Chapter 11

Dalton's gaze continued to wander over to Gemma for the rest of the first part of Marriage of Figaro. Celeste leaned over and murmured, "I find the singer's performance to far exceed any praise given her in the papers. Do you find it the same?"

"Indeed," Dalton nodded, forcing his attention back to his cousin beside him, angling herself towards him, fluttering her long eyelashes at him. He gave her a smile. "Indeed I do."

Celeste followed his glance, and her expression shifted subtly. He read exasperation. "She comports herself as though she has not been to an opera yet, doesn't she?"

Irritation pricked in Dalton's chest but he didn't let his smile waver. "She is, after all, freshly arrived from Derbyshire, is she not?"

"But of course. I merely meant to say that her fascination with the performance is rather…droll." Celeste's let out a soft, grating laugh.

He didn't reply, catching his breath as he tried not to let his glance stray again in Gemma's direction. But it proved difficult. She stood out in the theater, her rapt gaze fixed upon the players on stage, her eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parted. Beside her sat Lord Neville, the musty but kindly gentleman Dalton had watched Theodore best in fencing the other day. He kept leaning in towards Gemma, whispering sweet nothings to her, and Dalton's stomach turned, indignation stirring low in his stomach.

It was clear to him that Gemma did not much care for her companion, that she would rather him not speak a word to her and leave her be. But of course, Neville did not notice. How could one so well-bred be at the same time so utterly dense?

"I've heard that Lady Kenway is intent upon making a match between Gemma and Lord Neville. And he hardly seems opposed, does he not? Most arrested by the little country dweller." Celeste smirked.

Dalton bit his tongue before he could rebuke Celeste for using that ridiculous name from the scandal sheets. Instead, he cast her a hard look that made her wither in the chair beside him, letting out a nervous laugh and fluttering her fan again more vigorously.

Once again, the night before, he had avoided the billiard rooms and clubs that he had frequented only until recently. But ever since he had met Gemma, his taste for such repast had languished away, and he couldn't find any true enjoyment as he once had. Instead, he walked and walked. He'd spent himself walking earlier that day in Hyde Park, walked until his legs protested. And then retired to the fencing courts to burn away the last traces of his energy. Tonight, it was a wonder his legs supported him yet, with the intensive exercise habits he had begun to adopt.

Gemma's delicate profile was turned towards the stage, her eyes glistening during the particularly heartfelt aria performed by the aggrieved countess, watching her husband pursue a maid. That was one thing Dalton respected in his late father, his devotion to Mother. He had shown Dalton that fidelity within marriage was utterly critical, that a man should only have eyes for his wife. Of course, if one could ever find love. And love was not exactly a luxury Dalton could afford himself. At least, he'd believed so. Now, he wasn't so sure. And of course, he scarcely knew the girl. But he yearned to know her more, and as of yet he had not experienced such a longing for any young woman. Ever since his father's death, he had contented himself with brief liaisons that would never last, eager to fill that void.

And what did he have to show for it? A gaping emptiness that would not be filled, not even by the prettiest, most charming courtesan.

At last, the intermission began, and Dalton rose, excusing himself from the booth. He needed a good smoke to soothe his roiling turmoil of emotions.

Keep your distance from the girl, Blakemore.

However, when he returned outside after taking a few draws of his pipe, he stopped short, finding Gemma, her aunt, and Neville, caught up in conversation with Duke Ashton and his wife, the Duchess. Dalton was drawn to Gemma like a bee to a flower, and as if by instinct, moved towards her, positioning himself in the group directly behind her, so that he and she stood back to back.

Turning his head, he peered at her, and as the rest of her group carried on their conversation, he addressed her. "You seem enraptured by the performance, Miss Hayesworth."

He watched her start and turn, mouth falling open as she stared up at him out of the corner of her eye. "Indeed. It has been too long since my last opera. I've been dreaming of attending one for the last few years since quitting the city."

"Ah? Dreaming of it? And pray tell, what else do you dream of?"

Color rose into those sun-kissed cheeks, her lashes lowering. "I possess an abundance of dreams, which I could scarcely confess even to my own mother, much less to—" her cheeks flushed a deeper hue, and a startled laugh escaped her lips. She raised her chin, as though in defiance. "You cannot reasonably expect me to acknowledge such a tender matter without first being afforded the same degree of candour from you."

"A reasonable consideration," Dalton allowed, fighting a smile and failing. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "My dreams are vast, I confess, and perhaps specious in some respects. And I am indebted to you for reminding me of one."

Her back stiffened, as if with a sharp intake of breath.

She turned further, fully meeting his glance now. Her pink lips curved, a mixture of confusion and amusement playing across her features, as well as something else entirely—something that set alight a strange fluttering in his stomach. His head spun.

"And which one is that?" she breathed, soft enough for only him to hear.

"If you recall mentioning William Herschel—"

"Cousin!"

Dalton paused turning to see Celeste and Uncle Ernest pressing through the crowd until they'd reached him. As Uncle Ernest graciously greeted the rest of the group, Celeste bustled alongside Dalton, slipping her arm in his again. "We began to fret about you. You've been gone from the box ever so long," she beamed sweetly. Saccharine sweet, Dalton decided. That was one word to describe Celeste, with her gold-spun hair, large, wet blue eyes and cupid's bow lips. He had half a mind to draw from her grasp, but noted Uncle Ernest's glare just before he did. He gave his uncle the most derisive smile he could manage before paying his excuses to the group, and more quietly to Gemma. Then, he led Celeste back towards their box, Uncle Ernest trailing behind. "Your mother is unattended," he huffed scathingly, shooting Dalton a hard glare. "You've spent near the entire intermission apart from your own party."

"I needed some air," Dalton retorted.

"And you needed to shamelessly flirt with Lady Kenway's impecunious niece," muttered Uncle Ernest.

Dalton clenched his jaw, temper flaring. "I must insist, uncle, that you refrain from such injunctions."

Uncle Ernest scoffed. "I speak merely out of concern for your mother. She was anxious about your whereabouts to such a degree that we were compelled to set out and find you."

Dalton ignored him, hurrying on ahead, Celeste clinging to his arm. If his uncle was so worried about Mother, he shouldn't have left her alone. But Uncle Ernest seemed eager to keep a close eye on him, and that realization rankled in Dalton's chest. He took his seat, and Celeste hers, and she continued to encroach upon his space, pointing out one of the stagehands struggling to pull a sandbag behind the curtain high into the rafters.

***

Gemma was thankful for a moment alone when Lord Neville excused himself to pay respects to an elderly Viscountess, bedecked in an array of glimmering jewels and pearls, the very picture of refinement. She extended a hand, eyes half-shut, and he nearly fell on his face in his eagerness to bow low, extraordinarily low, pressing his lips to her hand. It would be comedic if she was not endeavoring to make sense of Lord Blakemore, their moment of congress whilst trying to engage in two separate conversations. Though of course, everything else faded away whenever he spoke to her. It was something that happened all too frequently when in his company.

But now that Lord Blakemore had gone, fetched by Celeste who gazed up at him with evident admiration, Gemma tried to catch her breath. Tried to make sense of the warring impressions rising to the forefront of her mind. She did not have much time to think, for Aunt Philippa grabbed her arm, so tight that Gemma winced, and hurried her into a quiet alcove under the stairs.

Aunt Philippa's blue eyes flashed—yes, she was very vexed. "I am doing everything in my power to maintain my patience. But at every opportunity, you gravitate towards that Lord Blakemore, despite my caveats."

Gemma's eyes stung. She despised the thought of disappointing or upsetting her aunt, who had been so generous to her thus far. But she ought to know, Gemma had always balked against others attempting to arrange her life to their liking.

And so, here she was again, disappointing the woman who had put so much faith into her, who dedicated so much of her home and money and time to Gemma's becoming, into Gemma's success on the marriage mart. Would Father be disappointed? Surely, he would be grieved. And that thought caused Gemma's throat to close. To her surprise, Aunt Philippa breathed, voice hardened, "Your father would be distraught by your conduct."

"Forgive me, Aunt Philippa," Gemma whispered, voice shaking. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

"We will speak of it later. Come now."

Halfway up the stairs, they turned when Lord Neville called out and hastened up the steps to join them. He extended his arm to Gemma and she took it, batting away her tears and refusing to reach up and brush them away.

"Why, are you unwell?" Lord Neville demanded, so loudly that people nearby turned to stare.

Gemma wanted to melt into the floor and she nodded vigorously. "Simply moved to tears by the countess's sorrow," she told him—a lie. In the opera box, she sat quietly, watching the stage, seeking glimpses of the performers hurrying to and fro behind the curtains. Her ears perked up when she heard Lord Blakemore mentioned one booth over.

"…But of course, he is a decided cad…"

"…I heard he does not frequent the gentlemen's clubs as of late…"

"…Oh? What's this you say…"

Gemma's head reeled. Gentlemen's clubs?

She turned, and found Aunt Philippa with her mouth twisted grimly. Her glance said everything she didn't speak aloud. Lord Neville was none the wiser, rambling about the career of the singer, of the upcoming operas to be held here in the city.

Gemma's head swam and she tried to make sense of what she'd just overheard. How it was simply a reminder of who exactly Lord Blakemore was. His charm recommended him, but his reputation preceded him. It seemed everyone knew of it but her.

She stared down at her clasped hands in her lap, swallowing in a mouthful of air.

As the performance commenced, she did not let herself look in Lord Blakemore's direction but for once or twice, and then she managed to do so whilst his attention was diverted. Lord Neville continued to murmur in her ear, facts about the opera he declared little known, details about the composer Mozart, a man of considerable musical genius, and Gemma acknowledged his comments with such finesse that Aunt Philippa ought to be proud.

As the score swelled throughout the theater, her heart twisted in her chest, thoughts wandering again and again over what those women in the neighboring booth had said about Lord Blakemore. He was not one for marriage, they had declared. He would not settle down and court one young woman, instead carrying on about London at these gentlemen's clubs.

Gemma's face went hot as she wondered what sorts of things went on in such places. What sort of women were entertained there?

Her stomach sank and she felt so utterly foolish. Aunt Philippa was right. She ought to put distance between Lord Blakemore and herself, lest he lead her on, play the part of an attentive suitor, and then discard her like chattel.