Chapter 10

"I beg you to refrain from vanishing as you did last evening," Aunt Philippa cast Gemma a searching look as she examined herself in the looking glass, patting a loose strand of hair into place. "I was attempting to introduce you to Duke Ashton and his wife. They are most eager to meet you. But woefully, I looked about and you'd disappeared."

"Forgive me, Aunt Philippa," Gemma wrung her hands behind her back. She was apologizing to her long-suffering aunt a considerable amount these days, it would seem.

But what would she think of Miss Elderidge's comments, her barbed words? Would she dismiss them? Already she had told her to ignore the scandal sheets. But it was difficult to when everywhere she went, people whispered behind gloved hands and fans, glancing at one another with derisive smiles.

Aunt Philippa turned, scanning her up and down approvingly. "I was just writing your mother what a lovely girl you are. How I can make you the most desirable girl of the season. But you must not cross lines and bounds that are set in place, for propriety's sake. You must not disregard my counsel," she grasped Gemma's hand in hers, giving it a soft pat.

Gemma nodded, unable to speak.

"I saw you speaking with Lord Blakemore." Aunt Philippa turned about, as a footman carried forward her coat, setting it on her shoulders.

Gemma's heart tripped. "Only for a few moments, Aunt Philippa."

Aunt Philippa raised an eyebrow, as if she didn't believe this. Once they were outside, walking down the steps to Lord Neville's awaiting coach, Aunt Philippa muttered, "And you were not on the terrace with him? Pray, inform me if I am mistaken, but I believe I espied him emerge from the terrace, and you as well shortly after."

Gemma's face heated. "I stepped out for a moment of reprieve and discovered him already there. He was hasty to take leave."

Aunt Philippa harrumphed as Lord Neville absconded from the carriage, bowing to each, but lingering over Gemma's hand. Gemma offered him her warmest smile, to which he responded with a blush and one of his own, a peck to her hand that was altogether courteous and genteel. Gemma glanced over to see Aunt Philippa beaming approvingly, and it all brought back the memories of Mama attempting to match her with Vicar Jennings. She bristled, but replied to Lord Neville's inquiries about her time thus far in London and if she had very much enjoyed the concert the night before.

"It has been…" she searched for the right word, "…exhilarating."

"Exhilarating," Lord Neville repeated, stepping aside for Aunt Philippa and her to board the carriage. "Well, that is delightful." As they sat down on one side of the carriage, he sat on the other, directly across from Gemma. His pale eyes bore into her, and she turned her head to gaze out the window, a bit unnerved. It was quite clear what was happening here. Aunt Philippa intended on making a match between Gemma and the kindly, but dull, Lord Neville, and as much as she appreciated her aunt's generosity and kindness thus far, she could not abide the thought of letting herself get paired off with a gentleman of someone else's choosing. But there was no doubt that Aunt Philippa would be just as dismissive about the idea of marrying for love as Mama was.

Gemma dug her nails into her palm, taking in a deep breath as the carriage rumbled forward.

"My box at the opera is afforded, in my estimation, the finest views in the theater, as well as the best acoustical advantage," Lord Neville declared as the carriage withdrew from the steps of Aunt Philippa's home and onto the main thoroughfare.

Gemma managed a tight smile, wrapping her arms about herself until Aunt Philippa nudged her, a signal she'd adopted to remind Gemma to amend her posture.

Gemma straightened, clenching her teeth. Oh, but to be able to fly far, far way, and land on a star. And dwell upon it. If only to be free of these societal expectations. Her stomach turned at the idea of becoming Lord Neville's bride. Of course, he was a good, gentle soul. Always smiling, always cheery. But something lacked.

At last, the carriage arrived at the opera—after what must have been an eternity. Gemma exhaled a breath of relief when she could escape from beneath the steady gaze of the man sitting across from her, and she fell behind her Aunt Philippa and Lord Neville as they advanced up the steps to the pillared opera building. People thronged about, chatting in the cool evening air. It looked as if it would rain any moment, and they hastened up and into the building, where footmen received their cloaks and coats and Lord Neville's hat.

To Gemma's dismay, he fell back to match her pace as they ascended the steps to the second floor, where they would find their box. He peered at her almost shyly, his mouth curving into a smile, and Gemma watched as her aunt hurried on ahead, with a coy glance over her shoulder. She couldn't be more discreet than a cat trying to steal cream from the larder.

Gemma set her jaw.

"You are in for a wondrous pleasure this evening. The Countess Rosina Almaviva is to be played by a famous Italian opera singer."

Gemma nodded, offering him a bright smile, and he continued to ply her with little-known considerations about the performance, most of which she scarcely heard as she tried to take in the crowd bustling around them on the stairs and below them in the main atrium, almost holding her breath until at last, she glimpsed him, just entering through the main doors downstairs. Could it truly be? Lord Blakemore?

He was tall enough to be easily noticed above the crowd between them, but on his arm walked a stately young woman—his distant cousin, Gemma recalled, Celeste. They followed behind his mother who he did not escort this evening. Rather, his mother entered on his uncle's arm. Gemma stiffened as Celeste cast a doe-eyed look at Lord Blakemore. She leaned over and whispered something to him, earning a chuckle from him.

"Miss Hayesworth? Come, just a little further. My box is this way."

She pulled her gaze from Lord Blakemore and his cousin, and turned to hurry on up the rest of the steps, where Lord Neville and Aunt Philippa waited. Aunt Philippa cast her a questioning frown, which Gemma did not know how to respond to. They followed Lord Neville to his box, furthest at the end of the corridor due to its placement nearly above the stage.

Gemma caught her breath as she entered the box on the heels of her aunt, unable to decide on where to look first. It was all very grand, even more so than the front atrium. Red velvet everywhere she looked, the low hum of people entering and finding their seats reverberating around the vast room. A massive chandelier hung far above their heads, and they did indeed enjoy a good view of the stage. Gemma caught her breath, her eyes drawn to the painting on the ceiling, that of stars and cherubs, beating their angel wings across the blue expanse.

"Is it not resplendent?" Lord Neville asked in her ear, rather too close for Gemma's liking. She did not wish to slight him, but she could not abide the feel of his breath against her face. It sent a shudder through her.

"Oh, indeed it is," she managed, casting her aunt an uncertain look. But Aunt Philippa hardly seemed to notice, as she spoke to another couple in the neighboring box.

Gemma turned her head and her eyes landed on the box across the way, where, her heart leaping, she could see Lord Blakemore's party enter the box.

He had not yet seen her, and nor would he, Gemma told herself sternly. She centered her attention instead on the stage, its curtains still drawn. Lord Neville plied her about her plans for the rest of the week, and she tried to recall every event Aunt Phillippa had mentioned lately, trying to make it seem as if she would be most busy. Perhaps it would deter him.

"And yourself, Lord Neville?" Aunt Philippa said when she had finished, her expression one of barely veiled exasperation.

His reply faded into the back of her mind as she tried to listen to the soft music played by the orchestra. But her eyes kept stealing in the direction of the box across. Lord Blakemore was seated beside his cousin, and she was gesturing to the orchestra, telling him something, which he politely leaned over to hear. He replied, and she threw back her head, laughing. The sound rang like a bell through the air.

"Why, she would adore it! Wouldn't she?" Aunt Philippa's voice cut into her thoughts.

Gemma turned quickly. "Ah, forgive me. I did not happen to hear."

Behind Lord Neville, her aunt gave her head a shake, making no attempt to hide a glance of chagrin towards Gemma.

"There is a new exhibition at the Pall Mall, that I think you would take great pleasure in. I should be most honoured if you were to accompany me, Miss Hayesworth." He watched her eagerly, awaiting her answer. "Ah—why—" she stopped, her aunt bobbing her head up and down behind Lord Neville.

With an inward sigh, Gemma smiled and nodded. "I should like that."

"Excellent," Lord Neville breathed.

The theater rapidly filled until at last footmen emerged, dimming the lights everywhere, and the music swelled. And once the curtains drew back, the opera beginning, Gemma was treated to Lord Neville's attentive, whispered explanations throughout, scarcely permitting her to hear most of the actual singing.

And here, Aunt Philippa seemed to take mercy on her, observing that Gemma strained to hear the opera to no avail, and took liberty to divert Lord Neville's attention, asking him questions of her own about the performance, to which he eagerly supplied answers.

Gemma lifted her eyes slowly, and nearly started to find herself meeting the gaze of Lord Blakemore from his shadowy box. His expression was unreadable at first, but when he realized she'd noticed him, his mouth tilted again, and Gemma was half-inclined to wonder if it was a smile he reserved for her and her alone. Silly thought, Gemma, she rebuked herself. But it seemed almost like a secret he was sharing with her, intended for her and her alone. Is this why he is deemed a rake?

But another warring thought occurred to her. Perhaps he is merely indulging you, the country dweller? Amusing himself at your expense.

Gemma straightened, withdrawing her gaze from his, and returned her attention to the performance. Her lungs would not work properly, and she found it difficult to draw breath, to steady her whirling mind. A strange, autonomous response that she could not make sense of. And yet, she knew it was diametrically opposed to the mild revulsion that filled her at the thought of Vicar Jennings or Lord Neville beside her.

She would not let herself look back towards Lord Blakemore for the rest of the performance. She resolved against it, her breath tripping in her throat, her hands clasped so tight in her lap that her bones ached. She felt rather too warm, flushed, and considered exiting to catch some fresh air. Instead, she trained her attention upon the current singer, her voice ringing out through the theater with such majesty that thrilled Gemma to the core. She closed her eyes, focusing on the rich, soprano tones that the Countess Rosina Almaviva effortlessly trilled to her husband across the stage.

Gemma watched Earl Almaviva chase a servant girl across the stage, and wondered if any girl who married a rake like Lord Blakemore would endure such a life. A life with a husband who chased other girls outside of matrimony.