felt they were. Crispin Flynn was the embodiment of every sin she had ever committed. Perhaps he was her punishment.
The door to the house opened and a butler with a surprisingly tired appearance stepped out to greet them. His gaze passed her and fell on Crispin and his eyes widened.
“Mr. Crispin, you are…you are here!” he said.
Crispin grinned as he strode up the steps with every confidence and slapped the butler hard on the upper arm. “Latham, you old crow, you look well.”
The butler’s lips pursed, but Gemma thought his eyes also danced. It seemed there was a great amount of affection between Crispin and this household. “Thank you, sir.”
“And my brother is in residence, I hope?” Crispin asked, and there Gemma heard just a hint of desperation in his voice.
The Widow Wager Page 4