Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (16 page)

Of course, he should know a woman of her courage and determination would not be swayed. “There are some who are worth braving all for.”

Her words drained the breath from his lungs, leaving his chest frozen. By God, she was right. Some were most assuredly worth braving all for. He’d spent the better part of his life burying his own feelings deep. She deserved more than to be settled on. Westfield had three bloody years to see Gemma Reed before him and he’d failed. Seeing others as more worthy than himself, he’d, not unlike Gemma, stood on the sidelines of life. And if he let her do this thing, if he waited for Westfield to decide whether she was “suitable” for his future bride, then Richard would spend the rest of his life hating himself for not having the courage to at least tell her what was in his own heart. It would be a life of constant wondering and regret. “You are correct,” he said quietly.

She peeked about and then lowered her voice all the more. “But it cannot be here, Richard.” The orchestra drew the dance to a slow stop and Richard had never been more mournful and more grateful for the sudden conclusion of a dance. They stood at the side of the ballroom with rapidly departing couples moving all around them. “Will you meet me in the duke’s library after the next set?”

F
or a long moment, Richard said nothing. And for an even longer, more horrifying moment, she expected he’d refuse. It was as he said. If they were discovered or overheard, she would be ruined. And yet, there were surely worse things than being ruined. Never telling the gentleman who’d shown her the wish she’d never known she carried in her heart, that she loved him. That was far worse. Unease roiling in her belly, Gemma fidgeted with the card at her wrist, momentarily bringing Richard’s attention there.

Then he gave a brusque nod. “Of course.”

Her shoulders sagged in involuntarily relief and she let the mortifyingly empty card fall into its respective place. With her profession, Richard would, no doubt, see a fickle lady who’d carried a regard for the man he called friend for three long years. How to make him see that for their brief acquaintance, she’d been more alive, more herself than she’d ever been? In him, she’d found a person who embraced her knowledge and would never stifle her keen need to know. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Dark emotion flared in his eyes, momentarily robbing her of breath and thought. These were the eyes that had the power to delve into a woman’s soul and with his gaze this too-brief moment, she was that woman. He lowered his head so close his breath tickled her cheek and she fluttered her lashes.

“Miss Reed—?”

No!
At the unexpected interruption, a string of unladylike curses that would have shocked the king’s guard ran through her head as she and Richard turned as one. Lord Westfield stood there, his usual, affable, charming self. And she’d never been more unmoved.

He looked pointedly to her dance card. “Will you do me the honor of this set?”

From the corner of her eye, she looked to Richard. The harsh planes of his face were set in an inscrutable mask. Those hard lips, that had given her the first taste of passion, and set off this hungering for more in his arms, formed a hard line. “Of course,” Gemma said with forced cheer and held her card out to the marquess who promptly scribbled—She yanked her gaze to his.

As though taking some distant cue from the marquess, the orchestra struck the chords for the next set. A quadrille.

She stretched her smile to the point of breaking as she allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor. She cast a quick, lingering look at Richard, willing him to see the truth she’d only herself just discovered. He stood, hands in his pockets, and rocked on the balls of his feet, eying her and Lord Westfield a long while, and then he strode away.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Gemma?” he murmured as they completed the first steps of the dance.

“Indeed, my lord.”

With his hand at the small of her back, he led her in a small circle, and then they were briefly parted. Gemma used the moment to search out Richard and a pang of disappointment went through her when finding him gone.

The natural steps of the quadrille brought her and the marquess together once more. “You perform the steps of the quadrille with remarkable flourish and grace.” He was everything gracious and polite and flattering and, yet, how empty those compliments rolled from his tongue.

You matter more than the match you might make or the approval of Society. You matter because you are a woman so wholly different than any other.

She could not maintain this oppressive facade, even for the benefit of Polite Society. With every utterance, Lord Westfield’s words stifled her breath and hopes. Is this what life with him would be if they married? Heart hammering wildly, Gemma came to a sudden and jarring stop that brought the other partners in their circle to a stumbling halt. “I…” Aware of the flurry of whispers from the dancers about them, the confusion in the marquess’ eyes, Gemma dropped a curtsy. “Please, excuse me.”

Then, she fled. Gemma moved with a stealth and speed her mother would have lamented and her brother would have applauded. Slipping between the crush of guests, she attracted curious stares before they registered it was merely Miss Reed, whom they’d never felt deserving of that regard. Gemma escaped the ballroom and then with her heart beating a frantic rhythm in time to her footsteps, she tore down the hall. She skidded to a halt outside the duke’s library and fumbled with the door handle before managing to open it and slip inside. Some of the tension seeped from her heaving shoulders as she closed the panel behind her and leaned against it, taking support from the wood surface. She pressed her eyes closed and found a soothing comfort in the dull hum of silence that drowned out the peals of laughter and buzz of whispers she’d left behind.

Gemma took deep, steadying breaths and opened her eyes. She blinked. It took a moment to adjust to the darkened space. The thick scent of leather flooded her senses, calming and reassuring. How many years had she lost herself in the comfort of the pages of books? When she’d been friendless and battling the blunt, unkind honesty of first governesses and then the
ton
, she’d escaped within her quest for information and learning.

Now, with Richard having stolen into her life and heart, she could acknowledge the truth: how very lonely her life had truly been. None of those inked words could ever properly convey the depth of feeling to be had in—

The door opened and she went sprawling to the floor. Gemma landed hard on her knees with a loud grunt as pain shot up her legs. But through the pain was a thrilling charge of excitement. “R—” Her greeting died a quick death. Oh, God. Disappointment sank like a stone in her belly as the Marquess of Westfield quickly closed the door and rushed to her side.

“Gemma,” he said with a familiarity that really should have existed for years given her friendship with Beatrice, but had only come to be during this week.

“M-My lord,” she stammered, as he set her on her feet with a masculine ease. Except, the moment she was on her feet, the ticking long case clock in the opposite corner of the room punctuated the awkward pall between them. A thousand questions trailed through her mind as she fiddled with her skirts. Why was he here? Why…?

“I take it there is no surprise to you that my father has the expectation I will wed,” he said suddenly with such casualness that she blinked several times.

For surely he’d not said… “My lord?” she blurted.

“Robert,” he corrected. Then, he crossed over to the sideboard at the back wall. His hand hovered over the crystal decanters and then he froze mid-movement. “My father, I take it you know, is dying?”

There was an eerily haunting quality to the marquess’ words; a dark emptiness that hinted at a man in pain, and as he spoke, it was as though he spoke to himself. But then, he shot a glance over his shoulder; his face a carefully expressionless mask.

“I am so sorry,” she said gently, as some of the uncertainty around him lifted. Having lost her own father years earlier, she knew the pain of loss; particularly a beloved parent. She drifted closer and hovered at his shoulder.

He gave a terse nod and then returned his attention to the neatly arranged bottles. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but then he gave his head a clearing shake and swiped the nearest decanter. “My father expects me to wed before…” The blood in his knuckles drained under the force of his grip upon his glass.

At his silent suffering, Gemma took another step closer. In times of grief and suffering, she’d come to appreciate that no words were needed. There was no need for ramblings or useless platitudes. Oftentimes, the assurance of another’s presence, the truth that one wasn’t alone in their misery, brought a soothing solace.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “Well, he expects me to wed,” he finished, neatly omitting the painful particular that had brought the lords and ladies together.

Distractedly, Gemma brushed her fingertips over the edge of the sideboard. “Isn’t that the way of our world?” she asked softly. “They expect you to make a match even when sadness is sucking at your senses and stealing your thoughts.”

He started, and at those honest words to escape her lips, she retreated a step. Lord Westfield, for even with his earlier offering, she could see him as no one but the marquess, continued to study her in a contemplative manner so that she shifted on her feet under that scrutiny. “It is expected I wed.”

It was expected they all would wed. Granted, a nobleman who would be in possession of one of the oldest, most distinguished titles would be held to even more stringent expectations than a mere viscount’s daughter.

Beatrice’s brother, this man she’d long admired, propped his hip on the edge of the broad, mahogany piece and sipped from his glass of brandy. “If I marry, I would marry a woman I respect and admire. A woman who is loyal and trustworthy.”

At having her own words, those ones she now saw as truly empty of all that mattered—love and passion…heat burned her neck. She cringed. What must Richard have thought when she made her confession to him earlier that week?

Lord Westfield took another swallow of his drink and then set the glass down with a soft thunk. “I admire and respect you, Gemma.”

Gemma’s world came to a jarring, screeching halt. For what did he truly know about her? Just as she’d known so very little about him. “Me?” she blurted. Oh, he was a devoted brother and a kind man. Time had proven that. But did he enjoy kippers or roast? Did he prefer hazard to faro? Or did he avoid those games of chance all together? The little pieces that made a person who they were, she couldn’t even venture a guess, where the marquess was concerned.

The ghost of a smile played on his lips. “You are surprised.”

Gemma smoothed her palms over the fabric of her skirts and picked around her thoughts for a suitable reply. After all, this moment was one that for three years she would have traded her left smallest finger for. Now, she gave thanks that no rash offering had been made or she’d be a finger short. Incapable of a suitable reply, she gave him none. He shot a hand out and brushed it along her cheek.

His touch, though sure and strong, was devoid of that jar full of electric energy. All the mad flutterings and tingles roused by Richard.

“Will you marry me?”

And after years of dreaming, there it was.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

The marquess swung the leg dangling from the sideboard back and forth, giving him an almost boyish quality. A small frown chased away his earlier smile. “We get along well enough.” Well enough? They’d hardly spent any time together. “You are clever and I believe we’d have diverting conversations.”

Despite herself, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. In the scheme of romantic marriage offerings, the marquess’ would never be the manner of proposal that would find its way onto the pages of one of those shocking gothic novels or hopeful fairytales her mother enjoyed. Lord Westfield stared expectantly at her.

With the same careful attention she’d put to the lectures she attended in London and her books, Gemma contemplated that proposal. She had no doubt if she married the marquess they would have a degree of happiness together. They would be a content pair; perhaps one of those wedded couples that used one another’s last name and title in discourse. A couple that would forever be subjected to Society’s scrutiny until her every smile was weighted in falsity. There would be no grand passion but rather a gentle companionship and she wanted more. Things that would never be with this man, because another had set her heart aflutter.

“For three years, I have loved you to distraction, Lord Westfield,” she said softly and that admission brought his swinging leg to an abrupt stop.

He flared his eyes, but otherwise gave no indication as to his thoughts to her revelation. Gemma held her palms up. “You danced with me when no one else would. You smiled at me and asked how I was doing, when others saw me as invisible.” With a wistful smile, she wandered away from him and stopped along one of the floor-length bookshelves.

A horse book snagged her notice and she absently trailed her fingertips over the gold lettering etched on the spine of that tome. “I came here with the purpose of confessing my feelings to you.” She directed those words to the book at her eye-level. Gemma shot a look over her shoulder. “I resolved to not let anything stop me from telling you everything I carried in my heart and arrived with the intention of doing so, and now I can.” She turned her palms up once again. “Lord Westfield, for three years, I loved you.”

He gave a tug at his previously immaculate cravat, saying nothing. She gave Lord Westfield a gentle, but understanding smile. This man would never be comfortable with admissions of love—at least, not from her. Because he did not love her. As Emery had said, the marquess had seen her for three years, but never truly saw her. Nor would he. And it was why she could easily reject the offer he put to her now.

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