Chapter Three
Why is it you don’t dance?”
“I am not very good at it.”
“Oh, nonsense, you dance very well.”
Lucas restrained a snort and looked at the extraordinary woman walking beside him, her golden hair almost hidden beneath her rather shabby bonnet. She was not looking at him for the moment, but he knew what her expression would be. Content, clear, and with a light of amusement in her eyes and a hint of a smile on her full lips.
She was not flattering him with her words. She was simply stating the truth according to her, as she always did.
Nearly a week of these meetings between them, and it was still as refreshing. She saw him as a person. Not the viscount, not a murderer, not even man of great standing or fortune. He was simply a man to her, and he had not been something so simple in quite a long time, if ever.
“You’re drifting away,” Gemma said, breaking into his thoughts and turning her head to look up at him.
He returned her look. “Nothing of the sort. I am where I have always been.”
She nearly rolled her eyes, which was a common occurrence for her. “You’re miles away, Blackmoor. Is the idea of dancing that unpleasant?”
He nearly smiled, which was becoming a common occurrence for him. “Not under the right circumstances.”
That earned him a quirk of her fine brows. “Which are?”
“Someone who does not mind a partner with stinted conversation and barely passable footwork, all while wearing a completely vacant expression. Most women find that to be interminable suffering.”
Gemma laughed and linked her arm through his. “It is not that bad. I’ve danced with you, and didn’t suffer a jot.”
“Yes, well, you’re peculiar.”
“And proud of it.”
And she was, he could tell. He had seen it for himself. She had no desire to be an oddity, but she made no attempts to conform if it did not suit her. Gemma simply was who she was and she was not going to apologize for that.
The impulse struck him that now was the time to ask the question he had been waiting on. Now he knew her better and she knew him, he could proceed with far more confidence. He was absolutely certain that she was perfect for his ends, more than he’d ever thought from afar. And if she hadn’t shied away from him yet, there was certainly hope.
“Would your parents mind if I courted you?” he asked without preamble.
To Gemma’s credit, she only glanced up at him with mild surprise. Then her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “I think my parents would weep over your boots in gratitude if they knew.”
His eyes widened and he coughed. “That I asked?”
She shrugged. “That anyone did.”
“Ridiculous.” He shook his head, knowing that, despite what she claimed about her parents and their eccentricities, that could not be true. Gemma was a delightful woman, and very pretty, and the idea that nobody had asked to court her was impossible. He’d never seen someone pay her any marked attention before, but he could not pretend that he had been overly observant for all of her Seasons. Surely the men of London could not be so stupid.
And the further suggestion that anyone would be grateful for his suit at all, let alone to that extent, was even more inconceivable.
She leveled him with a rather impressive look. “Try it and see.”
Her tone was so serious, so without inflection or amusement that he actually felt a little chilled from it. He wet his lips and looked at the path ahead. “… weep, did you say?” he finally managed, sounding far more unsure than he’d intended.
She made a noise of confirmation and nodded. “With much wailing and overflowing compliments.”
“Are your parents prone to such dramatics?” Not that it would put him off of his course entirely, but it might give him pause.
“Not usually. But they would make an exception here.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, frowning. That would be a hindrance to his courtship. He meant to court her, and eventually wed her, but overly emotional or excitable parents would be quite an inconvenience.
Gemma laughed and adjusted her hold on him. “Perhaps keep it a secret, my lord.”
He glanced down at her. “But we will be unescorted.”
“Ideally, yes,” she replied, her eyes twinkling.
He felt the urge to smile, but resisted it. “What of fear of being compromised?”
She looked away with a pensive expression. “I daresay my mother has been praying I would be compromised for a few years now.”
He shook his head and closed his eyes. He would think that by now he would be used to her outspoken ways and extraordinary ideas, but she managed to continually surprise him.
“Are you going to smile?” she asked suddenly. “You owe me money if you do.”
He opened his eyes and glanced down at her, amused yet again. “How much is it again?”
She grinned up at him, her bonnet sliding back a little, revealing wildly free strands of hair near her ears. “We raised the price due to the difficulty. One pound.”
“A pound for a smile?” he asked in disbelief. It was a ridiculous thought, and he could not see why she bothered.
She lifted a shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Ten shillings, if it makes you feel better.”
It didn’t, but he would play along. He couldn’t resist. “Ten it is.” He lifted his chin and gave her a calculating look. “What about a laugh?”
Gemma pursed her lips in thought. “A single laugh? Fifteen shillings. Any more and it will be an additional crown.”
“Exorbitant.”
“It’s your own fault,” she told him, looking disapproving. “If you were jovial, it wouldn’t be so expensive.”
He cocked his head and studied her with interest. “But you like a challenge.”
She wrinkled up her nose as she grinned. “I revel in them.”
He gestured to a nearby bench and she took the offered seat, looking up at him expectantly. He stood before her, hands on his hips, and asked, “And what if I outright grin?”
She reared back with a faint gasp, her eyes wide. “Can you do that?”
Impertinent thing. “How much?” he asked firmly.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then narrowed her eyes. “Two pounds.”
“Done.”
Her mouth twisted. “Are you teasing me?”
He rocked back on his heels. “Is there a price in the wager for that?” he asked.
“Half a crown,” was her lightning-quick response.
“Then no,” he replied with a firm shake of his head.
She bit her lip as she grinned. “Liar.”
“Perhaps.”
She laughed loudly and clamped a hand over her mouth as she looked around for any that might see them. By necessity, they had been meeting in the mornings, and had not seen anyone of significance as yet, which he was grateful for. He would rather not broadcast his interest until it became necessary, as some sort of fervor would undoubtedly stir when the news broke.
But heaven help him, he loved it when she laughed.
He sat beside her on the bench, keeping a proper distance, but draping an arm across the back and turning to view her better. He tapped a finger against his mouth and narrowed his eyes as he looked at her.
“What?” she asked warily, leaning away.
“What if I make you smile?” he posed, enjoying the curious play of emotions on her face. She would make a miserable actress, and he doubted she could lie with any success.
She waved her hand at once. “Oh, there is no wager for that.”
“Why not?”
She gave him a dubious look. “I smile all the time. You would leave me destitute.”
He inclined his head to concede her point. “What shall I wager for, then?”
Her face took on a speculative expression and she suddenly matched his pose, watching him closely. “What can you offer?”
He gave that some thought, looking away and taking more time than he needed. Only when she tapped her foot restlessly did he turn back, the temptation to smile stronger than ever. “If I take you by surprise, I get a boon.”
“Financial?”
He snorted. “No, I am hardly so mercenary.”
“And I am?” she challenged, folding her arms.
He gave her a look. “You are practically a pirate.”
She grinned briefly, then returned to her serious persona. “Very astute. Will your boons be negotiable?”
“Within reason.”
“Your reason or mine?”
He made a noise of amusement, hoping there wasn’t a charge for that. “Both, I should hope.”
Gemma tapped her chin, then nodded. “Done. Let us strike hands on it.”
He took her outstretched hand, removed her glove, and pressed a warm kiss to her knuckles instead of shaking. She gasped softly, and he looked up, quirking a brow. “Does that count as a surprise?”
She blinked her wide eyes and struggled for a swallow. “Mildly,” she replied, clearing her throat.
“Then I am owed a boon,” he murmured.
“Name your price.”
He almost smiled. She ought not to be so carelessly bold. “Call me Lucas.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “When?”
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Because your voice is fairly musical and I want to hear it.”
“It’s not proper.”
She was concerned about propriety now? He gave her a hard look, stroking the hand he still held lightly to temper it. “This is not a negotiation.”
She bit her lip, her eyes wandering down to her hand in his grasp. Then she exhaled, met his eyes, and said, “Lucas.”
A faint warmth burst somewhere in his chest, but he managed to tamp it back. “Yes?”
She quirked her head and smiled in confusion. “You told me to call you Lucas.”
“I did.”
“And I did.”
He shook his head slowly, keeping her eyes trained on his. “No, you merely said it. I wanted you to call me Lucas, not just say it.”
Her smile grew and her bright eyes crinkled in the corners. “You’re very particular, aren’t you?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Everything is in the details, my dear.” He squeezed her hand and waited patiently.
She shook her head, still smiling. “Very well. Lucas, will this courtship of yours extend to taking me out in public? Perhaps to the theater?”
He jerked and nearly clenched her hand. “You’re agreeing to it?”
She laughed and looked pointedly at their hands. “Would I allow this if I wasn’t?”
“Knowing you, I couldn’t be sure,” he managed, his throat feeling rather dry.
She adjusted a strand of hair away from her face and grinned. “Yes, I am agreeing to your courtship. If you take me to the theater.”
He hated the theater. But he would take her every night if he thought it would put him in a favorable light. “Of course. Anything else?”
“Dance with me.”
“I can do that.”
“And smile.”
“No.”
She hissed in disappointment, but smiled at him, which did strange things to his stomach. “Then walk with me in the mornings. I like doing this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it and stroked her hand again. “So do I,” he admitted, a bit startled by how deeply he meant it.
A slow, catlike smile spread across her lips. “Why, Lord Blackmoor, you are growing quite sentimental.”
He gave her a mock glower and slowly released her hand. “You didn’t call me Lucas.”
She shook her head. “You told me to call you that name then, not forevermore. You will have to earn it again.”
“Are you daring me to surprise you, Miss Templeton?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone.
He didn’t miss the shiver, but was surprised by the expression she countered with. “On the contrary, my lord. I am encouraging you to.”
What the devil had possessed her to throw something like that into his face?
While she and Blackmoor… Lucas, as she’d begun calling him in her head since this morning… had become friends, she had let herself slip into her habit of banter and taunting, always rising to a challenge when she ought to be demure. It was a usual thing to do with her friends, but she’d forgotten with whom she was dealing. The spark of interest that had flared in his eyes ought to have been warning enough, but when he’d said nothing in response and eventually changed the subject, she knew she was in danger.
Not real danger, she thought with a smirk as she watched him across the hall, mimicking a suit of armor against the wall. He was so tall and imposing, yet neither of those things were what made him the terrifying man he was. It was the energy and intensity that radiated from him, exuding power and demanding respect. It was undoubtedly why he was still admitted in Society despite the rumors.
No one dared forbid him.
But he was so much more than his cold exterior. She wouldn’t necessarily call him warm, but he was… warming. Softening. Just a little. Perhaps just enough.
Not to anyone else, however. He must hate public settings of any kind, and it seemed the theater was far worse than a ball, given the stony expression he bore. Yet he had come to escort her, had not murmured one word of complaint, and aside from sitting too close and watching her more than the play, he was perfectly behaved.
How that would disappoint her mother. She had such hopes.
His head turned and his icy gaze suddenly collided with hers. His expression did not change, and yet something did. His chest moved on slow, deep inhales, his brow seemed less tense, and his eyes were suddenly the furthest thing from cold. Lucas was not a man who required movement or distraction, and his undivided attention was overwhelming in its potency.
He was a striking man, too hard and angular of features to be considered handsome by usual standards, but that seemed inconsequential at the moment. She could barely recall what constituted attractiveness anymore, and especially not when he looked at her like that. He might have had the coloring of the dark Irish, but the impressive and inexplicable pull of him knew no nationality.
No one should have that kind of power.
And if she could breathe or feel her knees, she would have told him that.
“Dear me, Gemma… Is Blackmoor having you for breakfast, lunch, or dinner? Or perhaps all three?”
Gemma blushed and turned on her heel to face the painfully beautiful and elegant Marianne Gerrard, whose blue eyes glinted with the same brilliance as the jewels at her throat. Her husband was not far behind, his possessive gaze fixed on his wife, and the gentlemen who looked upon her.
Gemma met her friend’s inquiring gaze with a lift of her chin. “Who’s to say I am not having him?”
Marianne grinned broadly, despite her previous rules of moderation in expression. “Very good. Now, tell me what is really going on there. Blackmoor is still staring as if the back of you is as fascinating as the front.”
Gemma was tempted to look over her shoulder to verify her words, but she didn’t need to. She could feel his gaze on her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
“We are friends,” Gemma said simply, folding her hands before her.
Marianne stared at her. “Friends.”
Gemma nodded once, and prayed for a vacant expression.
Her friend stared at her for so long, she had to look away.
“I know what he wants, Gemma,” Marianne murmured after a moment. “Do you?”
Gemma jerked her gaze up. “You do?”
Marianne pressed her lips into a thin line and waited.
Gemma glowered, knowing how stubborn Marianne could be. She looked around and heaved a small sigh. “Don’t tell anyone,” Gemma muttered, her cheeks flaming, “but he is courting me.”
A small, satisfied smile appeared on Marianne’s lips. “Is he indeed?” She cast a glance over Gemma’s shoulder and slowly smiled in a curious way.
“Don’t do that,” Gemma scolded quickly, tempted to grab her friend’s arm. “Don’t antagonize him.”
“I do no such thing,” Marianne replied, bringing her gaze back to her. “I am only teasing him a little. I like him immensely, which would shock anyone if it were spread about. He has a droll wit, and a curious aplomb about him that is really quite endearing, once you get past his implacable façade. I am very much in favor of his suit. What do your parents think?”
She ignored the twinge of guilt and wrinkled her nose up. “They don’t exactly know.”
Marianne reared back. “They don’t exactly know?”
Gemma winced and smoothed her gloves against the pale green of her gown. When he had seen her this evening, Lucas had complimented her with few words, but deep feeling, that she had felt down through her fingers and toes. She’d never felt like an ugly duckling in her life, but her sister was the pretty one, and always had been. Gemma had merely been good enough.
Until tonight.
She cleared her throat, realizing the delay she had caused with her reminiscing. “They know that he is bringing me here tonight. They know we have become acquainted…” She chewed her lip. “I didn’t want to give them hope. I know it seems ridiculous, considering it’s him, but…”
How did she explain that he was different? That she was afraid her family wouldn’t approve, despite her mother’s ridiculous claims?
Marianne smiled softly and took her hands. “I understand, and I will not make mischief or trouble. I won’t even ask. Now, let’s talk about this dress. It is ravishing on you, is it new?”
Gemma sighed, relieved at the change in topic. Despite her friendship with Marianne, she was not ready to discuss Lucas yet. She was not even sure what she felt for or about him yet, how could she possibly tell anyone else?
“It is new to me,” she allowed, dimpling as she held her skirt out a little more. “Though I believe it was Kate’s first. Forgive me, I mean Lady Whitlock.”
Marianne scowled at that. “She’s told you to call her Kate so many times, I can’t believe you keep doing that. Either way, the dress suits your coloring far more than hers, and it puts your figure on very fine display indeed. Now come, walk with me. Let’s see how far Blackmoor’s gaze will follow you.”
Gemma resisted, pulling back. “You said you would not antagonize him.”
Marianne looked surprised. “And we will not. But you do want to make him smile, don’t you? And if this comedy won’t strike his fancy, then perhaps you will.”
“Are you throwing me at him, Marianne?” she asked with no small amount of suspicion as she let her friend lead her.
Marianne grinned and pulled her close. “I don’t need to throw you anywhere. You only go where you want to, and I only mean to help. The more we can properly put you on display, we should. Discreetly, of course. But courtship is a long process, when done properly, so you must build up your stamina. And I must teach you how to flirt.”
Gemma rolled her eyes heavenward as Marianne continued to rattle away and was caught by Lucas, whose lips quirked as if he would smile. She raised a brow at him and he sobered at once, but his eyes contained a mirth that she ought to have charged him for.
If he continued to stare so, people would begin to talk, and none of it would be good. They were ruthless about him behind his back, and she’d never paid it any mind before. It had been fairly standard gossip for years, despite its horror. Their quiet courtship would be noticed eventually, and what would she do then?
She shook her head at herself and forced her thoughts away from there. She’d had barely twelve hours of courtship and already she was overthinking it. There was no reason why anything need change between them simply because a name was put on it.
The rest of the evening would sort itself out, as would the following days, and this courtship… her very first!… would proceed however it would. She did not anticipate nor expect anything, and could not when life had given her no reason to. But she could not deny that having a man look at her thusly was a rather heady thing.
Even if he didn’t smile about it.