Gemma laughed, turning her attention away from the young pair. “Am I so obvious? You are the second person to comfort me.”
“Worry lines,” Roz said, tapping a finger to Gemma’s forehead. “They betray you. But the more pressing question is, why?” Roz waved a hand as Gemma began to speak. “Oh, never mind. I know why. You think because of your…unusual upbringing that you will never be a suitable match for a man like him. You think that he was forced into this because of circumstances.”
“Well, it is true,” Gemma cried. Why did no one else see the problem?
“It is not,” Roz said. “I know your past has made you worry about many things. But you are an absolute catch, dear heart. If he’s not in love with you yet, well, make it happen.”
If only it were that easy, Gemma thought, sipping tea that had gone lukewarm.
…
“You have been avoiding me.” A low voice near Beatrice’s ear rousted her from her daydreaming. She whirled toward it. Her plate, filled with soft pink angel cakes, nearly collided with a solid male chest.
George Harrington smiled and removed the plate from her hand so that she did not disgrace herself further. She did not resist. He looked quite handsome. The most handsome she had ever seen him—not that that mattered to her. He was dressed in a fine dark blue coat with buff breeches. His hair was tousled so a lock fell across his brow and into his light hazel eyes. He was not a tall man, but he was solidly built. She remembered his muscle under her hands as she had tended to his wound. Yes, he was solid, she thought, flushing at the memory and cursing the ivory complexion that revealed her every thought in her cheeks.
She watched as he set the plate on the mantle of the fireplace, where she had been hiding within the warm safety of several female relatives. They had all somehow disappeared without her realizing it. That’s what she got for daydreaming.
“You are right, sir. I have been,” she admitted. There was no point in hiding the fact, she decided. She had gone quite out of her way not to spend any time with the man in the past week. The wedding planning—done mostly with Roz, as Gemma had seemed determinedly unenthusiastic about it—had taken up much of her days. But she would have made herself busy in other ways if it hadn’t.
His eyebrows shot up at her honesty, and he rocked onto the heels of his boots. “Walk with me?” he asked and proffered his uninjured arm.
She hesitated, but then let him lead her out through the French doors into the enclosed gardens. The air was crisp and filled with the scent of lilacs, her favorite flower. She nodded to another couple before ducking under a particularly aggressive lemon tree. Her hand curled slightly into his arm, her fingertips digging into the expensive fabric. She wanted to remember every detail of the moment.
“Well, my lady,” he said, seating her at a small stone bench tucked into a secluded corner behind the rose bushes. He propped a polished boot next to her hip and leaned on his leg. She stared at a small yellow flower erupting out of a crack in the path. “Will you at least inform me why I am being avoided?”
She breathed deeply. This was really it, she thought. This was the turning point in her life. She would tell him, she decided. There was nothing to be gained from deception, save her pride. She tried to think of where to start.
“Lucas brought you here to investigate a murder,” she finally said. He did not react to what must have seemed like a change of subject to him. She bit her lip and gathered her courage. “But it was not just that.”
“Yes, I know,” George responded, with a casual ease.
“What do you mean, you know?” she asked, thrown off her planned speech and, truthfully, a little peeved about it. She’d spent many a night the past week rehearsing in her head exactly what she’d tell him if this moment came.
He had the audacity to look slightly annoyed himself. “Winchester would not have brought me in on an investigation if it had merely involved the murder of a stranger’s cousin,” he said, as if he were talking to a not particularly bright child. “It would have had to involve someone under his wing. And that would leave you, my de—my lady.”
“Well. Hrmph,” she muttered, the wind taken out of her sails. If she had not been caught up in her own emotions, she might have guessed he would figure it out. He was nothing if not intelligent.
“I do not know exactly what it entails, nor do I care,” he said after she was silent for a minute. “I presumed it was blackmail of some kind.”
“It seems you have it all figured out, sir,” she said, mortified and relieved all at once. She could take the easy route and not tell him all the details, she thought. But he deserved to know. And then he would turn from her in disgust.
He smiled, a bit more fully than usual. “Not quite. Enough to know that exactly what happened is unimportant. Enough to know you need to be protected. That is all,” he said. He was reassuring her, she thought. He was so kind. She twisted her hands in her lap. “That is all I need to know.”
“I met him at my coming-out ball,” she said, staring at the ground again. The murmur of voices and music spilled from the house a little distance away. The air was heavy and perfumed by the roses, and the sun was warm on her face. But none of that registered with her. Her life had narrowed down to just him, and the story she had to tell. “He was not the most handsome man there, but there was something about him.”
“Please, you do not have to tell me this,” George cut in. “It does not matter.”
She turned to him, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill out. “I have to tell you,” she said. “Do you understand? I have to tell you.”
He gazed back at her for a long moment. Then nodded. “I do. Go on.”
“Lucas was an overprotective brother,” she said. “He kept me quite sheltered in the country after our parents died. He loved me, you see, but he did not really know what to do with me. But for my coming-out ball, that would all change. I was so excited. I had made my bow to the queen. I had bought so many pretty dresses. Everyone kept saying I would be the match of the season, that the beaux would flock to me. I am ashamed to admit, I let it turn my head.”
“You were young,” he commented.
“It was only a year ago,” she said, with a slight smile. “Not so young, unless I am young now.”
“You have lived since then,” he said.
She tilted her head in consideration. “You are right. I have.” She paused then returned to her tale. “I will spare you all the details, but it is fair to say I was led on a merry chase, as they say, but the end was not the altar. It was disgrace, if anyone ever found out. I let myself be charmed by a snake and then was surprised when I was bitten. Thankfully, he actually knew how to maintain some discretion, and with Lucas’s help, we managed to squash any rumors of it. He soon left for India, though not because of me, I assure you. But it is true. It was not just that I stepped out into the air too long with him, and that ruined my reputation. I am no longer… innocent.”
The last part was the hardest to get out, because she knew it sealed her fate with the man she loved. But once she admitted it, defeat and relief both surged through her. He would turn from her now in judgment of her sins. The kindness in his eyes, the softness there, would shift now to disgust, she was sure. But at least she’d shared her secret. There would be no more deception, she thought.
“I would gladly hunt him down and kill the man,” George finally said, his fists clenched. But he did not move away. Quite the opposite. He sat on the hard stone beside her, taking her chin in his hand. “I will kill him.”
She let out a gurgle of laughter that was right on the edge of tears. “That is quite unnecessary, sir. I have long since recovered emotionally from the experience. And I have a guess that Lucas has not made his life easy since. He might not have been able to call him out without plunging me into scandal, but there are other ways to ruin a life.”
“I would still enjoy the pleasure of making the…gentleman pay,” George said, letting his hand drop from h
er. She missed the warmth immediately. “But you have not answered my question, my lady.”
Her eyes flew to his. Was he going to make her spell it out? “Mr. Harrington, please do not think me a woman of loose morals because of my past behavior. I do not frequently kiss gentlemen just to kiss them.”
He smiled fully this time, a smile that turned the corners of his lips up and crinkled the delicate skin around his eyes, and her heart turned over in her chest. “What other reason would there be?” he asked, his voice innocent and curious. She swatted at his uninjured shoulder.
“You tease me,” she accused. “But I was worried you would think…” She trailed off, unable to finish her thought without coming off as arrogant or unladylike.
“That I would think of courting you?” he suggested. “And is that your only concern about such a match? How I would feel about your past?”
“Of course,” she said, confused by his meaning.
“Ah, Beatrice,” her name sounded like a caress on his lips. He closed his eyes, turning his face to the sun and taking a deep breath. “How foolish we both are.”
“What on earth do you mean?” she asked, confused.
He looked back at her, their eyes locking. He shifted and took her hands in his own, bringing one up to his lips. He turned it so he could lay his lips against her palm. Electricity shot from her heart to her womb when his tongue darted out to briefly touch the delicate skin. He dropped their hands to her lap but did not release them.
“I am the fourth son of a gentleman,” he said, finally.
“Yes, I know,” she said, the vague feeling of annoyance returning. She was not a simpleton, no matter what anyone else might think.
He smiled, but the gesture had returned to the crooked half smile and did not light up his eyes. “I have no land. I have a small house here in London, but I prefer working in the country on your brother’s estates. I have no further ambitions other than to be a man of affairs. I have no great wealth to offer, nor any position.”
“You have so much to offer,” she said and squeezed his hand in reassurance. She would not have guessed he had thought thusly. He always appeared confident and in control of all situations.
“I love you, Beatrice,” he said, his eyes warm on hers. “I love your light. I love your intelligence. I love the way you prickle when I tease you. I love that you bring sunshine and happiness wherever you go, even though your life has known stormy weather. I love your strength for experiencing that and coming out the other side a better, more mature person. I love that you aren’t afraid to say what you think, and that you feel deeply. I love you, Beatrice.”
She did not even try to stop the tears that flooded her eyes. Could these words be true? She had spent the past year convinced that any words of love were lies, that she would never know the truth of a man’s passion. And yet, he, George, would not lie to her. She knew this of him.
“I do not expect you to return the sentiment, my love,” he said as she gulped and tried to staunch the river running down her face. “But I would like the opportunity to try. If my station is not something to turn you away.”
She laughed and hiccupped and knew she was a general mess. “You silly man,” she finally managed. “I love you more than life. I would take an eternity living in a hovel with you over one in a palace without you.”
He leaned forward and captured her lips with his. “Well, we certainly will not live in a hovel.”
“A shack?” she teased when he released her mouth. “A hut? A shed?”
“Minx,” he said, his teeth sinking into her lower lip.
Chapter Seventeen
It was his wedding night. Lucas rolled the tumbler of amber liquid between his long fingers. He and Gemma were married, and she was stuck with him now. He supposed he should feel guilty for rushing her into the union. It had been a faster timeline than he’d originally anticipated. But he was a man who seized opportunity when it presented itself.
She had doubts, though, and that ate at him. During the reception, she’d smiled and mingled and been a beautiful hostess. In the quiet moments, though, shadows slipped into her eyes.
He’d wanted to shake her and then kiss her and then get her to tell him that she was happy they were married. But he’d done none of that. They’d had a perfectly pleasant day, but that guard that he couldn’t quite figure out how to dismantle was a wall between them. If he didn’t figure out how to tear it down, he worried they’d be doomed.
He shook off the dark thought and glanced at the clock on the mantle of the study. He had wanted to give her some time to adjust to her new bedroom before going to her. Her things had been efficiently packed up and moved over during their wedding breakfast. Their rooms were adjoined, as was proper for an earl and a countess, but he had no intention of sleeping in separate beds, that night or ever. He swallowed his scotch, enjoying the slight burn that did nothing to dampen his anticipation for the night to come.
He did not want to think about the blackmail on the night of his wedding, but his thoughts turned toward the case.
With all of the wedding preparations taking nearly a week, he had been forced to pay the latest demand to buy them time, and that had not sat well with him. It would be worth it in the end when they finally caught the bastard, but Lucas had struggled against his pride as he left the money at the specified location.
Rathburn’s story, and then Carsons’s information, had shed light on the tragedy motivating the villain, but Lucas had not yet formulated a plan for how to proceed after learning what they had. And they had not made progress in the past week. Harrington had been busy learning the background of the men who appeared on all three lists: the guest lists for the house party and his own, and the list of antique watch collectors. It might be a stretch, he thought, but something in their histories might spark an idea.
He gazed into the fire, emptying his mind so he could see more clearly any patterns that were emerging. There was something there, flying away at the edges every time he went to reach for it. He would look at all the information again in the morning. Perhaps that would illuminate the idea he could not quite form.
But it was his wedding night, and he had not had much access to Gemma all week. There had been a few furtive kisses stolen at what all turned out to be inopportune moments for anything further. He’d been left in some inconvenient discomfort several times when Roz had burst into the library with wedding questions and plans.
He finished his drink and rose to his feet. He forced himself to take the stairs slowly, amused at his own schoolboy eagerness. The special license had taken a few days to acquire, and then Gemma’s aunt had insisted on planning a wedding brunch as well.
But now they would have hours to satiate themselves with each other, and they were assured not to be interrupted. Because she was his wife. For now. For however long. For all time.
Gemma was his wife.
…
Gemma was being absurd. It wasn’t as if she were an innocent any longer. But knowing it didn’t stop her from being nervous.
There was something special, different, about it being her wedding night, though. It heightened all her emotions—ones that were already fragile from the day.
She was married. The enormity of it washed over her even as she sat still beneath the careful ministrations of her maid. Lucas was her family now. For the first time since her parents died, she had a family.
She immediately felt blasphemous toward Uncle Artie and Nigel at the thought. But she knew, although they had loved her dearly and she them, that it was not the same. She was now directly responsible for someone’s happiness and he for hers. She remembered what he’d whispered to her that first night in the carriage.
We are in this together now, my dear.
Her maid finished weaving the white ribbon through her hair, and Roz’s words from earlier rang in her head.
If he’s not in love with you yet, well, make it happen.
It was not like her to be so passive wh
en it came to something she wanted. She had come to London to hunt a murderer, for goodness sake. Why was she sitting back, letting fear take control? Fear of rejection. Fear of being vulnerable. Why, when it came to one of the most important things in her life, was she not fighting?
Because it would hurt so much if I lost the battle.
But she was already losing by not trying. She was worth loving. If Lucas didn’t see that, well, he was a fool. And he was no fool.
At the realization, the vise that had been wrapped around her rib cage all day long loosened.
She smiled and dismissed the maid. Should she arrange herself somehow on the bed? Or was that too forward? Should she sit demurely sewing in the chair by the fire?
Before she could decide, she heard a soft knock on the door that connected her bedroom to Lucas’s.
She curbed the urge to run to him when he entered. It was hard, though, because he was just so handsome, and she was just so happy with her newfound mission in life. He’d skipped his usual unrelenting formal black for a loose white shirt and grey trousers. His feet were bare, and for some reason that put her more completely at ease than any words would have. A giggle burbled up, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to try to contain the mirth.
“Not exactly what you want from your wife on your wedding night,” Lucas murmured.
She glanced up at him as he stalked toward her. The laughter died in her throat at the look of burning desire on his face. She leaped toward him, and he caught her against his chest. Their mouths found each other and hungrily feasted. He slid his hands down her back and under her backside, hoisting her up so that he held her off the ground as if she weighed as much as a feather. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing against him right where the storm was building. A quick turn brought her back up flat against the wall.
He used one hand to encircle her wrists so that he could hold her arms above her head. She felt powerless and cherished when faced with such raw strength and control. He took advantage of her position by nibbling on the sensitive skin of her neck, his tongue soothing the nips from his teeth. She could do nothing but throw her head back and push herself closer to his hardness as he worshiped her skin. Desire pulsed through her.
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