Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

“ M iss,” Daisy whispered to Gemma, rousing her from sleep. “Her Grace would like to speak with you over breakfast. Fortunately, she wakes late, but we must make haste.”

“Oh,” she rubbed her eyes. “I suppose we will have to hurry then.”

By twenty past the hour, she had braided her hair into a neat bun and was dressed in a plain blue gown that the Duke had procured for her. She entered the small breakfast room where she had been informed that the Dowager Duchess was already waiting for her.

The parlor was medium sized with a wide bow window that let in copious amount of cheerful light that warmed the light blue damask on the walls.

The Dowager was seated at the far end of an oval breakfast table, sipping tea from a delicate Sèvres cup and eating small, flat biscuits that lay on a nearby plate.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Gemma curtsied. “How are you?”

“Hmm?” the older lady smiled. “Appreciating the benefits of aging and using such advantages to gently guide my grandson into greener pastures.”

Gemma laughed softly as she seated herself. “Forgive my forwardness, but I do not think His Grace would appreciate anyone meddling in his affairs.”

“Oh no, it is quite the contrary. It is the job of a grandmother to interfere,” the Dowager smiled slyly. “By a certain age we have all developed a sixth sense that turns us into oracles.”

Gemma smiled, and looked around. “Does His Grace eat breakfast?”

“When he remembers,” she replied, while topping up her tea.

“I think you mean when he is summoned,” the Duke said dryly as he entered the parlor.

His hair was a damp, dark mane around his collar, and he was in shirt sleeves, his white cravat tied in an elegant knot beneath his chin. His navy waistcoat hugged his lean torso and the dark trousers he wore followed the sinewy lines of his legs, and were tucked into tall, polished boots.

She ducked her head away, trying to smother the surge of butterflies that had awoken in her chest.

Gemma rose from her chair and curtsied. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

He nodded. “And to you too, Miss Bradford. How are you faring this morning?”

“Very well,” she replied. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Dusting her fingers off, the Dowager inclined her head. “I have been told that a nun from St. Catherine’s came by yestermorn. What happened there?”

“A travesty of human construct,” the Duke replied while reaching for his cup of coffee. “And that is all I shall say about that.”

Gemma bit her lip. She did not know what to say about the convent and its nuns that hadn’t already been said.

The Dowager buttered a croissant and nibbled at it, then added, “you have heeded my words on that, have you not?”

“Yes, Grandmother, I have,” Frederick said, and his curt enigmatic words had Gemma wondering what they meant.

Gemma shook her head, “I hope she does not come back. Sister Agnes is not… she is not a genial woman by any stretch of the term.”

“How harsh was she?” Frederick asked.

Withholding the urge to touch her shoulder where the healing welt of the lashes still burned, Gemma sipped her tea. “She was unrelenting.”

Frederick set his cup down a bit too firmly, causing it to rattle in its saucer. “She will never come by here again. If she tries, I will physically show her the door myself.” He clenched his fist at the thought of that woman returning to his halls.

The Duke ate his coddled eggs, grilled kidney and cornmeal cakes, tender rounds brushed with a buttered rum sauce and dotted with currants. Gemma nibbled on a cold collation of pickled meats, cheeses and sweet apricot buns.

“This is delicious,” Gemma said, then promptly bit her lip before taking a bite out of the bun. “We certainly did not get anything like this at the convent aside from Christmastide or Michaelmas. If the nuns saw me now, they would certainly accuse me of indulgence, greed, and a host of other unsavory things.”

“Indulgence is good for the soul,” the Dowager replied. “Speaking of indulgence, what do you like to do, Gemma dear?”

“Well, I do like to read,” she replied. “It was the one thing that took away the mundane drudgery of life at St. Catherine’s. A few months ago the Duchess of Islington gifted the convent a lovely parcel of books for the girls, but the nuns took them away, saying they were secular material.

The day I escaped I accidentally left behind my precious book, A Thousand and One Nights , which I had tucked underneath my mattress for safekeeping.”

“Oh, dear me.” The Duchess selected a juicy blackberry tart and took a bite. “Then you should take full advantage of Frederick’s library. His mother was a voracious reader herself. I am sure you can find a copy of that book in there.”

Her head snapped to the Duke, her eyes widening in hope. Frederick snorted over his cup. “You have free rein of the library, Miss Bradford.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That is… quite generous of you, to be sure.”

Frederick, seated at the head of the table, gave her a curt nod. “You may stay until I have arranged better circumstances for you.”

Gemma blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Better circumstances?”

He met her gaze, his expression firm. “You are unmarried. Staying here indefinitely would be inappropriate and would invite speculation. I shall see to it that you have a more suitable place to live.”

Her heart sank a little at his words, although she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. She understood the reality of her situation, but somehow the idea of leaving Blackridge Hall—of leaving him —left her unsettled.

She nodded, forcing a smile. “I understand. Thank you, Your Grace. I… appreciate your kindness.”

His sharp blue eyes softened for the briefest moment before his usual aloof mask fell back into place. “I shall ensure that your transition is handled discreetly.”

Vivian watched their exchange from across the table with her usual keen eyes and smiled warmly. “You need not worry, dear. Everything will be taken care of.”

She then reached into her small handbag and pulled out a finely embossed card, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Speaking of discretion,” she said, placing the card delicately in front of Gemma, “I think this might be of interest to you.”

Gemma stared at the elegant card, her curiosity piqued.

The Dowager Duchess slid the card over to Frederick. “Out of the many invitations you have received today, I think you might wish to attend this one.”

Rubbing his forehead, Frederick asked. “Another invitation to have insipid conversations about the weather over dry cucumber sandwiches?”

“It is a rendezvous of businessmen about upcoming investment opportunities at the Marquess of Treston’s estate,” the Duchess said. “I believe his wife is hosting as well.

Upon hearing the name of the host, Gemma stiffened with shock and recognition. Shaking fiercely from a rush of adrenaline brought on by her alarm, she knocked over her teacup and leapt from her chair in shame.

“Oh, oh, I am—I am sorry. Gemma’s head snapped rapidly from left to right. She was distressed and momentarily at a loss for words. “I will clean it up right away. Please forgive my clumsiness, I?—”

A warm hand grabbed her left wrist and instantly, her worries and fright vanished, “Miss Bradford,” Frederick said firmly, his tone low, powerful and even. “Take a breath. Calm down.”

Her chest was heaving with anxiety but his hold on her was firm.

I cannot tell him. He—they cannot find out that she is my mother.

“Is your dress stained?” he asked.

She numbly shook her head.

“Sit,” he ordered, and his tone had never held more authority. “We will have someone take care of it. Sit and breathe.”

Silently, she did as he asked and sat back as a footman cleared the table and replaced the tablecloth with a fresh one. All the while she kept her eyes down on her lap, unable to look at anyone.

She hoped they did not realize that hearing her mother’s name had been the cause of her clumsy episode.

If they did, Gemma had no idea what she would tell them.

While keeping his eyes on Miss Bradford, Frederick silently berated himself for how easily he had allowed the other side of his personality to slip to the forefront. The voice he had used on her was a voice he only used in private, away from the house, in certain clubs, with women who were part of the same type of carnal lifestyle he preferred.

Usually, it was disobedience and defiance that stirred the need to dominate that lay coiled up and waiting inside of him, but with Gemma, it was her vulnerability that had set off the domineering drumbeat in his blood.

Something had scared her… but what?

Decidedly, he moved the attention from her accident to something else. Taking the invitation, he asked, “will you be coming, Grandmother?”

“Sadly, I have a previous engagement with Lady Donahue and Dame Yardly complete with knitting needles and yards of yarn. Oh, along with gratuitous glasses of Madeira wine.”

“I see,” Frederick replied dryly. From the corner of his vision he spotted the tight line in Miss Bradford’s shoulder began to relax and hoped she was not still overly concerned about her mishap.

“At my age, one must ration one’s excitement,” Vivian replied. “I am sure you will have enough delight at the meeting for everyone here. Dear Gemma will be in the library reading and I will be knitting.”

Turning the gilt invitation over, he read out, “ On behalf of Marquess and Marchioness of Treston, you are cordially invited to a gentleman’s summit to meet new investors impacting London. We begin at two-thirty in the afternoon. Guests are invited to stay the night if so desired .”

Gemma picked at her bun. “Will you…stay there, I mean?”

“Not even if a herd of rabid bulls besieged the manor house and a sudden river carved its way through its middle,” Frederick replied, while easing from the table. “I suppose I should prepare to leave. Miss Bradford, will you let me show you where the library is?”

Pink crept up her cheeks. “You needn’t do so.”

“I know,” he extended his hand.

Still hesitant, she slid her hand into his and stood, then took her leave from the Dowager. Over Miss Bradford’s shoulder, Frederick wordlessly warned his grandmother not to ask Gemma the questions he clearly saw rippling across her face.

With a nod to his grandmother, Frederick pulled his hand away as they left the breakfast room. Fortunately, the parlor was on the same level as the library, two corridors down and along a hallway filled with gold-framed portraits of Wyndham predecessors spanning back to the era of Henry the Fifth.

“One day, I might tell you who all these men are,” Frederick said, while pausing to nod to a man clad fully in black. “Especially him; they called him the Beast of Blackridge Hall.”

The man’s contorted face made her eyes widen; an expected reaction when anyone who was not related to his family saw the beastly scar that mangled half of his face.

“Oh my,” she said. “What happened there?”

“A horse, a river and moonless night,” Frederick abridged the explanation. “I will expound on it another time.”

They crossed the stretch of the hallway until they reached the library. The faint, familiar smell of leather and firewood greeted his nose as he opened the door and allowed Gemma to enter ahead of him.

It was a cavernous room which stretched to the very back of the manor and unlike the spaces he knew she had seen thus far, this one was more old-fashioned, with dark paneled walls and a massive, smoothly planed, Indian marble hearth.

The room boasted wide mullioned windows that offered an expansive view of the courtyard below, a small gazebo and a garden beautifully designed with animal statues, manicured hedges and cobblestone walking paths.

A labyrinth of bookshelves occupied most of the room. The only empty spaces consisted of a large oval in the middle of the room that held couches, a coffee table and a thick Aubusson rug. Comfortable window seats were scatted around the perimeter of the room.

Gemma walked over to the windows and rested her palms on the sill and gazed at the surroundings. She was so slight, and the cut of her simple gown accentuated her tiny waist, petite figure and eye-drawing curves. Her lustrous brown hair was knotted at the base of her skull and simple wisps trailed alongside her temples. She looked so much healthier than the pale disheveled girl he had first met in the library.

Objectively, she is as pretty as some of the lovely ladies of the ton.

Turning away from her, he padded down a row of shelves. “Did you say the book you left behind was A Thousand and One Nights ?”

“I did,” she came to his side and looked up, possibly spotting the familiar spine in the shelves. “Do you have a copy?”

“Actually, I have three for some reason,” his brows lowered.

As she reached up for the book she came a few inches short. Amused, he plucked the volume from the shelf. As he handed it to her, his hand moved at the same time hers did and their fingers collided. A sharp spark crackled between them on contact, and it danced over his skin, jolting his nerve endings.

Gemma jerked her hand away and her lips parted in surprise before she quickly snapped her head away and sighed.

Still holding the book out to her, he waited until she grasped it before asking. “Did something scare you earlier and cause you to knock over the teacup?”

“No,” her eyes dipped down, a clear sign of a lie. “But I do know why I was so terrified afterwards. It…it was a due to a recollection of doing the same thing when I was at the nunnery. The nuns had not been pleased.”

A muscled ticked in his jaw. “How old were you then?”

“Eight,” she replied.

“You do not have to worry about being taken to task here,” Frederick promised her. Looking around, he added, “You may stay here as long as you like, or take the book to your room, if you so desire.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly.

Nodding, he added. “If you need refreshments you may send a footman or a maid to get them for you.”

She hugged the book to her chest and smiled, “Thank you.”

Frederick reached out to touch her but quickly came to his senses and dropped his hand at the last moment. He nodded curtly and exited the library before he could do anything to further embarrass himself.

Frederick strode quickly to his room, closed the door and selected a fresh set of clothes before calling in his valet.

What are you not telling me, Miss Bradford?