Chapter Thirteen
The may have been mistaken in her optimism.
A scant three days after Lady Cartwright’s card party, Gemma was beginning to wonder if she had married a stranger after all.
She only saw him at meals, and that was only if she could be so fortunate as to find him there when she arrived. She had actually been reduced to sending him missives by one of the servants, as she had no idea where he was or what he was about.
The first day she had scoured the townhouse for him, only getting lost twice, and then asking the severe housekeeper of his whereabouts, which had only earned her a pitying look and a useless answer.
She knew better than to think he was upset with her. She hadn’t done anything that anyone could construe as being in error or improper. On the contrary, her behavior had been more perfect than it had been in her entire life.
But Lucas was absolutely nowhere to be found when she wished to. There were no notes for her, no indication of where he might have gone or what he might be doing. She imagined he must have some pressing matters of business, but was it so much that he could not speak to her about it?
Or inform her of his plans?
She had received more invitations since Lady Cartwright’s card party, but hardly as many as she had been receiving. And they were beginning to be most curiously addressed.
To her alone.
Not her husband.
That had made her frown and she really did need to speak with him about it. She could hardly represent them well if she did not know which invitations to accept and which to decline.
As he had been so remarkably absent, she had been forced to use her best judgment, which had never been perfect where Society was concerned. Thankfully, her sister, Marianne, and Moira, Lady Beverton, were of much use there. She’d been seen out in public with them on various excursions, earning stares and whispers as she did so. She smiled serenely and even dared to meet some of the gawkish looks, which only led to flushed cheeks and sputterings on the part of the others.
She’d seen Lucas do that on occasion, and she suddenly understood the appeal of such an action.
It was great fun.
And she would have shared her amusement with her husband, if only he would be available to do so.
This morning, however, she had no errands, no appointments, and nothing to divert her. As she had done at Thornacre, she had gone over each of the rooms and determined their state and any changes needing to be made, whether out of necessity or her own tastes. But the rooms were in perfect order and only slight alterations were needed. She knew each member of the staff and had been perfectly cordial and warm with all, but they seemed more inclined to be reserved, as their master.
Only her maid was the least bit chatty, and Hattie was hardly someone she could sit and have conversation with without a reason. She was a maid, not a companion, and there were other things she needed to accomplish with her time than humoring the mistress of the house.
She wandered the house aimlessly for a moment, then frowned to herself. This was ridiculous. She was moping around her house because she had nothing to do and her husband was avoiding her.
A grown woman with an independent spirit should not be prone to such silliness.
Lady Raeburn’s musicale was approaching, as was Miranda Ascott’s a few weeks after. She could select numbers to rehearse in preparation. It seemed an age since she had played, and even longer since she had done so for her own enjoyment.
The music room in their London house was a very open room, allowing for as much of the natural light that London could offer, which generally did not amount to much. Today, however, the sunlight streamed through the windows and there seemed to be a glow about everything within. The gilded enhancements on the walls and ceiling transformed the room into an almost mystical place, and Gemma sighed in contentment.
She pulled out her violin, tightened the strings, and began to play scales and light pieces to warm her fingers and the instrument.
Then, when she was ready, she started a few pieces she knew already and had practiced before she had left for Thornacre. She struggled to find something that was adequate, as nothing seemed to suit her anymore. These pieces were innocent and delicate, simple and light. She could play any of them at this moment and receive her due praises, but she was not that girl anymore.
She fumbled through some other pieces, finding a few that would be more of a challenge for her, and one she thought could pair well with Lily’s playing and Marianne’s voice, if they were so inclined. Marianne was still relatively timid with her musical abilities, but with the proper encouragement and the support of her friends, it might not be so terrifying.
She found another piece in her collection that she pulled out with a smile. It had at one time seemed so difficult for her inexperienced fingers, and she’d worked at it for weeks without feeling comfortable with it, and had shoved it away.
Now, however, she had the skills for it, and if she remembered correctly, the song was haunting and poignant and just what she needed at this moment.
She set the music on her stand, scanned the lines, and with a faint smile, began to play.
Softly, sweetly, the beginning notes rang out, innocent and sad. She smiled at the irony in that. Then they changed and deepened, and the melody flew from her violin, mingling with the magic of the room. In her mind, Gemma could hear the accompanying pianoforte, and the emotion suddenly came easier. The notes appeared in her memory and she closed her eyes, moved by the poignant strains.
Other strings joined in, an orchestra to the music she led with her simple violin, as if her heart played all the rest. All of her pain, her confusion, her hope, her love… It all poured forth freely, set to the exquisite music of her soul, now filling her and the room around her.
She felt herself moving with it, lost in the world of the song, to the instruments only she could hear. The music seemed to yearn with her, to feel everything she felt, expressed in a more evocative manner than she could ever speak.
As the tempo increased, she moved more, and the imagined symphony moved with her, a strange but fulfilling unison of form and feeling. She was dramatic and dynamic, open and alive, in agony and in ecstasy, no sign of the proper posture or poise that she had perfected for performance. This was music spreading the wings of her soul and she was helpless to resist its lure.
Then the song slowed, sobered, and one by one the other instruments faded into the background as she and her lone violin sadly, solemnly, finished the last few notes, which hung in the air as a fog over morning dew.
She exhaled and dropped her bow, fighting back tears that she didn’t know had sprung into being. She lowered her head and forced them away, blinking hard. When they were at last gone, she pulled the instrument away from her and turned to replace the music and find another.
She caught sight of the open door and jerked with a gasp.
Lucas leaned upon the doorjamb, perfectly proper but for his lack of jacket and his slightly untidy cravat. His eyes were wide and his breathing seemed unsteady. His gaze was riveted upon her, more intense and potent, somehow, than any look he had ever given her.
How long had he been there?
Long enough, it seemed, for he regarded her in a sort of wonder.
She blushed and swallowed hard. If he had witnessed the entirety of that piece, he had seen her, and she had hardly been composed or refined. She could not have said how it must have looked to anyone else, no matter how freeing it had felt. The awkwardness that had existed between them of late was suddenly present within her in full force, no matter how remarkable the change in him was now.
Lord only knew what he must have thought of her.
“I…” she began, stumbling over the words. She cleared her throat. “I imagined I was being accompanied by several others.” She gestured to the open, empty room, then shrugged. “It all sounded very grand in my head.”
“I heard it,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.
She frowned and cocked her head. “Heard what?”
“The rest,” he said simply. “All of it. I heard everything.” And he sounded as awestruck as he looked.
Gemma’s eyes widened and she faltered a step. “You did?” she whispered, her voice carrying somehow.
He nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on her. Then he shook his head just as slowly and pushed off of the doorjamb, coming over to her. Gently he took her face in his hands, staring down into her eyes.
“You are breathtaking,” he told her, stroking her cheeks. “I could hardly move when I heard you. When I saw you.” He shook his head again and pressed his lips to her brow, then leaned down for the softest, gentlest kiss.
Gemma released a sigh she did not know she had been holding, and looked up into Lucas’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered, smiling.
“For what?” he asked, still staring at her as if she were beyond imagination.
She turned her head and kissed one of his palms. “For hearing me.”
That earned her another soft kiss, and then his brow furrowed just a little.
She could not bear for this moment to turn so suddenly. “What?”
“I told you once that we weren’t friends,” he said, sounding more like himself. “That we could not be, and you knew why.”
Relieved, she nodded quickly. “Yes, it made perfect sense, once I considered it.”
He shook his head once. “I was wrong.”
She widened her eyes, confused. “Were you?”
“Completely, horribly wrong.” He cupped her face more tightly, his eyes suddenly intense. “We are friends, Gemma. I think… I think you might be the closest friend I have.” He swallowed and stroked one cheek softly. “Certainly the dearest. And absolutely my favorite.”
“We’re friends?” she asked with a beaming smile and a little laugh.
He returned her smile with just a slight one of his own. “The best.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t blink them away this time. “Oh, Lucas.”
“What?” he asked, concern wrinkling his face and softening his tone.
She let a watery laugh escape and stepped out of his hold just to lay her instrument down, then came back to him. “Your closest, dearest, favorite friend would very much like to kiss you quite soundly.”
A spark of amusement lit his eyes. “Would she?”
“Yes. Please.”
He stepped closer, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her nearly flush with him. “I always try to accommodate my friends.”
She snorted and slid her hands up around his neck. “Such a gentleman.”
“Always,” he murmured as his lips descended, and Gemma, for all her desire to kiss her husband soundly, found herself rather swept away by his kiss instead.
Lucas clutched the note in his hand so tightly he thought the parchment might tear beneath it.
Not here, not now.
But the proof was before him.
One word this time. Penance.
The handwriting was the same, but there was nothing at all distinctive about it. It could have been anyone’s hand, and it was executed with perfect precision.
He was tempted to crumple it up, to burn it, to tear it into shreds, but he was wiser than that. He knew better.
He slid it into the drawer of his desk, where the other lay hidden, and slammed the drawer shut, covering his face with his hands.
Penance.
The single word had sent a chill to his heart. Penance for what? Despite his many failings, his past, and his reputation, he had nothing to make penance for. He had not grievously abused any person on earth, had always been honest in his dealings, and took great pride in being a gentleman, regardless of what anyone else said.
But somehow, he knew none of that would matter.
Just as he had known the first missive had not been regarding true valuables.
He slid his hands up to grip his hair, trying to steady his breathing. Gemma had been wondering about his solitude and his surliness, he knew that, but God help him, he could not tell her. He could not bear to let her know what nightmares plagued him both night and day. His life was one of darkness and isolation, and he would not let her succumb to it as he had.
He’d meant to remain as aloof and reserved as he had ever been, and then the other day she had played her violin with such passion, such emotion, it stirred his very soul, and he had been powerless to resist going to her, to take her into his arms, if only briefly. To confide in her the barest, briefest glimpse of what she meant to him.
Friends, he had called it.
She was his friend, and had been.
But she was so much more than that.
He sat back in his chair and yanked at his cravat, loosening it further still. Gemma was the breath and life for him, and he loved her with a fierceness that unsettled him.
He’d loved her from the very beginning. It surprised him how easy it had been to admit it to himself once he’d realized the truth. He suspected it was entirely pointless to have attempted to resist it, but as he had given himself up to the joyous fall of it, he could not say for certain.
Gemma.
What was he going to do about her?
He had heard plenty of the rumors swirling about her, now that she was his wife. They angered and irritated him more than anything that had ever been said about him, including the murder allegations, but he knew better than to do anything about it. He could not refute, defend, or make any sort of action that would in any way be construed as aggressive. It would do more harm than good and bar him from polite society even more.
And, by extension, Gemma. Which was worse.
He glanced back at the drawer, brow furrowing. Who would hold a vendetta against him and for what? How far would they go?
How much would they dare to threaten?
He shuddered faintly at the implications he dared not consider.
Gemma had been so warm and sweet, so artless since they had been in London. And he had been occupied with his thoughts, leaving her to her own affairs so as not to taint her in public.
Somehow, that had continued into life out of the public eye, until the moment with the violin. It pained him to do it, but ultimately, it would be better for Gemma if he maintained a little distance. She could move and behave as she wished if he were less present.
He could not leave her alone and unprotected, particularly with the mysterious notes and threats that he could not stop. But if he could somehow lessen the consequences of his life for her, he would consider that saving her as much as anything else.
Gemma was a smart woman, and clever beyond reckoning. And sensitive. She would fight it, would be confused by it, and press him. She was a persistent creature and would not accept any attempt at avoidance.
It was for precisely that reason that he had avoided being at home. If she could not see him, she could not ask him.
He should not have said anything when he’d watched her play. He should have left before she had seen him, then his feelings might not have shown and he might not have given her hope.
But he had been transfixed and there was no chance of moving in any direction but towards her.
He’d faintly hoped that he could somehow manage while keeping her as close as he wished, but he knew it was folly. Especially with this new threat against him, whatever it meant.
He’d gone back to his polite distance since then, and it seemed to be working. But nights were the torment. He had been coming back to the house late at night after wasting hours at the club and sleeping in one of the guest rooms so she would not know.
But he was not foolish enough to think that she did not suspect something.
As long as she never confronted him, he would never have to lie.
If lying were even possible where she was concerned.
A knock sounded at his study door and he frowned. He was generally not disturbed when the door was closed, as all knew he valued his privacy highly. “Come.”
Gemma entered, looking uncertain, but beautiful. “Lucas?”
He managed to smooth his expression, but his heart pounded harder. She was supposed to have been out with her sister today, and the house to have been empty. He would never have been here if he had known.
“Weren’t you to be out with Mrs. Hammond?” he asked politely, rising from his desk.
She smiled tightly and entered the room more fully. “We are delayed, I am to meet her shortly.” She looked down at her hands for a moment, then up at him. “We received an invitation to the Rivertons.”
Lucas stilled, his chest tightening. “Did we?”
She nodded, giving him an odd look. “Their first ball is in two weeks. I thought it best that I speak to you before accepting.”
He lowered himself into his chair and shook his head. “Don’t accept.”
Her brow wrinkled and she stepped closer to his desk. “You don’t want to go?”
He shrugged. “I rarely attend events there at all.”
“But they are your family.”
“And you are the only one who knows that.”
She stared him for a long moment and he could see the thoughts whirling behind her eyes. “You… won’t go?”
“No.”
She had, no doubt, expected more of an answer than that, but he would not say more. “May I go, then?” she asked impatiently.
A sick feeling suddenly hit his gut, but he masked it by leaning forward. “I would prefer if you did not. But the choice is yours.”
He saw her answer the moment he said the words. Her shoulders slumped a little and she tried for a smile. “Then I suppose I will send my regrets,” she said, turning from the room.
“Don’t bother,” he told her, ignoring the flash of pain. “I never do.”
She turned before she reached the door, her eyes sad. “Why won’t you let them acknowledge you, Lucas?”
He closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. “It is easier that way.”
“For whom?”
He tilted his head and looked at her exasperated face with what he hoped was sympathy. “For everyone.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “Why is it you that refuses to acknowledge it? They are willing, they said so themselves.”
Darkness unfurled in his chest and he looked away. “There is too much in the past. They are a respectable family of high standing. I will not taint that with my association.”
“Lucas…”
The emotion in her voice would have undone him, but he shook his head forcefully. “No. No, Gemma. Please, don’t accept the invitation, don’t send a refusal, and just let things proceed as they have done. Don’t ask why.”
She said nothing for a long moment, but he could not bring himself to look at her.
“When you decide you are going to trust me,” Gemma said in a very low voice, “I will be ready to hear. Assuming you decide to trust me at all.”
Lucas closed his eyes against the pain as he heard the door to his study closed.
He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the note, reading the line again.
Penance.
Nothing could be worse than the penance he was already paying.
The question that plagued him was if his wife, the woman he loved, would ever forgive him.
His suspected answer terrified him.