Chapter Four
Gemma tapped her foot absently beneath the almost too-long skirts of yet another secondhand dress, this one from Mary Harris. She was too tall for Gemma to fit it perfectly, but in all other respects, it was admirable. A bit tight, considering Gemma’s fuller figure, but her corset aided her there. And she had been repeatedly assured by her sister that it was hardly noticeable.
But Caroline had always been overly kind where Gemma’s looks were concerned, and standing here against a wall like a potted plant told Gemma exactly what everyone else thought of her. The ball at Ashcombe was always a crush every Season, yet here she was, without even a chair.
Some wallflower she was. The wallflowers were always given chairs, and yet…
Only Eliza Mortimer had managed one, and she hadn’t danced in three years.
Of course, it was practically a safety hazard to dance with her, as she was almost completely blind without her spectacles.
Gemma was a very safe dancer, graceful and light of foot. And there were plenty of gentlemen milling about, yet none spared her a look.
She groaned and fidgeted, wishing her friends would appear so that she might not feel so ridiculous in this particular corner with the old women and spinsters. She wasn’t opposed to the people in general, for some of them were more amusing than the popular set. But she wasn’t supposed to be over here, ignored and barely receiving glances from those who generally found her amusing.
It was far too unsettling. Was this her future? Should she become accustomed to feeling awkward and out of place? To being forgotten? The thought made her palms itch and ears burn, and a faint feeling of panic echoing glimpses of her past started swirling in her stomach.
She shook her head and forced herself to calm. This was no sign of what awaited her. It said nothing about her at all, really. Once her friends arrived, all would be set to rights.
And Lucas had also promised to attend, but had given her no indication of when. She was assured to dance at least one dance tonight, if he kept his word. She only prayed it would not be the last one of the evening. That would test her patience and resolve too far.
She waved to Mary Harris, who had just caught sight of her, but made no move to go near her. She and Mary had been paired together several times for musical events, Mary being a skilled vocalist and her voice lending itself to Gemma’s violin quite nicely. They’d become friends over the years, but hardly close. She was more intimate with Mary’s friends, Lady Whitlock and Lady Beverton; Lady Whitlock for her musicality and Lady Beverton for her marriage to Spencer’s brother.
Several other people crossed her path who had invited her places, shared jokes and conversation with, and some had even been childhood friends of hers. Others she had come to know through her many Seasons and endless parading about London. All told, Gemma knew very many people in attendance this evening and could call several acquaintances, or even friends.
Yet here she stood.
Alone.
And that said a great deal.
Oh, she was not so silly as to think anyone thought ill of her. She was rather well liked and she was proud of that fact, but very rarely was she included in the smaller, more intimate events in Society. She was forgotten quite often, and was not particularly close with anyone, except Lily and Marianne, and that had only occurred recently.
She had wondered about it for years and years, lingering thoughts of some significant faults or errors in her ways flowing in and out on a semi-regular basis. But no one had ever criticized her behavior, for all they might notice her attire or comment on their lack of funds. She simply was not the sort of woman that anyone found the need to truly confide in or seek out, unless one wanted a laugh or a lark.
In the eyes of all of London, it seemed, she was still Caroline Templeton’s little sister, no more than ten years of age, despite all of the evidence to the contrary.
She ought not to feel sorry for herself. But given her circumstances, she rather needed something to change.
And she had never been very good at changing herself.
Nor had she any desire to.
But she had to admit that she was tired of being the second thought and never the first.
She barely restrained a sigh as she watched her sister glide across the dance floor with Spencer, unintentionally drawing attention to herself with the sheer brilliance of her natural grace and beauty. She was the sort of beauty that drew surprised gasps whenever she went anywhere, as if people had forgotten what she looked like. Worst of all, she was as wonderful in person as everybody wanted her to be.
Conniving as a fox, possessed of a surprisingly sharp wit, and intolerant of superiority, but rather wonderful.
She was not moving about in Society as much as she used to, given that she was rather occupied with her three children, and even Gemma didn’t see her often. Her two hoyden daughters were to blame for that. But this evening, Caroline had come to collect her for the ball and had a great deal to say on the subject of Lord Blackmoor.
She’d apparently heard rumors, spoken with her husband, and felt it her duty to inform Gemma that rashness was unwise, and Lord Blackmoor’s reputation would do her no favors. And then, true to form, she’d come down off of her high horse and asked for as many details as Gemma would give, and found herself disappointed that she would not satisfy her. She had no desire to make more of this than there already was, and considering she did not have Society’s ear, she didn’t know how much that even was.
Caroline had assured her that there was hardly a whisper about them, but, she had said, no one ever paid attention to Gemma like this, and as such, she, as her sister, needed to make a fuss about it.
Despite her attempts at levity, Gemma had sensed Caroline’s true concern, and it oddly rankled her even now. Why was nobody able to see Lucas with honest eyes? Would everybody believe what they heard without taking the man as he was?
She did not know everything about him. In fact, she knew very little about him. But even she could tell that there was more to him than met the eye, and that he was not as cruel as he was made out to be.
The only thing Caroline had said to her credit on the subject was that Gemma was sensible and smart, and Caroline would trust her judgment.
Gemma hid a smile now as she watched Caroline dance. Would she really do such if she knew where Gemma’s mind was headed? Or that she was actually courting Blackmoor? And rather enjoying doing so?
In the three days since the theater, things between them had only gotten better. He had come around to the house and officially met her parents, which had delighted her mother, and Gemma had been relieved to find her in a composed mood that morning. She had been the version of her mother that Gemma had known in her youth; spritely and bright and witty, with no sign of ridiculousness or oddity. Her father had been vague and barely invested, but polite all the same.
Lucas had not said much about the interview, only that he liked her parents and had no idea what Gemma had been going on about.
She’d given him an earful on that subject, and pointed out that he had not exactly told them the nature of their relationship, to which he had replied, rather pointedly, that neither had she.
Well, she could not reply properly to that.
As the days went on, Lucas took her from weak at the knees to laughing merrily to deeply contemplative, and it was the most invigorating sort of fun to be with him. She never quite knew what to expect, but every outing was delightful, even if they only walked the park. And oddly enough, he seemed to enjoy being with her as well. She was so used to people tiring of her that it was disconcerting.
What did he see that kept him coming back?
Something in his eyes, some raw intensity, concerned her a little. There was a depth there that she found intimidating and exhilarating all at once, and it was almost as if he could see through her, perhaps to her very soul.
Did he look at anyone else that way?
He could not. There would be no escaping him if anyone knew it.
Then why…?
“Oh, look, the Ashcombes are letting murderers enter these hallowed halls.”
Gemma’s head snapped around to glare at the back of the beady-eyed, ruffle strewn, beak nosed older woman seated not far from her, swathed in a pea soup colored and textured gown of ridiculous size.
There was no mistaking that voice, as if rocks had lodged themselves in her throat to protest being subjected to her digestion.
Lady Greversham.
Her brows narrowed and she faintly wished Caroline was nearby. She hated Lady Greversham with a fervor that was unequaled by any, though the entire world thought ill of the crone, and Caroline had acted with surprising mischief where the lady was concerned.
She looked where Lady Greversham and her associates were staring and found Lucas at their focal point, conversing softly with two other gentlemen she could not identify.
“Why let such a man come anywhere?” another woman hissed.
Lady Greversham tossed her head and several things jangled and fluttered. “No proof. Lady Blackmoor died under such suspicious circumstances, and few actually believe her husband had nothing to do with it. Intelligent beings know better. She never liked him, you know, and was treated very poorly.”
One of the women sniffled. “Such a loss to everyone,” she moaned loudly. “Beautiful and charismatic and so delicate in structure…”
“That brute of a man,” someone spat. “Dirty, filthy, traitorous, barbaric…”
“He will never be invited to anything that I host,” Lady Greversham boasted in a carrying voice. “I will not taint myself with such associations.”
“Whoops!”
Gemma toppled over as her heeled slippers caught on the very delicate lace of Lady Greversham’s massive skirts and ripped, shredded, and otherwise destroyed the fabric as she attempted to catch herself on the chair of one of the others. Unfortunately, her glass of ratafia, so recently filled, was therefore emptied on several of them. A nearby gentleman caught Gemma before she could hit the floor, his focus not on her, but on her victims.
Screeches and gasps and scrapes of chairs resounded, and Gemma bit back a grunt of satisfaction as she found herself righted by her rescuer. However, her face held none of that emotion.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she cried, wringing her slightly yellowed gloves together. “I am ever so clumsy, I should never have had that second glass!”
Lady Greversham glared at her, her face mottling amidst the wrinkles, and she shook her ruined skirt for emphasis.
“You fat cow,” she hissed malevolently. “You bumbling, unattractive, underprivileged, undeserving waste of breath, how dare you…”
“My dance, I believe, Miss Templeton,” her rescuer suddenly said, steering her away with brisk ferocity.
“I am so very sorry,” she whimpered loudly over her shoulder at the women, whom no one seemed keen on aiding in their efforts.
The tall gentleman currently holding her arm suddenly coughed a laugh as they continued to walk. “I pray your distress is imagined and not in sincerity, for that was one of the best moments of my life.”
Gemma grinned up at the stranger, a truly gloriously handsome fellow, and wondered at his frankness. “Thank you, sir. I was quite proud of it.”
“Not an accident?”
Still smiling, she shook her head. “Even I am not that fortunate. Every step was calculated and exacted with precision.”
He laughed and stifled it with a perfectly white glove.
Gemma glanced behind her and looked appropriately horrified, embarrassed, and ashamed, which earned her nothing but the scorching return looks as the ladies quit the ballroom.
She sighed and returned her attention to her new partner. “I suppose I will never be invited back.”
“I think you would be surprised.”
She raised a brow at him. “By the duke and duchess? Hardly.”
“The marquess and marchioness have a surprising amount of pull there,” he assured her as he led her around another small group. “And nobody likes Lady Greversham. Not even His Grace.”
She doubted that, knowing what she did of the duke, but one could never tell. After all, he was right about the Whitlocks having pull in such matters, and Lady Whitlock would never let her be barred from an event to which she was tied in any way.
She glanced over at the dance floor, which they were not approaching, but skirting around.
“Are you not going to dance with me?” she asked in a mulish tone. Despite his praise of her actions, even he would not stand up with her?
He chuckled softly. “I would, but as we have not been introduced, it is not proper.”
“You know me, so all that is left is to introduce yourself,” she pointed out.
He gave her a look. “Not today, princess.”
She barked a laugh at his endearment and was about to ask on it when she caught sight of something a bit more intriguing.
Lucas stood only feet from where he had been before, but no one was near him now, and it was clear he was their destination. He stared at the two of them with a searing intensity that gave him a personal perimeter of shocking dimension, and people were going out of their way to avoid him.
“You see now why,” the man next to her muttered. “The moment I touched you, that happened. So, for my sake and yours, I’ll remain anonymous and vanish quickly.”
Gemma swallowed with difficulty. “That seems prudent.”
The rest of the ballroom, and all of its excessive numbers, seemed to have no idea what had just happened or what was currently happening, and aside from curious looks, no one spared them a thought.
Lucas was glorious in his eveningwear, the paleness of his eyes a brilliant contrast to the dark of his clothing and hair. His features were hard angles and taut, while his body was coiled with a peculiar tension, despite his apparent casual stance. For once, he looked like the dangerous man everyone thought he was.
And yet Gemma knew nothing of fear. Anticipation, excitement, and the curious sensation of wanting to smile, but no fear.
Then, miraculously, she did smile.
“No one smiles for him,” the man next to her murmured in a hushed voice when they reached Lucas.
“She does,” Lucas told him in a low rumble. He took her hand and spared a brief glance for the man beside her. “Marlowe.”
“Blackmoor,” he replied with a brief nod.
She had no idea who Marlowe was or if that was supposed to be significant, but she gave him a brief curtsey. “Thank you for the rescue.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you for the entertainment. Now if you will both excuse me, I must vanish.” He bowed and seemed to do just that.
Gemma watched him go and shook her head. “Who in the world is that?”
“No one of real consequence,” Lucas said as he led her out to the dance floor. “You’ll forget about him in a few minutes.”
“Will I?”
“Everyone does. He’s used to it.”
“Seems rude.”
“It’s not.”
She choked back a laugh as they began to dance, and even his constant reminders that she was ruining his reputation could not make her less gleeful.
At the moment, not even Lady Greversham would have managed to do that.
Lucas couldn’t believe what was happening to him. And to Gemma! She’d just caused a surprising scene that would horrify a great many people for years, and could ruin her reputation completely. Yet she was dancing with him with all of the energy and enthusiasm of a first Season miss.
And he had been prepared to be the overprotective hero, seething with righteous indignation and the temptation for less-than-righteous impulses. But she’d needed none of that. She needed no protector, defender, or, from the looks of it, any sort of escape at all. She’d had things quite in hand.
It did not lessen his feelings, not one inkling. He still wanted to rage and storm and terrorize the entire room, and such intensity of emotions, brought on by her, surrounding her, wrapped up in everything that she was, confused him immensely.
And now he was dancing with her, despite his urge to become unhinged, and the tension within him was ebbing away under Gemma’s influence.
It was the most bewildering thing.
“What was that all about?” he asked her as he passed her again.
She gave him a strange look. “What?”
Had she really forgotten already? “Your impressive display.”
She beamed with pride. “Did you like it?”
His grudging admiration knew no bounds for her audacity, but he was hardly going to tell her that here and now. “What was it?”
She tossed her head and snorted, despite being in public. “Oh, they were going on about you, and it was shameful, especially considering they’re all terrified of you. And I was really getting bored, and any opportunity to make life difficult for Lady Grev…”
He took her hand tightly, squeezing harder than was called for in the dance. “Me?” he bit out, silencing her.
She raised a surprised brow. “Yes… Why?”
“What did they say?” he demanded, wanting to whisk her out of the room instead of turn away and follow the pattern of the dance.
Gemma watched him with a hint of a furrow between her brows as she passed the other ladies. When she was back to him once more, she took his hand and held it just as tightly as he had hers. “They spoke of your wife,” she murmured softly.
He nearly swore. It was one thing for them to focus on him an his rumors, but if they were actually talking about Celia… The very last thing he needed was for the world to be reminded of her at this time.
And for Gemma to hear it.
He felt her hold on him flex again and he looked at her, the brilliance of her eyes illuminated in their concern. She asked no question, but he could see them swirling about in those endless depths.
He shook his head slightly. “I will not talk about my wife.”
“All right,” she said simply, inclining her head.
He fought for a swallow and met her eyes as clearly as he could, holding his breath. “All you need to know is I didn’t kill her.”
She smiled up at him as they parted for the dance. “I know.”
If he had been less careful, he would have stumbled. As it was, he still gaped. “You do?”
Her smile grew and a slight dimple appeared. “Of course.”
“How?” he blurted, forgoing any sort of restraint or composure.
Now she laughed and set her arm on his for the next movement. “Oh now, really, Blackmoor, the idea of you killing anybody is ridiculous.”
He stared at her in awe, grateful that, for the moment, he did not have to move. “No one else seems to think so,” he managed, a dubious tone creeping into his words.
Gemma smiled with ease. “Well, you aren’t talking with anyone else. Just me.”
And suddenly, that was more than enough for him. He inhaled, noting how easy it seemed to be, and released it just as freely. “So I am,” he marveled.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you smiling?”
Instantly he wanted to, but he kept his face emotionless. “No.”
“But you want to.”
He took her hand and led her into the final movements, pulling her closer than was called for. “Yes, I do.”
And he wasn’t sure he’d ever meant words more.