Gemma plucked the geranium from behind her ear and twirled it between her fingers. “It is highly doubtful whether there will be a wedding, Sebastian. I know what you said about Fanny and Romney, but he has not helped his cause by racketing about London with you these past weeks.”
“Which just shows the irrationality of women,” remarked Sebastian. “When he tried to speak with Fanny, she would not even grant him an audience.” He sighed. “If it’s any consolation, we did not racket about town. We were models of propriety, in fact.”
“Oh? How gratifying.” She did not believe him, and he supposed he could hardly blame her. She rose and shook out her skirts. “Now, I must go and make sure everything is in order in the kitchens.”
“Gemma . . .” That she thought so poorly of him stung. “Leave the crest where it is. I daresay I shall get used to it.”
She smiled. “Yes, Scovy. I daresay you will.”
FANNY strolled in the shrubbery with no sense of impending danger until large, firm hands caught her waist and swung her into a hard embrace.
She melted into him, met his lips with feverish intensity to match his own, and when he finally raised his head and looked into her face with those fierce, wild eyes, she licked her lips so she could taste him again.
Remembering where he had been these past weeks and how he must have spent them, Fanny tried to summon her previous righteous anger, but her knees were the consistency of syllabub and the comfort of Romney’s strong arms around her proved too strong to fight.
“This does not mean I will marry you,” she said weakly, fingering his coat lapel.
“Ah.” He bent his head and nipped her earlobe. “Then I shall have to compromise you further. Perhaps an obliging gardener might happen upon us when my hand is up your skirts.”
She gasped and tried to thrust him away. “You are supremely vulgar. No wonder I hate you.”
“Methinks she doth protest too much.” Romney’s light tone belied watchful eyes and a determined set to his jaw. “Fanny, this nonsense has gone on long enough, don’t you think? Come, you know you must marry me.”
She tried to avert her head. His hot breath tickled her throat and thrilled her down to her toes. “ ‘Must’ is a dangerous word to use to a Laidley, my lord. I will not marry a man of your inconstant, profligate character.”
He traced her lips with a fingertip. “Now you are being vulgar, little Fanny. Virtuous ladies, my dear, should know nothing about that side of a man’s life.”
Fanny’s eyes grew hot with tears. She blinked them back. “Well, we both know I am not virtuous,” she whispered. “And I won’t play second fiddle to your other women.”
He laughed and caught her closer. “Don’t you think you could hold me, Fanny? Do you think I would stray?”
“A leopard does not change his spots, or so I am led to believe.” She struggled to maintain her composure as the hard length of his body pressed against hers and the glint in his eyes told her he was hot for her. The thought set her blood racing and scrambled her thoughts, made her body ache for his. She wanted to believe in the fairy-tale ending, but she was too pragmatic to trust in a rake’s reform.
He growled in her ear. “Fanny, I have made love to you. You could be carrying my child—”
“No!” She said it more sharply than she’d intended. Quietly, she added, “There is no child. And now I have been granted that reprieve, I do not mean to indulge in such folly again. I’ve been given a second chance and I intend to take it. I would only end up miserable married to you.”
He exhaled a sharp breath, as though her words were a blow to the stomach. But how could that be? “There may be no child, but I have ruined you for any other man. You must allow me—”
Fanny snorted. “What nonsense you speak, Romney. There are any number of gentlemen who would turn a blind eye on their wedding night for the price of my dowry and connections.”
Romney stared at her, and his arms dropped to his sides. “Indeed? I’d no notion you were such a little cynic, Fanny. I fear, my sweet, that your worldly wisdom surpasses even mine.”
He went quiet a moment. Gazing into the distance, he said, “I can make promises, but I do not have a window into the future. I cannot offer you proof of my good intentions. It is something that must always be taken on trust between a woman and a man. And because of my past, you cannot trust me.” He looked at her. “There is nothing I can do to convince you, is there?”
His sober words set her objections in stone, when before they had just been nebulous, doubts that might have been overcome in the heat of passion or by his confident reassurance.
Wretched, knowing he spoke perfect sense, Fanny shook her head. “No, nothing.”
Romney turned away and his voice was remote. “Then our betrothal is at an end. I shall inform your brother and send the notice to the papers. Good day, Lady Fanny.”
SEBASTIAN dragged a hand through his hair. “You cannot be absent from a house party in your honour. Good God, why did you have to have this conversation with her now?”
“I am desolated that my timing was so inconvenient. In future, I shall take care to consult you before I allow myself to be jilted.”
“Sorry.” Sebastian sighed. “She loves you, you know.”
“Does she?” Romney’s sarcastic smile twisted. “I thought so at one time.”
Neither of them spoke for some minutes after that. The westering sun streamed through the library window. Sebastian squinted at the horizon until his eyes smarted and streaks of light danced before his eyes. Then he lit the lamp on his desk and moved to draw the heavy curtains shut.
Romney drained his glass and set it down with a decisive snap. “I must show her. I must reform.”
Sebastian repressed a smile. “Well, it’s worth a try. How do you propose to go about it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I should model myself on one of those virtuous bores you intend for Miss Maitland—attend church on Sunday, keep regular hours, indulge in healthful exercise, prose on about crop rotation and sheep-breeding techniques, that sort of thing.”
“Lord, you’ll be driven to suicide in a week.”
“No. I can do it. I will do it. I must.”
THE sung Eucharist on the Sunday before the house party was enlivened by an extraordinary occurrence. Two elegant male personages graced the Laidley family pew, clutched their hymnals, and raised their bass voices in surprisingly tuneful song.
The rest of the congregation spent most of the service craning their necks to obtain glimpses of the earl and his friend. Though the earl received the vicar’s sermon about the sins of the fathers with a saturnine expression, his companion attended with rapt concentration.
“He is nodding and smiling now. What can he mean by it?” Fanny whispered a running commentary in Gemma’s ear. “Do you think he will do something shocking and embarrass me before the congregation?”
Under her breath, Gemma answered, “Perhaps he came to pray for divine mercy since you will show him none. Really, Fanny, you must stop tormenting the poor man.”
When the service ended and the parishioners gathered outside to gossip, Gemma and Fanny waited for the gentlemen to join them.
Romney paused to chat with the vicar and his wife. Sebastian stood by, with a slightly ironic expression that boded ill for the shiny-faced little vicar’s attempts to include him in the conversation. Nevertheless, the two gentlemen left the vicar beaming.
They approached Gemma and Fanny and bowed. Romney spoke. “Ladies, we are invited to tea with the vicar. I undertook to accept the invitation on your behalf.”
With courtly correctness, he offered Fanny his arm. Clearly bemused, she took it, and they walked on towards the vicarage.
Gemma glanced at Sebastian as they passed through the lychgate. “What is all this about?”
He shrugged. “Romney’s idea, not mine. And I shall not be prolonging the experience. Come on.”
He led Gemma away from the vicarage to the common. No children played t
here, as it was the Sabbath. The green landscape was silent, but for the odd birdsong and the salt breeze hushing through the trees.
“But what about the vicar?”
“Hang the vicar. He should know better than to preach his sermons at me.”
Gemma considered. “The sins of the fathers? But your father was a very upright man by all accounts.” She hesitated, choosing her words. “When one is feeling guilty, one tends to interpret the most innocently motivated words as a reproach.”
Sebastian stared at her, hard.
Gemma lifted her chin. She owed it to him to tell the truth. “When I mentioned the estate the other day, Scovy, I did not mean to pinch at you. I wanted to tell you I am concerned. Your steward is ill and failing, but he is too proud to ask for help.”
“What? Wilks is only one-and-sixty, not in his dotage. Fit as a flea, old Wilks. I rely on him utterly. You must be mistaken.”
Gemma shook her head. “Since I have been here, I have noticed things. All is not as it should be.” She paused. “Do you review the ledgers yourself, Scovy?”
“No, Wilks does it. Why?”
“I was provisioning for the house party and naturally wished to study the household accounts. There are . . . discrepancies which neither your housekeeper nor Mr. Wilks could explain to my satisfaction. I fear that if you check your other account books, you might find similar ones.”
He was silent for a moment. “Are you telling me Wilks has been skimming the profits? I don’t believe it.”
“No, I suspect it is Mrs. Penny who is the culprit, but Mr. Wilks should have noticed, don’t you think?”
A flush of mortification swept over Sebastian’s lean cheeks. Stiffly, he said, “Thank you. I shall look into it.”
Gemma laid her hand on his arm and they walked on. She decided she had said enough on that subject for the time being. “Now, tell me about all of these people who will be coming to the party.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. You will meet them soon enough.”
Typical man! “When I meet them, I want to be prepared. If you describe them to me, I might remember their names more easily. I might know what to talk to them about.”
He eyed her with amusement. “Meeting new people makes you nervous, doesn’t it?”
“Of course not. I am always meeting people. Just . . . just not ones of your world, Scovy.”
He sighed. “I suppose this is about your mother. Gemma, she is hardly Harriette Wilson. She is not well known in London, because she spends most of her time abroad. I doubt many of our guests would connect you with her, and even if they did, they would not care. My mother is sponsoring you, my sister and I acknowledge you. That is all that will matter to them.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Gemma, not believing it for a second, but loath to debate the precise level of her mother’s notoriety. “Still, I would prefer to stay in the background. You are kind to include me, but I am far happier keeping things running smoothly. I don’t wish to dine with you, or—”
“For God’s sake, Gemma, stop mouthing fustian like some deuced governess. You will join in the entertainments and that’s the end of it. You insult my friends by assuming they will not welcome you.” He grinned down at her. “The men will welcome you with open arms.”
She flushed. The prospect did not entice her. A fortnight of dodging stray hands and extricating herself from surreptitious embraces held little appeal.
But Sebastian went on, oblivious. “Oh, I almost forgot. I took the liberty of purchasing a new wardrobe for you in town.”
She halted. “You did what?”
He raised his brows. “As the de facto hostess, you will need to be suitably attired, and I thought the expense should be mine.”
Was he out of his mind? “You bought gowns for me? I never heard of anything so outrageous. You know I cannot accept them, Scovy.”
He sighed. “Look, no one need know I bought them and I certainly don’t expect anything in return. Take it as a gift in thanks for your fine work here. I never did thank you properly.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. The warm light in his eyes told her he wanted to do more.
Ruthlessly, Gemma thrust aside a similar desire and drew her hand away. She kept walking, her heart beating a little faster. He fell into step beside her.
She stole a glance under her hat brim at Sebastian’s chiselled profile. Why did her instinct always tell her to trust him? He was a rake, a heartless seducer of hapless females. He had never pretended otherwise. Yet when he produced a truly ridiculous justification for doing something that would ruin her if the gossips got hold of it, she believed him. Couldn’t help it. He was still Scovy to her.
When they passed under the canopy of a huge oak, Gemma stopped and turned to him. There was something she desperately wanted to know. “The day before you left for London . . . when you kissed me. Why did you do it?”
His lips twisted, a touch rueful. He reached past her and ran his fingers down the tree trunk. “It was your smile, princess. I could not resist.”
She tried to ignore this new endearment. “But if I were a lady of irreproachable virtue, you would have resisted, wouldn’t you? If I were not Sybil Maitland’s daughter—”
Sebastian threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, by God, that’s rich!” He put his hands on her shoulders, sliding them down to grasp her wrists. She stepped back, but he moved with her, backing her slowly until her hat brim buckled against the tree trunk and her shawl caught on the bark.
Impatiently, he shook his head. “You silly little fool. Don’t you know if I thought you were fair game we would be lovers by now?” His voice grew husky. “We would have been lovers before we left Ware.”
Her cheeks flamed. Her heartbeat grew frantic. She must be like her mother after all, because the idea of being Sebastian’s lover was like a lightning strike through her body, melting her from the inside out. Her knees buckled. She managed to choke out, “I believe I might have had something to say to that.”
“Oh?” The set of his shoulders reeked of masculine arrogance. Still gripping her wrists, he smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Then you do not want me? You let me put my tongue in your mouth and my hand on your breast—out of friendship, perhaps?”
Furious at his crude conceit, she wrenched her wrists from his hold, but she was trapped between his large, solid body and the tree trunk. Before she could slide free, he took her face between his hands and stared deep into her eyes, his wayward dark fringe flopping over his brow.
“I may be many things, Gemma, but don’t accuse me of not valuing you as I ought. It is only your honour that has prevented me from making you mine.”
Slowly, he bent towards her and stopped, his mouth inches from hers.
For a long, tense moment, she thought he would kiss her again, and—spineless idiot that she was—she wanted his kiss, craved it more than life. Her whole body trembled with the effort of remaining still, of keeping her own wayward lips to herself.
But only his warm breath whispered over her mouth as he spoke. “Don’t offer me a challenge I can’t resist.”
Thirteen
THE first day of the two-week house party dawned grim and grey. By mid-morning, a howling wind whipped the surrounding trees to a frenzy and rain hurtled against the window panes in clattering waves.
As Gemma hurriedly revised her plans for the guests’ entertainment that afternoon, the weather seemed both an ill omen and an accurate reflection of her mood. That her black-edged humour might stem from the fact that Sebastian had not kissed her the previous morning was a thought she refused to countenance.
But her mind continually absented itself from her task. Her body thrummed with restless energy, a powerful force inside her clawing, twisting, thrashing to break free. She felt wrong in her skin, as if that external layer concealed something wild and dangerous, something that might consume her if it could not find release.
The notion gripped her so hard that she
went to the looking glass, only to see her perfectly normal reflection staring back.
Ridiculous! She smiled at her stupid fancy. Surely, this restive turbulence must be the result of missing her morning exercise because of the inclement weather. Resolving to ride out the following day—even if it stormed, she paced the floor of her bedchamber, waiting for Dorry to come and help her change her dress.
With complete disregard for Gemma’s protests, Sebastian had sent mountains of bandboxes to her bedchamber. Only the twin considerations of the wasted expense and the scandal it would cause stopped her pitching them out the window into the rain.
When Dorry finished helping her into her best morning gown—her own best morning gown—Gemma ordered her maid to put the illicit purchases away, claiming that her mother had sent them. She hoped she would not be caught out in the lie.
“I’ll say one thing for your mama, she has exquisite taste. Just look at the lace on this gown.” Dorry laid the azure lustring carefully in the clothes press and ripped open another bandbox. “Oh!”
“What is it?” Gemma moved towards the bed. “Dorry, you are quite pink. Let me see.”
She snatched the garment from Dorry’s grasp and held it up to the dim, watery light. A diaphanous concoction of peach silk, lace, and gauze, designed to tantalise and reveal, to hint at what riches might lie beneath.
Gemma stared. She had never seen such a thing before in her life, had never imagined something like that existed.
The realization that Sebastian had presented her with this shocking creation crashed over her.
“Ooh!” She hurled the peignoir onto the bed. “Just wait till I get my hands on—that mother of mine. What can she be about, to send me such a thing?”
She choked on a laugh at Dorry’s horrified expression. Breathless and hot, with a sickening flutter in her stomach, she picked up the garment and shook it out. “I—do you know, perhaps there has been a mistake. Yes, that must be it. I shall send it back to Mama. Thank you, Dorry, that will be all.”
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