“He is a persistent fellow,” Mr. Sumner said.
“As persistent as a rat after the cheese,” Hawke said with a disdainful laugh. “And twice as repulsive.”
The rest of the gentleman laughed.
“Well, who can blame him? She is a tasty piece of cheese.” Mr. Percival raised his glass. “To the cheese.”
“To the cheese,” the rest of them said in unison and raised their glasses in salute.
The sound of their mocking laughter sent a chill burning down Gemma’s spine. Colin. Hawke was the reason he hated her. Some ancient grudge her brother held against Sir Wilde was what had truly kept them apart. And Hawke had convinced their parents of Colin’s unworthiness.
Indignation rose like bile in her throat, and she stepped from behind the pillar to address her brother.
Instantly, Mr. Everett stood to his feet, and Mr. Percival choked on his brandy —served the blackguard right, and Gemma hoped he’d never recover from it. A tasty piece of cheese, indeed.
Hawke glanced up at her as though the conversation she had just overheard had never happened.
“My lady,” he said with a sickeningly gallant grin, standing slowly.
“My lord, I beg your pardon. I have had my fill of dancing this evening. If it pleases you, may we take our leave?” Her voice was level and in perfect control. A direct contrast to the turmoil that raged within her mind and soul. Her lifetime of practicing proper etiquette was her support now. She would not make a scene in front of the peerage for the wide world.
“Of course, my dear.” He nodded and turned to his entourage, offering them a conspiratorial wink and a slight bow. “Gentlemen.”
Mr. Everett bowed to Gemma. His smile was almost apologetic, but Gemma did not care to determine the depth of it. After all, he had toasted the cheese along with the rest of them.
Gemma curtsied and took her brother’s arm, though her mind was spinning with all the ways she could injure him in the process. Patience, Gemma, she told herself. Soon enough they would be alone, and she would have her say.
****
Hawke led her back into the ballroom so they could say their farewells to the hosts. She stood awkwardly to the side as he laughed and joked with Mr. Smythe. Had he any idea how upset she was? Or how uncomfortable?
Gemma exhaled and crossed her arms, stealing a glance to her right, where the door led outside. A few more feet and she would be rid of this awful, torturous night.
Wilde suddenly appeared across the room. He looked unsure on his feet as he stumbled toward the door with a woman on one arm.
“Pity, for I would have liked to take my turn at taming that man tonight,” a feminine voice said next to her. Gemma did not recognize the woman, but she was beautiful.
“Whatever do you mean?” Gemma asked, unable to tear her eyes away from Wilde as he whispered something into his lady friend’s ear.
“The gossips have been absolutely dying with curiosity. Is he as heartbroken as everyone claims? What happened to Sir Wilde last Season that turned him into such a delicious rake? I would have liked to have my try at the man.” She giggled. “But it is of no matter. I will simply be patient; after all, if he is as wild as everyone is saying, he’ll be needing new companionship tomorrow evening.”
Gemma felt her face flush as she looked away from Wilde and directly at the woman. “How do you mean to heal his broken heart? How does any woman successfully seduce a rake?”
“My, you are innocent, aren’t you?” The woman threw her head back and laughed. “He does not want to remember he has a heart. Men are vulnerable creatures; when they offer a gift of love, and it is rejected, they are never the same. I aim to make him forget he had a heart to begin with. And whatever woman was stupid enough to reject him, well, I hope she is there to witness his behavior. After all, it is she who is responsible for the man he has become.”
“The man he has become?” Gemma repeated as the feeling of dread descended into her belly.
“Why, yes! At this rate, Sir Wilde will be one of the most delightful rakes this Season, mark my words.” The lady sauntered off and approached Wilde. She leaned forward, whispered something in his ear and waited. Wilde’s smile turned seductive as he nodded his head once and then his eyes met Gemma’s.
With a wicked grin, he winked and walked off with not one, but both ladies.
Tears burned at the back of her throat as she watched the exchange, willing Wilde to look back, to stop this ridiculous behavior. But he left.
“Are you ready?” Hawke said behind her. “It’s positively sweltering in this place. Come along, dear.”
****
Once safely away from the prying eyes of the gossiping horde, Gemma regarded her brother, who sat across from her in the carriage, speaking mindlessly of this lord and that debutante.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, as befitting a gently bred lady of the peerage. With an almost imperceptible movement, she slipped her left hand from its place and drew off her glove. A bare hand would intensify the sting, and it was her dearest wish to leave a burning impression of her fury before he had a chance to realize what had happened.
With her right hand she gestured out the window and said, “Isn’t that Sir Bryan?”
Hawke glanced out the window, leaning forward slightly to get a better view.
As he did so, she pulled her left arm high above her head and let loose a wild swing, landing the full force of her strength squarely across his right cheek. Never had she struck anyone in her life, let alone her brother, but the pain of it on her own palm and the sound of Hawke’s cry was so satisfactory, she smiled wide in triumph.
Before her, Hawke clutched his face in agony and his eyes frantically searched hers.
“Gemma, what the h—”
“Truly?” Gemma interrupted his eruption. “Do not pretend, dearest brother, that you are not deserving of ten times that!”
His shock at both her physical attack and her verbal outburst was obvious. She had always been the sweet, proper lady with impeccable manners, no matter who was present. The full measure of her anger surprised her as well, but she was past caring.
“You… you…” She couldn’t think of a word bad enough to capture his essence without loosing a torrent of expressions that would make a pirate blush — and so she did.
Hawke’s face darkened into crimson. “Really, Gemma. Your language! Remember your station.”
“Remember my—” Gemma couldn’t believe his gall. Her control was long gone. She leveled her finger in his face. “You are a marquess! Yet you sat amongst those men and referred to me as a piece of… a piece of cheese! And you want me to remember my station?”
“Gemma,” his voice was soft, as though he hoped to placate her. “You misheard what was spoken.”
“Did I?” She was yelling at the top of her voice. “Did I also mishear the words spoken about you no longer sending my letters to Sir Wilde?” She lifted her hand as if to slap him once more.
The anger surfaced in Hawke’s expression then, and he grabbed her hand and wrenched it away from his face, tightening his grasp when she resisted.
“You shall remember yourself, sister. You shall conduct yourself as the daughter of a duke, and you shall respect my authority regarding all decisions for your future. Do you understand?”
He leaned forward, glowering dangerously into her eyes. He twisted her arm slightly as if to emphasize his point.
Tears threatened to spill over, but Gemma held firm in her resolve not to let him know he was hurting her.
“Do you understand?”
“I do not.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“What was that?”
“I do not. I do not understand you. I will not accept your authority over me for another moment.”
His confidence faltered for a moment, and she tugged her wrist from his grip.
“All my life I have been careful to be proper at all times. The proper daughter, the proper sister, t
he proper hostess, the proper lady. I’m done. And if you tell me I must marry whom you choose, I am telling you now, I resolve to seduce the first unworthy sod I meet. To the devil with the family name.”
Chapter Four
A rake is never alone, yet always alone. Allow me to explain. A rake must exude his individuality while still managing to be the most popular gentleman about Town. At night, his bed must be warmed by a willing participant or participants, whatever his flavor. In the daytime, he must not rise too early, lest he raise suspicion that he has ambitions outside of whoring around, gambling, and drinking. He must always appear as if he has just had a tumble with one of his many mistresses, and at all costs — and this is a point on which I dare not waiver — he must always wear black. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox
“Going to a funeral, Wilde?” Anthony filled his plate with food and went to sit at the large table.
“Yours. If I’m so lucky.” Colin glared and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. The night previous had not been kind to him. After his run-in with Gemma in the hall, he had thought it a brilliant idea to try his hand at the tables and see how much whiskey he could consume before the pain in his chest went away.
The answer was more than the host had available.
And his blasted chest still hurt.
Along with his head and his hand. Though he had no idea how he managed to injure his hand. He had hoped that upon seeing Anthony the mystery would be solved, for the only man he had wanted to wound, other than himself, had been Anthony, his dearest friend.
“Oh, Wilde, good morning.” Lady Maddox strolled into the room and kissed her husband on the head.
“Morning,” he grumbled.
“Who died?” This she asked as she eyed Colin up and down, tilting her head this way and that.
“My question exactly,” Anthony interjected. “Though I daresay it is his mind that has been buried deep in the ground, never to return. I am sure his heart is down there somewhere, as well as his valet, considering he has refused to wear any color for the past four months.”
“Thank you,” Colin said through gritted teeth. “If my head did not feel like it had been trampled by a carriage, I’d have a witty response to your inane observation. As it stands, all I can manage at the moment is a curse. However, there is a lady present.”
Lady Maddox grinned and swatted Anthony, who at that moment did let out a curse as he threw his newspaper to the ground. “Are you truly this bent on destruction, then? You want the rakish lifestyle and everything that goes along with it? By the by, you’re dressing differently, leading women into darkened hallways—”
Lady Maddox cocked an eyebrow and regarded Colin. “Wilde, it sounds suspiciously like you have been reading my husband’s private journal. Tell me you aren’t following in Anthony’s ghastly footsteps.”
Anthony turned crimson.
Lady Maddox giggled. “Oh, yes. I’ve read it. Truly a work of art, darling. Ever think of having it published?”
“Please tell me you did not just admit to reading that piece of—”
“Fine literature,” Lady Maddox finished. “And to be precise, Cordelia and I happened upon it. Quite interesting. I had no idea it was possible for a woman to—”
“Stop.” Anthony held up his hand and looked helplessly around the room. “We are not discussing what is past. We are discussing Wilde’s current path of self-destruction! Look at him!” Anthony pointed. Lady Maddox offered Colin a sympathetic smile and turned back to her husband.
“He is drinking coffee, my dear. He seems fine.” She patted Anthony on the hand and sighed. “Besides, before we were married, every article of clothing in your possession was black or gray. Perhaps he is taking after your impeccable sense of style, hmm?”
Colin laughed at Anthony’s irritated expression. Couldn’t really argue that point, considering Colin was only mimicking Anthony’s own good taste. He leaned forward and drummed his fingers against the table.
“Fine.” Anthony exhaled. “But truly, I wrote those journals when I was but a lad of one-and-twenty. Rules have, er… changed.”
“Have they?” Colin and Lady Maddox asked in unison.
“Of course.” Anthony stared into his coffee.
“And how, my dear, would you know this?” Lady Maddox asked, crossing her arms.
“My dear, up until last year I was…”
“Whoring around,” Colin finished for him. “Yes, we know. Now, will you help me or not? I mean to make certain my name is on the lips of as many women as possible. After all, does not your journal discuss the importance of keeping several mistresses at once?” He left out the part about Gemma’s face last night and how her expression had finally pushed him to desperation. He’d hurt her just like she’d hurt him. Funnily enough, those brief few seconds when their eyes had met, he hadn’t felt a thing. Not a blasted thing. He was finally numb. He’d looked into her eyes and his heart actually seemed to stop beating. He’d finally gone too far. If turning into a rake kept his heart in the same condition as it had felt in those brief minutes, then he would do it and never look back. It hurt too blasted much to continue on in this way. To continue living a life without Gemma in it.
Anthony choked on his coffee. “Apologies, memory’s quite fuzzy on that one.”
“Indeed,” Lady Maddox added. “Shall I leave you to your plans then, gentlemen?”
Colin nodded. “That would be best. After all, your husband has to polish me into the worst sort of rake the ton has ever seen.”
“God help us all,” Anthony muttered.
“Well, if last night was any indication,” Lady Maddox sighed, “you are halfway there. Good luck with your debauchery, gentlemen. I shall pray for your success.”
Anthony cursed. “My dear, that is blasphemous!”
“So is keeping a journal of your rakish escapades in the same location as your Bible, love.”
Colin burst into laughter. “And the point goes to your wife.”
“I—” Anthony grunted. “My dear, if you will excuse us, it seems I have my work cut out for me.”
“Absolutely.” She grinned and quit the room.
“Quite the wife,” Colin commented. Lady Maddox was Gemma’s dearest friend, which normally would put Colin in quite the pickle, but it seemed that Gemma hadn’t been conversing with her friends since her exile to the country. If they were still familiar, Colin would’ve had to find a different location to meet Anthony or Ambrose. It would not do to have Gemma suddenly show up and…
The butler entered into the room and cleared his throat. “Lady Gemma to see you, my lord.”
Colin had just taken another sip of coffee and choked wildly as Anthony nodded his head. “I can see her in the hall.”
“I am not afraid of seeing the woman, truly. She means nothing to me,” Colin answered, too quickly.
“Which is why we are turning you into a rake?” Anthony called his bluff.
Colin cursed. “Just be quick about your business.”
Anthony nodded to the butler. “You may send her in.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Within seconds Colin heard the pitter-patter of light footsteps, each one like a hammer to his chest. Would he never be rid of this unbearable pain?
He took another soothing sip of coffee and waited as the doors opened to the dining room.
“Lord Maddox.” Lady Gemma offered a quick curtsy but never once looked in Colin’s direction. To be fair, he was sitting at the far end of the table.
“What can I help you with, Lady Gemma?” Anthony rose and kissed the air above her hand.
Gemma sighed and then wrung her hands.
What the devil was she here for? And why Anthony, of all people?
“I need your help… to seduce a rake!” she blurted.
Colin choked for the third, or perhaps it was the fourth time that morning, this time nearly falling out of his chair.
“Oh.” Gemma’s face reddened. “Apologies, I did n
ot know you were currently entertaining the devil. Perhaps I should return at a later time?”
Anthony was immobile. Colin wasn’t sure if he should toss something at the man. He seemed frozen with shock. “Er…”
“Intelligent,” Colin mused, though his voice was hoarse from all the choking.
“Oh, do shut up.” Anthony snapped out of his state. “My dear, perhaps it would be best for you to talk to my wife about such things.”
Gemma swallowed and looked down. “I have not spoken with her since my return. I fear she will be angry with me.”
Anthony wrapped his arm around Gemma and escorted her to the door. “You know Bridget as well as I. Although her temper is quick, she is also very quick to forgive. I am a prime example of said forgiveness. Now off you go. I believe you’ll find her in her favorite sitting room near my study. Conrad will direct you, my lady.”
Colin saw her back straighten as she walked in the direction of Anthony’s study. When Anthony walked back into the room, he slammed the doors and leaned against them.
“God is punishing me for my sins, I assure you. One desires to be a rake and the other wants to seduce one. This is my purgatory, my penance, my atonement.” Anthony closed his eyes and cursed. “I need a drink.”
Chapter Five
One does not simply jump on a horse without first asking the groom to saddle the beast. Gentlemen, let me put this in terms you might understand. When caring for your horse, you give it shelter, food, you brush its coat until it shines, you reward it with carrots, and you ride it when you feel the need for the wind across your face, or perhaps when you wish to show it off. Women are the same. You cannot simply feed one and expect her participation. No, you must first prepare her. You must compliment her, caress her, carry her on your arm like the trophy she is, and then, when she is fat and happy — much like your horse — you take her for a ride. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox
“Gemma, what a delightful surprise!” Bridget stood and greeted Gemma with a wide grin. It had been five months since they had last seen one another, and Gemma had felt the separation deeply, with no one to confide in but her traitorous lady’s maid.
Taming Wilde Page 3