Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (2 page)

“Gemma,” Mother called.

Their mother missed nothing. Why, she could be used to ferret out secrets for the Home Office with the eyes she possessed.

Emery retrieved Gemma’s book and handed it over. “I told you,” he whispered.

She laughed, tucking Cuvier’s work under her arm. “Yes, well, she does value propriety.” As such, she’d long despaired of Gemma’s penchant for garnering all the wrong kinds of notice.

“And good matches,” Emery put in with a wink. He offered his elbow and Gemma slid her fingers onto his sleeve.

“I daresay you are the real reason for her hopes with this event,” she said out the side of her mouth.

Alas, poor Emery had been dodging their mother’s clear attempts to make a match for him since he’d left university nearly eight years ago. She’d been less than veiled in her aspirations for him to make a match with the still unwed Lady Beatrice.

As they climbed the stairs of the palatial estate, the butler threw the doors wide. With Emery at her side, Gemma hesitated.
Do not be a coward…
Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced her feet into a forward movement.

“You look as pained as I about being here,” Emery whispered as they were ushered through the long, carpeted corridors to their respective guest rooms.

“What would I have to be pained about?” she shot back, waggling her eyebrows. “My mother’s pathetic attempt at matchmaking? Or her desperate wish to see me wed any suitable gentleman before the London Season begins?”

Their melded laughter earned a frown from their mother and Gemma tamped down her smile. They made their way through the labyrinth that was the Duke of Somerset’s country estate and Gemma peeked about. It was hard
not
to gape at the evidence of such opulent wealth. Elaborate gilt frames hung upon the satin-wallpapered walls with stern, disapproving ducal ancestors looking on at Gemma.

She drew her book close to her chest. Or mayhap it was her reading material they disapproved of.

Regardless, even those long-dead ancestors no doubt recognized a flawed lady amidst their ghostly midst.

How many of the guests now occupying these hallowed walls coveted the lavish adornments? And yet, the ornate, gold sconces lining the halls and the mahogany furniture artfully placed throughout the abode made Gemma’s hands moist. And not in the greedy, grasping way of the ladies who now darted their gazes about did, but with the panicky, nausea-inducing dread that came from being an out-of-place oddity amidst this elaborate household.

She wrinkled her nose. Why did Lord Westfield have to be a future duke? Why couldn’t he be a baron, or knight, or even a successful merchant? All of those would do a good deal more preferable than falling in love with the gentleman whose future title commanded awe, power, and respect just by being uttered.

“You are not usually this quiet,” Emery observed.

“I gathered Mama had enough to say for the whole of the family.”

A sharp laugh escaped Emery and she welcomed that calming, familiar chuckle as it echoed off the hallway walls. The sound of it made the Duke of Somerset’s estate more of a home and less of a… tomb. Yes, it would have been far preferable if Lord Westfield had proven a lesser lord and not a gentleman on the cusp of inheriting a near kingdom.

A short while later, Gemma was shown to her room, while her family continued on to their respective chambers. With blessed silence her only company, she tossed her copy of
Le Règne Animal
onto a nearby table, and then layered her back against the paneled door. She closed her eyes.

She’d thought overly long about finding the gumption to confess her feelings to Lord Westfield and, yet, now that she was here, she’d really not considered how one went about finding a gentleman amidst a crowded house party—or rather, finding a gentleman
alone
.

Knock Knock Knock

A gasp burst from Gemma’s lips and she jumped. Pressing a hand to her chest, she pulled the door open, and her only friend in the world, Lady Beatrice Dennington spilled inside.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’ve arrived.” The perfectly golden-haired young lady flung her arms about Gemma. She staggered back a step, before returning the embrace.

In an instant, she took in the tight drawn lines at the corner of Beatrice’s mouth and the glimmer of sadness in her cerulean blue eyes. A pang struck Gemma over her own selfishness. She captured Beatrice’s hands and gave a slight squeeze. “How are you?” she asked softly. The same way the
ton
saw in Gemma an unattractive bluestocking, undeserving of notice, was not unlike the way in which they viewed the flawlessly perfect, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. They failed to see the young woman Beatrice truly was, hoping for love, and even now suffering a broken heart over her father’s slow death.

Beatrice’s lips formed a brittle, forced smile. “Fine,” she said. “I am fine. Truly,” she added. The muscles of her throat moved and then she returned Gemma’s squeeze. “Enough with that. Let us focus on this horrid event my father has organized.” Yes, it was far safer to speak on those proper affairs, than in death, dying, and inevitable loss. “It’s been dreadfully dull without you. Countless guests simpering over Robert and gentlemen feigning an interest in me.” She mumbled that last part, high color filling her cheeks. “As though they seek anything more than a ducal connection and the wealth attached to my name.”

Gemma snorted. “It could be a good deal worse. You could have no gentlemen showing any interest whatsoever in you.”

“I would prefer that,” Beatrice said matter-of-factly. Taking Gemma by the hand, she guided her purposefully toward the bed. “Better than to be courted and then passed over again and again and again and again.” Which Society well knew to be the case for Beatrice, who’d been courted by no fewer than three gentlemen who’d all gone on to wed another. Gemma would never figure out just what it was a gentleman wanted in a lady when he’d pass over one such as Beatrice. “I’ve no intention of making a match with someone desiring my dowry.” Beatrice shoved her into a sit.

Gemma bounced on the soft mattress wrinkling the smooth, satin coverlet.

“Enough of me.” A determined glint lit Beatrice’s eyes that would have terrified a battle-hardened soldier. “We are discussing you.”

Gemma blinked. “We are?”

“We are,” Beatrice confirmed with an emphatic nod. “That is, your marital prospects.”

“I don’t have any prospects.” She merely had a hope and a prayer for the most sought-after, lord in the realm. A hope and a prayer, indeed.

Beatrice cast a look over at the closed door and then quickly claimed the spot beside Gemma. “And I’ve no doubt, Robert sees how truly special you are,” her loyal friend went on.

“Yes, but he must see me…amidst all the other ladies in attendance.” In short, a wilted weed among vibrant, fragrant, summer blooms. With a drawn out sigh, Gemma flopped backward on the bed. She stared at the broad, floral canopy overhead. What sorry days, indeed, when one relied on the aid of one’s friend to bring a gentleman up to scratch.

The mattress dipped as Beatrice lay beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “The man you’ve set your sights on is unlike the others. He sees past the preening and the fawning.”

Yes, Beatrice should know. After all, the gentleman in question was, in fact, her brother.

Her friend turned her head and gave a conspiratorial smile. “Furthermore, you have something the other ladies in attendance do not.”

“Oh, and what is that?” Gemma looked expectantly back at her.

“Why, you have me to help.” Beatrice popped up. “Robert is now fishing at the lake and should return near dusk, prior to the dinner party.” Beatrice stared pointedly at her. “Ahem.”

Gemma pushed herself into a sitting position alongside her friend. Why was Beatrice looking at her in that way? She shook her head once.

“I said ahem,” Beatrice made another clearing sound with her throat. “Robert.” She nudged her in the side. “He will be fishing at the lake at the edge of Papa’s property.”

Fishing at dusk. A soft sigh slipped past her lips. Of course the marquess would be clever enough to see the benefit in casting his line at that hour. Though in truth…Gemma chewed at her lower lip. “It is a
nearly
perfect idea,” she conceded.

Her friend’s smile dipped. “
Nearly
perfect?”

Oh, indeed. “Yes, well, during the day is an atrocious time because a fish has unlimited visibility. Ideally, dusk and just after dusk would be preferable given the angle of the ultraviolet light through the angles of—”

“Gemma.” Taking her by the shoulders, Beatrice looked her in the eye. “I am
not
discussing Robert’s cleverness in the sport of fishing.”

She tipped her head. “You aren’t?” Then what had been the whole point of mentioning his early evening excursion?

“No. I wasn’t.” Beatrice closed her eyes and her lips moved as though in prayer. She opened her eyes. “I am telling you he’ll be at the lake.” The other lady gave her a pointed look. “Fishing.” When Gemma still said nothing, her friend tossed her hands up. “Alone. He will be alone.”

As her friend’s meaning became at last clear, Gemma widened her eyes. A strangled laugh escaped her. “Surely you do not expect—?”

The mischievous glimmer that lit the flawless Lady Beatrice’s eyes would have shocked the
ton
. “I do expect it. Why, you know Robert is a rogue, so he needs a bit of a
push
and you are the one to give him that push.” She waggled her blonde eyebrows. “With a bit of assistance from your dearest friend.”

Her dearest and only friend. Regardless, she’d come to appreciate there was more good in having a loving, loyal friend like Beatrice than a ballroom full of false figures who didn’t know or care about her interests.

Gemma returned her attention to the canopy overhead. If her mother could hear her scheming, she would scuttle her off to London. After all, with her penchant for finding trouble, such plans could only end one way…

Now she must hope that one way involved marriage to Robert, the Marquess of Westfield.

A
summer party thrown together with the sole intention of matchmaking the respective guests in attendance was one Mr. Richard Jonas would typically avoid at all costs.

At three and thirty years, with the recently acquired reputation of rogue, and a desire to live for his own pleasures, the last thing he had any interest in was marriage. With the prospect of his own family gathering in the Kent countryside, he’d picked the far lesser of the two evils and accepted the invite of his childhood friend, Lord Westfield, and future Duke of Somerset.

Richard withdrew a flask from his pocket and took a swill of brandy, surveying the country lake. The dark blue sky dusted in crimson and orange ushered in night and cast a glow upon the smooth water.

Then, avoiding his family and the prospect of marriage hadn’t always been the case for Richard. Once, he’d desired marriage and…
more
, with a certain young woman.

Richard grimaced and took another swill. Said woman who happened to now be his sister-in-law, Lady Eloise, now blissfully and quite lovingly wedded to his younger brother. Yes, when presented with the possibility of seeing his very happily wed, now-expecting sister-in-law and his brother, he chose to face the ladies bent on matchmaking. Not that he had a care where those young women were concerned. After all, a viscount’s younger brother stood little chance of inheriting and offered little by way of a title or match for a grasping lady.

Only one woman he’d known had never been grasping. A gentle summer breeze stirred ripples upon the otherwise placid lake and he swirled the contents of his flask. Nay, Eloise hadn’t cared a jot for titles or wealth, as was demonstrated by her unwavering love of his title-less brother, Lucien. Lucien, who’d languished in a hospital for years, offered no title, had lost an arm to infection from a war wound, and served as a butler to some powerful lord. And none of that had mattered to Eloise. He put the stopper back on his flask. Just as Richard had never truly mattered to her. Not in the ways he’d most wanted to matter.

Unbidden, his gaze went to the fishing reel, as buried memories slipped to the surface of the only girl he’d ever known who’d baited a hook. His lips twitched with wry mirth. A young girl who’d baited the hook of his then squeamish self and who’d never laughed about that weakness. Even when his own brothers had mocked and jeered as only brothers could.

Tucking his drink inside his front pocket, Richard retrieved his pole and carried it to the edge of the shore.

“Do you intend to remain out here through dinner?” Amusement lingered in the question from his companion.

Richard glanced back to where Lord Westfield knelt gathering his fishing equipment and then returned his stare to the lake. “Indeed.” He cast his line.

Behind him, Westfield’s mutterings reached his ears. “Some of us are not afforded that same luxury.”

No, there were certain expectations and responsibilities that went with his birthright.

Where most begrudged the other man for his possession of an eventual dukedom, Richard had never wanted, craved, or envied the other man the responsibilities and headaches which came with his title. Sought after by every marriage-minded miss in the realm, Westfield was not afforded the same peace that came from being a spare to the heir.

In a bid to be helpful, Richard said, “It is just a week.” They both knew how endless a week would be when a duke threw together a guest list of possible matches for his two unwed children.

Westfield snorted. “The highlight of each night will be when this is over and I’m free to escape from the machinations of those present.” Yes, all who knew of or about the marquess were aware of the time he spent at his clubs. Matchmaking summer parties and tedious respectable events were not the manner of
pleasures
he’d ever enjoyed. “You are certain you don’t care to join me?” his friend asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Richard shot another look over his shoulder. The other man stood with his pole tucked on his shoulder. He shook his head. “I’ll join you for drinks and not much more than that.” The official events organized for the ducal party commenced on the morn, at which point Richard would do his due diligence as a guest and take part in the painful inanities.