I carry a goddamn flask in my pocket.
“I say, Jonas, are you all right?”
“Fine,” he bit out, ignoring the concern underscoring his friend’s tone. “Fine,” he forced himself to say again. “I am just…” Except, by God he didn’t know just what he was. All he knew was that in just a handful of days, Gemma Reed had made him question everything he’d carried in his heart. First, she’d challenged his regard for Eloise; innocently remarking on his musings from long, long ago, and not borne of the now.
Then she’d bloody well kissed Westfield. Another snarl hovered on his lips and he tamped down the unfair expression. “Forgive me.” He forced the tension away and returned reluctantly to the side of the pool table, just as the other man took his shot. The crack of Westfield’s cue ball hitting his red target echoed in the room and snapped Richard from whatever maddening haze Gemma Reed had cast.
Guilt crept steadily in, driving back his irrational jealousy. Westfield’s father was at the end of his life, suffering not unlike Richard’s own father had years earlier. What did it say about Richard that he’d begrudge the other man any happiness—even if it was in Gemma’s arms?
“Have you selected a bride from the guests assembled?” He didn’t realize he held his breath until Westfield spoke.
“Hardly,” he mumbled. “My father would have me wed Lady Diana Verney.” He grimaced. “Not even eighteen years of age, but entirely suitable given her father’s connection to mine.”
Of course. A fellow duke’s daughter, the lady was proper, pretty, and polite. The manner of young woman who would never bumble her way endearingly through a song or sneak about her host’s country estate to boldly declare her love. “She would make you a perfect bride.” As soon as the words left him, Richard realized the depth of the bastard he was. He’d encourage Westfield’s suit with that woman for entirely selfish reasons. “That is, unless there is another lady who’s earned your regard?”
“None,” Westfield muttered. “I’m not fool enough to give my heart a second time.” He took a sip of his drink.
None was the perfect answer. Or it should be for what it signified. Gemma’s regard was unreturned. There should be a selfish elation at that discovery. So why did thinking of Gemma professing her feelings to Westfield only to be rebuffed cause this dull throbbing in his chest? Because he knew the pain of that rejection and would spare her from that, even if it was at the expense of his own happiness.
“Come,” he said gruffly. “Surely there is one lady who has earned your favor?” He pressed. Not just for Gemma, but also for Westfield who deserved more than the flawless Lady Diana.
The marquess froze, bent over the table, examining his next shot. “There is one,” he said under his breath.
Richard’s heart slowed to a stop. Perhaps there was another young lady. Perhaps it was someone who would bring happiness to Westfield, and… He curled his hands into fists. But then, that would also mean Gemma’s misery. “Oh?” He infused as much boredom as he could into that single syllable utterance.
“Miss Gemma Reed.” He let his stick fly and then gave a pleased nod as he struck his intended target. A dry grin formed on his lips. “She is not what I’d consider a beauty by any stretch of the imagination.”
Rage twisted and turned inside Richard. Now, he wanted to hit the other man for entirely different reasons. Didn’t you, at your first meeting, see Gemma as a dull, unmemorable figure? He again briefly closed his eyes. How had he not realized the depth of her dark beauty from the start?
Westfield looked over the top of his snifter at him. “Do you know the lady?” Richard managed a movement that was not quite a shake and not quite a nod. “There is something intriguing about her.”
And Richard really didn’t wish to know any more. Nausea settled like a pebble in his belly. “Is there?” How did he manage to force out those words? Only, he already knew the answer—there was everything intriguing about the young lady. “Enough that you’d offer her marriage?” The muscles of his stomach clenched reflexively.
“I haven’t yet decided.” Some of the tension eased. Then… “I may.” That was it. Those were two simple words. But those words were inconclusive affirmation, which really should matter not at all. So how did he explain the pressure tightening his chest? With a casualness that set Richard’s teeth on edge, the marquess cracked his knuckles. “Then, if I must marry someone, I might as well spend my days with someone, at the very least, interesting.”
His patience snapped. “Did you ever stop to consider that the lady deserves more from a husband than that?”
A knife could cut the thick tension in the room. Lord Westfield puzzled his brow.
An awkward pall fell over the room as Richard stood there clenching and unclenching his fists.
Yet…
It was what Westfield possibly wanted. And it was what Gemma absolutely wanted.
It just also happened to be what Richard detested to his core. “Indeed, you are correct, though,” he said half-heartedly, his tone hollow to his own ears. His ears burning, Richard randomly thrust his cue. His shot went wide. “I am leaving tomorrow,” he said sharply and abruptly set his stick on the edge of the table. He could not remain here any longer. Not when it would mean self-torture at the inevitable joining of Gemma with his closest friend. “I am not myself at these affairs.” Or any ton events. Nor had Richard ever enjoyed, welcomed, or reveled in the inanity of the affairs. He enjoyed them a good deal less when he had to consider witnessing the future Duke of Somerset’s courtship of Gemma Reed.
Westfield frowned. “I understand there are places you’d rather be than at a matchmaking party assembled by my father,” Westfield said, returning his attention to his cue ball. “If I could leave, I certainly would. But,” he thrust his stick forward, “never tell me you intend to leave on the morn?” Consternation rang in his friend’s words.
Confirmation rested on Richard’s lips. Except the moment he left, all he’d shared with Gemma would cease to be. The next time he’d see her would, no doubt, be on the arm of Westfield, either married or betrothed. “I will stay through to tomorrow’s entertainments.” Partially because he was a glutton for self-torture, but more, because he’d see her one more time before he rode off and left her to her heart’s greatest yearning. Bile climbed up his throat and threatened to choke him. This was so much worse than anything he’d ever known with Eloise’s decision to wed his brother. This was a rusted blade of jealousy raking his skin. This was burning regret and ugly resentment. It turned him into a person he detested. “If you’ll excuse me?” He sketched a short bow. “I am going to seek out my rooms.” Not allowing Westfield to waylay his efforts, he marched from the room.
Chapter 11
The lit chandeliers in the Duke of Somerset’s ballroom doused the room in artificial light cast by thousands of glowing candles. Shadows danced upon the gold, satin wallpaper.
From her vantage at the corner of the ballroom, Gemma trailed her fingertips along the smooth, soft, cool to the touch surface. All the while, she eyed the gathering of guests. Charged excitement layered the air. Eager matchmaking mamas and their desperate-to-wed-a-duke daughters flicked frantic gazes about the room in search of the respective gentleman.
Unbidden, her gaze sought out Mama who stood speaking with another one of the distinguished mamas gathered, pretending to pay attention. All the while, she shifted her stare about the ballroom. Shame curled Gemma’s toes. For, as much as she loved her mother, and as much as she knew her mother loved her in return, it was a painful moment to realize that her last living parent was not unlike the other grasping guests present.
“I always suspected you were a wallflower by choice.”
She gasped as her brother’s gently spoken words brought her around. Drat. She’d been discovered. Slamming a hand to her breast, she pasted a smile on. “Emery.”
The orchestra struck up the next set—a quadrille and she welcomed the distraction of their enthusiastic play
ing. Her brother sipped from his champagne. “I am surprised.”
He dangled that like bait. As someone who’d risen to far too many of those lures through the years, she recognized it, just as he knew that she could not indulge him. “What are you surprised at?”
Crystal flute in hand, Emery gave a slight wave. “That after all these years of pining for Westfield, and the sea of vultures descending upon him, that you’d not find the gumption to tell him.”
She blinked and then searched about for possible interlopers. Alas, the collected guests would have to note the ever-ordinary Gemma hovering behind the great Doric column. “…You are a remarkable young woman…”
“Hmm? Nothing to say?” At her brother’s pointed look, she dragged forward a suitable reply relevant to his mention of the marquess. For as much as Emery saw, or rather, as much as he thought he saw, he could not know, even now, another occupied her thoughts, that Richard Jonas had stolen her heart. The air left her on a slow exhale. I love him. She slid her eyes closed. All these years, she’d hung on to the dream of one man, only to find the reality of Richard Jonas so much more meaningful, in ways that stirred equal parts wonder and terror in her breast.
“Gemma?” The concerned question in her brother’s tone brought her eyes open.
“This is hardly the place to speak on it,” she said at last, owing her brother some response. She made a show of studying the partners circling in the steps of the quadrille. All the while, panic built inside, threatening to consume her. With a rapidity that defied the logic she’d long prided herself on, Gemma had gone and fallen in love with a man who loved another. How could she ever compete with the unattainable paragon that Richard had known for the better part of his life?
“So you’ll not deny your feelings for the man?”
Trapped.
She sighed. He’d always managed the upper hand. But then, wasn’t that the way of elder brothers? Promptly snapping her lips into an uncooperative line, Gemma peeked around the pillar.
“There are certainly worse gentlemen you could find yourself married to,” he spoke in such hushed tones she strained to hear. “He is a rogue but he is not a rake. He is a loyal son and brother. And, of course, he possesses one of the fattest purses in the kingdom.”
She shot him a frown. Did he think she was the manner of lady who desired material wealth?
“Not that you require a fat purse,” he said quickly.
That was the manner of man Lord Westfield was. As Emery said, a good son and brother, yet for her brother’s observations about that distinguished lord, she could not help but feel…empty at the prospect of life with the marquess. Her brother enumerated all Lord Westfield’s outstanding attributes and, yet, his perfunctory list felt more an indictment against the gentleman than anything.
A commotion at the front of the ballroom called the crowd’s attention and a buzz of loud whispers echoed from the walls. Absently, Gemma looked to the front of the room. The orchestra drew the lively quadrille to a rousing finish and absolute silence met the future Duke of Somerset’s arrival.
He had arrived.
Lord Westfield stood at the top of the stairwell. Beatrice on his arm, he eyed the ballroom like a medieval knight upon his dais surveying his people. Then, these were his people. These were the lords and ladies called together by a dying duke with the express intention of marrying off his children. The marquess made his way down the marble staircase and said something to his sister that earned a laugh.
“You disapprove of the marquess?” she ventured hesitantly, pulling her focus away from Lord Westfield.
There should be something affirming in having all her own thoughts these years about that very gentleman carefully echoed by her brother. Yet, what would he say to the truth that she’d gone and fallen in love with another? A man who’d seared her lips forever with the memory of his kiss.
“Do you know what, Gemma?”
Pulled to the moment, Gemma silently shook her head.
“He will make any lady a perfectly fine husband, but you are not any lady.” He downed the contents of his glass and dangled the empty flute between his fingers. “You are my sister. And I would have you with a gentleman who notices you and not a rogue who takes three years to see that you are there, Gemma.”
Her throat worked and she leaned up on tiptoe. Emery stiffened as she placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”
Cheeks flushed, Emery waved his empty glass. “Yes, well,” he said, giving his throat a clear. “I am going to seek out the card rooms.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Because that is the manner of gentleman I am.”
A laugh bubbled from her lips and she swatted him. “Go.” She stared at his swiftly retreating form. He moved with the speed of a man who’d been granted the king’s pardon. There was no more loving brother and, yet, he’d never been one for those shows of emotion. Which is why his words resonated.
Her smile faded. Emery spoke of her finding a man who’d noticed her and, yet, Richard, who’d swiftly captured her heart, had noticed another and for it, he would only and forever see that woman. Gemma could not compete with the illustrious figure he’d held aloft. I want to, though. I want him to see me…and only me…
Just as her brother had said. After years of being invisible to every single lord at every infernal ball and soiree, she wanted to be appreciated and noticed for who she was. And Richard was the man to give the lady who owned his heart that strident devotion. Alas, there had been another before her. A faceless woman Gemma could have never hoped to compete with for Richard’s sheer connection to that lady.
She stilled. Her skin burned with the feel of being watched. She did a sweep and found him. Richard stood at the pillar on the opposite end of the ballroom, staring at her with a burning intensity. And this was not a man who did not notice her. This was a man who, even with the distance separating them, pierced her with the heat of his stare, stirring a wild fluttering inside her belly.
Gemma cocked her head. Or rather, she thought he was staring at her. She peeked around, looking about for the other person who might have secured his focus. Looking back to Richard, she found him smiling—very much, at her. Nor was his the jaded, cynical grin, or the cocksure half-grin she’d come to expect. This was a sincere expression captured in honesty. She returned his smile. She cast a furtive look about, looked back and lifted her hand in a faint greeting.
Richard held his fingers up.
There was such an intimacy to their stolen exchange that felt more scandalous, more intimate, than any of the bolder, more passionate embraces they’d shared. Her heart doubled its beat. And for a gentleman who’d only seen one woman, and pined for her enough to carry that flask, he stared at her…as though there was only Gemma. Then, with a single-minded purpose, he walked the perimeter of the ballroom. Occasionally the kaleidoscope of twirling dancers separated them and with each step that brought him closer, a breathless anticipation filled her.
Gemma pressed her warm palms against the smooth column, feeling nothing but the thrumming energy inside. Two years earlier, she’d attended a lecture at the Royal Academy. On display had been the Leyden jar which kept electricity contained inside. With lords and a smattering of ladies yawning about her, Gemma had perched on the edge of her chair, transfixed by that clear, crystal container. How was it possible for energy to be so contained? As energy thrummed inside her—she knew.
Her heart thumped as he continued his forward path, his powerful stare not leaving hers. It was odd how even separated by more than thirty paces with a crowd of guests between her and another being, she could feel by the fix of his eyes and the sweep of his lashes that mesmeric connection.
Then Lord Westfield stepped into his path and the magical pull died a jarring death.
As Richard slowed to a stop, he slid his attention from Gemma to the future Duke of Somerset. From her cover behind the pillar, Gemma’s heart sank. She hovered in her hiding spot. With her blatant attention, she was not unlike every lady present no
w eying those two converging gentlemen. Except, where so many of the others studied one with a single-minded purpose, Gemma fixed on the other. She’d not been unlike those other ladies; raising the Marquess of Westfield to an illustrious status, seeing a paragon and not a man. Not unlike the way Richard had elevated his Eloise to a lofty status to which no woman could dare aspire.
Now, with the two gentlemen side by side, she could not help but compare them. One gentleman, who by his birthright had been born to near royalty, and the other, who found himself born a second son and who’d subsequently built an existence with his skill and intelligence. That was the manner of man she’d spend her life with.
The two men sketched bows and then moved in opposite directions. Lord Westfield did a quick sweep of the room, but she looked away, instead seeking Richard. She wrinkled her nose. Blast and blazes. Where was he?
“Miss Reed, we meet again,” Richard’s voice sounded over her shoulder and with a gasp, she spun about.
“Mr. Jonas,” she whispered. Of their own will, her eyes caressed the increasingly familiar planes of his harshly beautiful face. How singularly odd. To have come to the duke’s summer party with one intention, only to find her world so singularly upended in just five days. It defied the logic, reason, and sense she’d lived her life by. It made a mockery of time and, instead, presented her with a new, unfamiliar, and yet thrilling aspect on life—and love.
In three years, she could place on her fingers and toes the number of sets a gentleman had sought from her. That was, not coerced by her protective and loving older brother. Ask me to dance. Ask it because you wish it…
And suddenly, she who’d hovered on the fringe, awaiting a gentleman to show some proverbial interest to her because he’d been so moved, tired of it, at last. “Do you dance, Richard?”
He furrowed his noble brow.
“Dance,” she said slowly, motioning to the dancers now taking to the floor for the next set.
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