The lady brushed that loose, what might or might not have been, curl behind her ear. “Regardless, it is hardly proper for me to stand here discussing Lord Westfield’s whereabouts with you. Or any matter, for that matter.” She wrinkled her nose at that redundancy.
Despite very nearly being thrown from his mount and the annoyance at this lady who, given the chance, would trap his friend, his lips twitched.
She flared her eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”
God, the lady didn’t require a single word from him to fill an entire conversation. He opened his mouth—
“Because I assure you, the duke would not approve of your highhandedness with a young la—” Her words ended on a startled squeak as he closed the slight distance between them and, in one fluid movement, wrapped his arms about her.
All the saints in heaven, in all her penchant for finding trouble and recklessness, never in her plans to speak alone with Lord Westfield had the duke’s steward or any other stranger fit into her imaginings of how this moment was to proceed.
Gemma swallowed hard and a thrill of awareness shot through her from the point of the man’s touch. She should revile him. So why did warmth continue to spiral through her? It was an irrational response to this man who was nothing more than a stranger—a towering, dark-haired, broad-shouldered stranger with features too rugged to ever be considered truly beautiful. Giving her head a clearing shake, Gemma sought to put her jumbled senses to rights as the perils of being here alone, in his arms, no less, registered. She shoved against him. “Release me this instant or I shall inform the duke of your highhandedness.” It was a lie. A bald-faced, obvious lie. She knew it and the wryly-grinning man before her knew it. She could no sooner admit to wandering the estates, unchaperoned, and being held in this man’s arms than she could hitch up her skirts and run wild through the duke’s home singing the verse of a bawdy tavern song taught her by her brother. To confess any of this would mean ruin. And yet, despite the anxiety pitting her belly, her body burned with the heat emanating from his muscular frame.
The steward drew her forward, raising her on her feet, so close their lips nearly brushed. “I do not care to be threatened, particularly by one such as you.”
Her heart hammered wildly and she feared it would beat a rhythm right out of her chest. “One such as me?” She prided herself on the steady deliverance of those words.
“A tart-mouthed, prideful, arrogant, young lady.”
His audacious charge rang a gasp from her. Oh, that was quite enough. Convincing herself that warmth had been as imagined as the hint of a smile she’d seen moments ago, Gemma shoved at his chest to no avail. She could no sooner move his broad-muscled frame than she could move the border of the Duke of Somerset’s property. “I am not arrogant.” A young lady who couldn’t bring a single gentleman up to scratch for so much as a waltz didn’t have much pride left to go around where men were concerned and that included the lofty nobles and the callous brutes like this one.
“Are you not?” he whispered. His gaze went to her mouth.
And for the slightest moment, she imagined he would kiss her and perhaps it was curiosity because she was now two and twenty and still never been kissed; not by a gentleman or even a too-bold village boy in her younger years. But a part of her longed to know the taste of him.
He filled his hands with her buttocks, sculpting his hands about them. She gasped. Push him away, Gemma Reed. You are very much in love with Robert and this is the ultimate betrayal. And yet there was nothing else for it. Gemma was an absolute wanton for she wanted his kiss, anyway.
A slow, triumphant smile curved his lips upward effectively quashing that desire borne of curiosity. She opened her mouth to blister his ears with curses when he kissed her. Gemma stiffened. She’d dreamed her first kiss would be a gentle, chaste and properly placed one by a proper gentleman. This explosion of raw vitality and passion was nothing that she could have imagined, nor anything she could have read of in any of the scandalous novels she’d devoured through the years. He continued worshiping her mouth, slanting his lips over hers again and again as though branding her as his. She moaned and he slipped his tongue inside, tasting her. And she, in turn, reveled in the taste of him. He was brandy and mint…and the faintest hint of cheroots, intoxicating and purely masculine.
He drew back and a little moan of protest bubbled in her throat. “Mayhap not arrogant, then,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to where her pulse pounded hard in her neck. “Not if you’d accept the kiss of a stranger.”
His damnable calm doused all the delicious butterflies dancing in her belly. In a move shown her by Emery when she’d been a young girl, Gemma jerked her knee up but the gentleman swiftly closed his long fingers about her knee. He caressed her through the fabric of her skirts setting off a delicious fluttering low in her belly. Words, Gemma. Indignant, furious words. Say something. Anything. “D-don’t touch me. Or I shall tell the duke.” She cringed. That was the very boldest retort she had after his bold, if magical, embrace? I am a wanton. Surely there was nothing else to explain this tumult of emotion.
“Will you?” A challenge laced that question.
“The marquess won’t a-approve of your k-kissing his guests.” Gemma yanked her knee free of his hold. That abrupt movement sent her tipping back and she tossed her arms out to keep from toppling over in an undignified heap, but he shot a hand out and easily steadied her.
“Won’t he, love?” He wrapped that last word in a husky, slightly mocking endearment.
“You wouldn’t understand, sir, because you clearly are not a gentleman.” She settled her hands upon her hips.
“I imagine he’ll have more questions about why a supposed lady is wandering his property with no proper chaperone.”
At the unerring truth and accuracy to that charge, a dull flush heated her entire body and she tripped over herself in her bid to get away. And hating that this man was accurate and hating how very damning this seemed to him in his opinion of her attempts at “trapping” the marquess and her scandalous return of his kiss.
Given his position on the estates, however, there was little need for their paths to again cross. Which was, indeed, good. “If you will excuse me?” she asked stiffly. Not allowing him a chance to respond, she spun on her heel and sprinted down the graveled path, on to the entrance of the Duke of Somerset’s grand home.
The back of her neck burned from the eyes trained on her by the gruff, mannerless, towering steward. The quality of his attire revealed him to be a member of the duke’s staff and yet he spoke in the cultured tones with the insolent charges of a man of loftier origins. The quality of his horseflesh also revealed him to be a man of some wealth.
And whoever the stranger had been…he’d discovered her, which would prove calamitous to her intentions for this entire blasted event—to bring Lord Westfield ’round. Being caught alone, with her hair tumbled past her shoulders, and racing in such an indecorous manner would cause nothing less than a scandal. Then, mayhap the stranger didn’t truly find anything of interest in her gallivanting about the grounds—alone. She stole a quick look over her shoulder and even with the distance she’d placed between them, found his eyes burning into the path she now traveled. Gemma hurriedly yanked her stare forward.
Her breath coming fast from her exertions, Gemma skidded to a halt outside the rear entrance of the palatial estate. She brushed her hands over her flushed cheeks and then stood frozen until she regained a semblance of calm. Shoving aside thoughts of the duke’s steward, she returned her attention to what, rather who, was responsible for her having been traipsing about the lake.
Her first efforts at locating Lord Westfield had proven wholly dismal. Gemma firmed her jaw. For all Society had to say about her, there was one elemental piece they’d not gleaned—she was a determined young lady.
And she was determined to capture the Marquess of Westfield’s heart.
Chapter 3
In the course of his thirty-three years, Ri
chard had never been one of those gentlemen who’d caroused, wagered, and drank.
Until just recently, that was. Much had changed—as was evidenced by the brandy even now in his hand and the thick plume of smoke from his previously lit cheroot.
Since Eloise had married his younger brother…if one wanted to be truly precise. Now Richard quite enjoyed a good bottle of spirits and a turn at the gaming tables.
In addition to drinking and wagering, it would seem he had also become the manner of man who say…taunted blushing young ladies and sent them fleeing in fright, and only after he’d kissed them senseless. His body stirred with the memory of the nameless schemer. Not a lady who’d ever be considered classically beautiful, or even really remotely pretty, that particular figure had occupied his thoughts since he’d returned to the duke’s estate.
“How many points?”
Richard swirled the contents of his drink as Westfield’s inquiry cut across his musings. Thrusting aside the memory of the young woman, Richard returned his focus to the billiards game. “Five hundred?”
Westfield snorted. “You’ve no intention of leaving this room, then?”
“I expect with the number of ladies seeking to corner and trap you, that would be preferable.” A garrulous miss with limp, brown hair flitted to his mind.
A muscle jumped at the corner of Westfield’s eye. “My father’s blasted brilliant plan to see me wed.”
Generally, matters of marriage and prospective brides were the manner of talk gentlemen took pains to avoid—unless they had to. And in Westfield’s case, with his father nearing the end of his life, it was a topic that could not be avoided. Not by a friend, at least.
The crack of the cue ball resonated in the quiet room done in crimson and mahogany hues. Richard eyed his shot as it settled closest to the baulk. “I do not envy you your responsibility.” At one time, he’d fashioned himself as the marrying sort, but had come to appreciate the singular impossibility of finding the one person who owns your heart, and having that lady’s sentiments so closely align that it resulted in that forever love.
His friend made a crude gesture that roused a laugh from Richard. Westfield motioned to him. “Your decision.”
Richard picked up the red ball and placed it at the top of the table. Wordlessly, he walked a slow path about the table and then, positioning his cue, struck the red ball. The smooth force of the movement propelled it forward and the red ball knocked the other into a pocket. “Have you selected the lady who will be the future Marchioness of Westfield?”
Westfield respotted the red ball at the top of the table in the black spot and positioned his cue. “My father certainly has an idea who the future Duchess of Somerset will be,” he muttered. He struck the cue ball and Richard’s ball, in a canon shot, which earned him two points.
A pall descended over the room, and Richard collected his drink and took a slow swallow. Having suffered the loss of his own father, and also having a similarly close-knit family as Westfield’s, he knew the pain Westfield was surely in. Richard took his shot. “Who is the fortunate young lady, then?” he asked, infusing dry levity into his tone. For when presented with the topics of death and dying and a gentleman’s impending marital state, the latter was always safer.
“The Duke of Wilkinson’s daughter.” He cast a wry glance at Richard. “Though I have no doubt, he’d have me wed any respectable young lady at this point.”
Again, the spirited creature bolting through the duke’s property slipped into his mind.
A knock sounded at the door and they looked as one as it opened, and a liveried servant stepped inside. The bewigged footman sketched a bow and then cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking over to Richard.
“You can speak freely,” Westfield said with a frown.
The servant nodded. “My lord, His Grace has been seized by another fit.”
In an uncharacteristic show of agitation, Westfield raked a hand through his hair. “You’ve summoned—”
“Dr. Hanson. Yes, my lord. His Grace is asking for you.”
Westfield gave a jerky nod and then started for the door, but paused and cast a glance back at Richard. “I am sorry—”
“Go,” he urged the other man. “This does not matter.” The passing of Richard’s father had cemented the inanity of the world in which they lived—a world where summer parties were thrown, and guests donned smiles and schemed to wed powerful peers—all while the world was crumbling down upon a family. “See to your father.”
With that, Westfield rushed off and the servant pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Richard alone. Collecting his snifter, he strode over to the rich, mahogany sideboard and grabbed a bottle of brandy, then carried the glass and the crystal decanter over to the high crimson-and-gold winged chairs.
Richard settled into a seat. He downed the content of his glass and then pulled the stopper from the bottle. He proceeded to pour himself another snifter. Cradling the glass between his hands, he stared down into the contents.
Perhaps he should return to his family’s country party. In accepting Westfield’s invite, he’d grasped at the excuse presented which he might give his brothers and not really thought of anything more than avoiding all sights of Eloise with Lucien. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace. How very pathetic, indeed. For the truth was, he could not avoid the reality of his circumstances and, more, the reality of Eloise, given the sheer nature of his birth connection to the man Eloise had gone and married.
Nor, if he were being truly honest with himself, did he wish to forget her. Eloise had been, at one time, as close as a sister. At first, there had never been a hint of anything romantic between them. His early relationship with the delicate lady had never extended beyond fishing and racing through the Kent countryside. It had been a friendship that was comfortable, calm and familiar.
And when she’d left for London, in search of a husband, his own low sense of self as that second son of a viscount had quelled all truth on his lips. Instead, he’d stood by and watched her marry another, thinking with the love he carried for her that she was deserving of that title and position; all things he could never give her as a title-less horse breeder.
For ultimately, women always craved more. His lips quirked up in a humorless smile. The sprite racing about the duke’s properties was proof of that. Most craved wealth and power and prestige. Just as Lady Nameless had proven earlier that evening.
Richard downed the remaining contents of his glass and reached for the bottle resting at his feet.
Later that evening, Gemma slipped out of her guest bedchambers and closed the door quietly behind her. She peeked down the hall. Finding it blessedly empty, she snuck past door after door.
Even in the still of the night, with no hint of guests about, her heart doubled its beat. Following her discovery at the steward’s hands that evening, the risks in seeking out Lord Westfield reared, more real than they’d been before. To be found gallivanting about the duke’s property and sneaking about his home, unchaperoned, would result in immediate ruin. Fortunately, Gemma had long escaped Society’s notice and was afforded certain freedoms. This, however, would result in the height of scandal from which no lady could recover. If she was found pursuing the marquess… A little shiver shook her frame, and she thrust aside the dire musings. Why, if that were to happen, she might as well don red and declare herself a fallen woman.
And what if you were discovered kissing the nameless steward, all the while shamelessly hungry to know more of that man’s embrace?
She forced her ragged breath into a semblance of calm and thrust that coarse stranger from her thoughts and, instead, focused on the most imminent threat. Gemma turned the corner and slammed into a solid wall. Her scream died on her lips. “Emery,” she blurted.
Her brother stood with arms folded at his chest eying her with the proper degree of suspicion. “Gemma,” he drawled. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”
Oh,
blast and double blast on Sunday. How to explain her furtive sneaking to a person who’d long known to be wary of that very sneaking? Emery winged an eyebrow upwards. Why could she not have been one of those ladies with clever responses? Instead, she stood, unblinking like a dratted owl perfectly caught by her brother. “Is it late?”
“It is,” he repeated, his ever-narrowing eyes conveyed his wariness.
“There you are.”
Brother and sister swung their gazes as one to Beatrice who stood with her hands propped on her hips and a smile wreathing her guileless face. Salvation came in the most unexpected, but most welcome, form as Beatrice strode forward. The mischievous twinkle sparkling in her cornflower blue eyes belied that perception of innocence.
Some of the tension drained from Gemma.
The consummate gentleman, Emery dropped a bow. “Lady Beatrice.”
As though they met in a formal parlor and not in the empty corridors of the duke’s largely slumbering household, Beatrice curtsied. “Lord Smithfield, may I steal Gemma away?”
He studied Beatrice through suspicious eyes a moment and with a slow nod, took a step back. “Of course. Please, do not let me interfere with your enjoyments.”
Fighting a wave of guilt, Gemma leaned up on tiptoe and pecked her brother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Emery.” Then, sliding her arm through Beatrice’s, she allowed her friend to lead her onward.
“Gemma?” Her brother called out, bringing the ladies back around. Gemma stared questioningly at him. “Behave.”
A guilty heat slapped her cheeks and she mustered a smile. “Don’t I always?”
“No,” he said automatically, swiftly killing her false grin. “You do not.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat. “Lady Beatrice.”
The ladies waited a moment and then resumed their path in the opposite direction.
“That was close,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, stealing a look over her shoulder. “You must take greater care.”
Tempted by a Lady's Smile Page 3