by Nicole Byrd
This time she bit her lip, afraid of what she might blurt out.
But his voice trailed off, and only his hungry gray eyes betrayed him. “I must go.”
Yet, he lingered another silent minute, gazing at her as if she were the lantern that lit his darkness. And when he bowed and strode rapidly away, as if to make up for his hesitation, she watched him go, her heart still beating very fast.
One thing was certain, Gemma thought. She could not marry Arnold Cuthbertson when another man made her feel so alive. She would write Arnold a note tomorrow and break the news as easily as she could.
The next morning, Gemma was not the only one writing notes. Louisa spent several hours writing a long letter to her uncle and aunt in Bath. “Really, I’m quite glad I don’t have to explain the hasty marriage in person,” she confessed to Gemma. “By the time we go to visit, they will have had some space in which to come to terms with the whole situation!” Then she penned another letter to be sent to the aunt who was abroad.
After a light luncheon, they went upstairs to bathe and began leisurely preparations for the ball. Only then did Louisa remember to send down the dress she had had altered for Gemma to wear.
Lily laid it out on the bed. “Isn’t it pretty, miss? Such a fine silk, and the trim really sets it off.”
Gemma stared at the ball gown. It was blue, a delicate pale blue. Louisa had obviously forgotten her aversion to the color.
And now there was no time to prepare anything else, even if she had been willing to risk offending her friend, who had been so generous to pass on such a lovely and expensive dress.
She would have to wear it.
“Yes, indeed,” Gemma muttered, and the maid beamed. Taking a deep breath, Gemma allowed Lily to help her on with the gown. After Lily did up the small hooks on the back of the blue bodice, its curved neckline trimmed with lace and seed pearls, and arranged the blue overskirt with its flounce, Gemma turned to stare at her reflection.
The gown looked elegant. Her blue eyes, made even more brilliant by the clear tones of the dress, seemed more vivid. Her dark hair had been arranged high on her head, with only a few curls left loose by her temple to soften the effect, and her face looked fashionably pale.
Louisa had lent her a short circlet of pearls, which Lily fastened about her neck. The necklace was just right for a young unmarried lady and went perfectly with the dress, and there were matching ear drops.
She looked quite grand. Amazed, Gemma stared at herself. She did not look like a former inhabitant of a foundling home, a girl without a name, a woman with no family to claim her. She stood up a little straighter.
Louisa had given her more than a dress. She had declared her unqualified friendship, and that was a beginning, surely, perhaps the first of more bonds that would connect Gemma to people whom she loved.
It had been so lonely, not knowing who she was or where she belonged. But perhaps, perhaps, she would be alone no longer.
Gemma ran her palms lightly over the fine smooth silk. This dress fit as if it had been made for her from the start, and the color, clean and clear, was nothing like the faded blue-gray of the foundling home garments. She should push aside those old memories, wash them away just as she had helped scrub out the filthy home itself. Since Psyche had taken charge of the orphanage, its appearance was changing rapidly, as was the condition of the girls who lived there. No one would go hungry again, or labor in cold hallways, or be subject to the harsh discipline of an uncaring matron.
Perhaps it was high time Gemma wore blue again and exorcized the memories of the worst year of her life, putting those ghosts to rest forever.
When Louisa came to knock on the door and look inside, she said, “Oh, Gemma, you look ravishing! I knew that dress would become you.”
“Thank you.” Gemma turned to observe her friend, a fairy vision in pale pink and gold. Louisa’s new dresser had done her fair hair into an intricate arrangement of curls and silk flowers. “You look beautiful yourself. And thank you for the dress. It is so generous of you.”
“It’s nothing.” Louisa waved away the expression of gratitude, but she looked pleased. “Do you think we are ready to brave the lions of the Ton? My stomach feels as if it is full of hissing geese.”
Gemma laughed at the image. “We shall be a menagerie, then,” she agreed. “My stomach feels about as calm as a pond full of leaping carp.”
Louisa giggled. “Oh, there is another surprise for you. A package came for you a little while ago.”
“For me?”
Lily was sent to fetch it, and when she brought back the box, Gemma tugged at the string that held it shut. She couldn’t imagine what it might be, unless Louisa had been even more generous. . . .
When the lid was lifted, Gemma sighed in appreciation. Inside was a lacy white shawl, just the thing to wrap about one’s shoulders for a formal evening.
“How lovely,” Louisa said, looking over her shoulder to see what the box contained. “Who is it from?”
There was a note. Gemma unfolded the paper and glanced first at the signature. “Captain Fallon,” she said in surprise.
Louisa, however, showed no astonishment. “He has very nice taste, for a man,” she said, and to Gemma’s relief, made no more comment upon the unexpected gift. “I have to put on my ear drops,” she told Gemma. “I will see you downstairs. Colin says we are fearfully behind the time, and there is a limit to even fashionable lateness. He sounds like a husband already!” She giggled.
After Louisa departed, Gemma said, “You may go, Lily. Thank you for your help.”
The maid curtsied. “You look that beautiful, miss. I hope you all have a wonderful time. Perhaps by the end of the Season, you’ll be a new bride, too.”
“I doubt that,” Gemma murmured. As soon as the servant had shut the door behind her, Gemma opened the note again to read the few lines scribbled there.
A small token to make your evening more pleasant. Just remember, you are as worthy as any lady or gentleman there.
Gemma smiled, and for a moment, she held the note close to her heart. But now she had to descend the steps, be greeted pleasantly by Lieutenant McGregor, looking very fine in his dress uniform, and be handed up into the carriage. Miss Pomshack waved her handkerchief cheerfully as they departed.
Louisa chatted all the way to Mrs. Forsythe’s house, but her voice was a little high, and Gemma knew that her friend was nervous, too. What reaction would Louisa and her new husband receive from the Ton? Would they be ostracized, slighted, gossiped about?
Gemma had no social presence to lend weight to her friends, but she would certainly never desert Louisa. They would sink or swim together, she thought, swallowing hard.
When their carriage swung in line to wait for their turn at the door, she saw that the ball was an even bigger event than she had guessed. The street was crowded with carriages and grooms milling about, and flambeaux burned outside the doors of the handsome dwelling. From tall windows, soft golden light flowed out into the street, and sounds of laughter and music and the chatter of many voices could be heard.
When they had at last reached the entrance, Louisa’s groom opened the door and handed them down. Inside, the Forsythe home looked just as fine, but Gemma hardly noticed the fashionable furnishings. Everything, from the brocade chairs and polished side tables at the edge of the hall to glittering crystal chandeliers overhead, was a blur. She could feel her heart pounding almost as hard as it had the night of the dreadful visit to the bawdy house, and she wondered if their guilty secret could be read, branded upon their foreheads as criminals were sometimes marked.
They would know the reaction of the Ton only when they were announced to the other party goers, and then it would be too late to retreat. She and Louisa and Colin would have to face them down, censorious or not, just as she had once advised Louisa. How simple it had seemed then, and how little this social debut into the center of Society compared to surviving the taunting of jealous school girls.
&n
bsp; Or perhaps not. Either way, they were committed.
Louisa looked pale, but the lieutenant offered her his arm, and gallantly gave his other arm to Gemma. They made their way up the staircase toward the sounds of gaiety. A few gentlemen and a matron or two stared at them from the landing, but Gemma kept her expression calm. No need for anyone else to know what armies seemed to be marching through her midsection.
Music was playing somewhere behind the high-pitched babble, a cacophony of ladies’ shrill tones occasionally deepened by lower-pitched male voices. The footman at the door had to almost shout as he intoned the names of new arrivals.
Louisa paused, and she looked for a moment as if panic had overcome her. “What if they don’t—what if they say—”
“Courage, my love,” her husband murmured. Gemma threw her friend a look of encouragement.
Then Colin bent his head toward the servant’s ear. In an instant the footman repeated, his voice loud, “Lieutenant and Mrs. Colin McGregor.”
Gemma dropped his arm so that the married couple could walk in side by side. From just outside the doorway, she could see heads turn, and a hush fall over the crowded room. Where was Mrs. Forsythe? Sally would welcome them, Gemma was sure, but their hostess seemed to have stepped away from the doorway. Oh, they should not have been so late in arriving!
Shoulders back, Louisa raised her chin and stepped into the room. Her hand rested lightly on her husband’s arm. Lieutenant McGregor looked fiercely proud of his wife, and even from the side, Gemma could see that the glance he threw toward the party-goers was rimmed with menace. If anyone dared to insult Louisa, he would make that miscreant pay dearly.
And, my, but they made a very handsome pair, Gemma told herself—fair-haired Louisa in pink, with gold and diamonds flashing in her ears and about her throat, Colin with his wicked smile and military bearing, so dashing in his uniform. Still, Gemma’s throat tightened with tension.
She could detect whispers running about the edge of the room, but it was hard to judge the expressions on the faces that turned toward the door. What were the other guests thinking?
And now the newlyweds were inside the big room, and it was Gemma’s turn to run the gauntlet of curious stares. She gathered her courage and muttered, “Miss Gemma Smith,” to the footman.
As she stepped into the doorway, she heard someone else behind her speak to the servant. It was taking all her courage just to face the staring eyes in front of her, and, her heart hammering in her ears, she did not make out the words. It would have been bad manners to look back, and anyhow, she didn’t dare. She felt just as frightened as Louisa, and if she turned, she might lose her resolve and flee in terror from the ballroom.
So she braced herself and tried to smile pleasantly, instead of looking like some doomed French aristocrat ascending the steps of the guillotine. But when the footman spoke again, his tone seemed to peal across the suddenly hushed room. She paused, and her blood might have turned to ice.
“Lady Gemma Sinclair,” the footman said.
Seventeen
Gemma couldn’t move. Everyone was staring. She felt for an instant as if she might be dreaming.
“Lord and Lady Gabriel Sinclair,” the footman intoned.
Someone stepped up beside her and offered his arm. Somehow, she was able to tuck her hand into it and be guided farther into the big room before she made a total spectacle of herself by tarrying too long in the doorway. A few feet inside the ballroom, they paused.
Gasping, Gemma drew a deep breath, feeling as if she had been submerged in an icy pond and was just now coming up for air. She looked around and discovered who supported her—it was Lord Gabriel, his expression composed. On his other side Psyche appeared incredibly elegant, her gown a slim gold-hued column, a delicate diamond tiara ornamenting her pale hair.
Still stunned, Gemma struggled to recover her voice and her wits, but before she could speak, a wave of people surged up to them.
“My lord, what surprise is this?” an older man inquired.
“A very pleasant one,” Gabriel answered, flashing an easy smile. “I am pleased to introduce my sister, Gemma.”
“But—but where have you been hiding a sister, for goodness’ sake?” a stout matron demanded.
“Do not tell me this is another humbug!” someone else added, turning to stare at Gemma. “More impostoring?”
To Gemma’s intense relief, Psyche smiled sweetly and stepped a little forward. Although Gemma had not yet found her tongue, Psyche sounded unruffled as she admonished, “Now, my dear Mrs. Blount, what a way to welcome our new arrival.”
Meanwhile, Gabriel murmured, “Shall we risk a waltz?”
Seeing his intent, Gemma nodded. She was not sure she could make her feet move, much less follow the rhythm the musicians played from the back of the room, but at least while whirling on the dance floor, they might snatch a few moments of private conversation and escape the horde which threatened to engulf them.
Making a path through the crowd with apparent ease, he led her to the floor. With one hand at her waist and the other gripping her hand, Gabriel guided her through the steps. To her mild surprise—how many more miracles could occur tonight?—she found she could follow his skillful lead without stumbling over her own feet. And at last she could say quietly into his ear, “What brought about your decision, my lord?”
“You must call me Gabriel,” he corrected. “It was the handwriting, partly. Psyche told me about the strong similarity. And the curious fact of the eye broach. And then, Circe made several sketches of you, did you know?”
Gemma blinked. The girl had been so quiet, sitting in Louisa’s drawing room with her pad and pencil, that Gemma had not realized what she was drawing.
“It seems we have the same shaped eyes, and brows, and ears,” he said, his tone light as if he discussed matters of little import, in case anyone else circling on the floor overheard a few words.
Gemma withdrew her hand from his arm for an instant and, without thinking, touched her own ear with its borrowed pearl ornament. Yes, she could see the same shape to his lobe, the same neat alignment against the head, although again, the resemblance had not occurred to her before.
He continued, “But when she showed me the sketches, and we compared them to ones she has done of me, it was impossible to deny the likeness. In addition, when I took out the miniature of my mother, it seemed to me that you resembled her as she might have looked when she was younger and happier. And my brother told me once—”
Pausing as another couple almost careened into them, he swung her out of harm’s way. A few feet across the room, Gemma saw that Louisa and Colin were dancing, too. Her forehead creased in concern, Louisa glanced toward her. But Gemma was intent upon her partner, and she waited impatiently for him to continue.
“About me? About a baby sent away?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, only that he suspected I was not the marquess’s son. My father had said the same, but I thought it was only his insane jealousy of my mother. I did not believe it even when John said it. And as for you, how could she have hidden the fact that she was increasing? But perhaps she did not—hide it from her husband, that is. I paid a not-very-fruitful visit to your solicitor this morning, but he still will not talk—damn the man! But all in all, I think it may be true. My father, that is, the late marquess, made my childhood hell, and he only suspected I was not his child. When I was grown, he cast me out.” He grimaced, then quickly smoothed his expression.
“If, when you were born, he had been even more suspicious of your birthright, our mother may have feared for your very life. It is the only reason I can think of, can believe—knowing her loving nature—that she would have sent you away.”
Gemma blinked hard. She would not, could not, weep in front of all these staring eyes. She could feel the other guests watching their every step, studying their expressions. They might just as well have been upon a stage, enacting a drama for the Ton’s amusement. For the sake of their audien
ce, she struggled to keep a smile on her face. When she could trust her voice, she said, her tone still husky, “Thank you. You have given me a name.”
He shook his head. “I should rather beg your forgiveness. I have spent time in exile, too, Gemma, longing for a home and a family. All I can say in my defense is that I did not know you were in need, or had been lost, set adrift like an infant Moses in his bulrush basket, with no one to name your heritage or bring you back to your own people. We will do what we can to remedy that.”
“Your brother, the current marquess, what will he say?” Gemma still could not credit that this was really happening.
An emotion crossed his face that she could not identify. “John and I have had our differences, but I believe he will back me in this. He would not wish to inflict more hardship upon you, and I know, and he will know, what our mother would have desired us to do.”
They circled the polished floor for another minute, and Gemma realized that the tune was dying away. Soon, the curious would flock about them once again.
“What will we say?” she whispered. “How on earth can it be explained?”
“That you were sent away for your health and are now recovered and being welcomed back by your family,” he said. “Details are not needed.”
No one would intimidate such a man, she realized, and Lady Gabriel, Psyche, also had more than enough mettle to resist any attempts to elicit familial gossip. So Gemma simply had to be as resolute.
A fact she would remember, later. Just now, all she could hear, echoing inside her mind, were the words, family . . . welcomed . . . family.
“I have dreamed of this all my life,” she murmured.
The last notes of the waltz faded. Lord Gabriel—Gabriel, her brother—lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers lightly, fondly, as a brother would, not a sweetheart.
“It’s long overdue, then,” he told her. “But welcome home, Gemma Sinclair.”