Chapter 12

The next morning, Gemma pled out of attending the Pall Mall exhibit with Aunt Philippa and Lord Neville, claiming herself to be unwell, and to her relief, Aunt Philippa took pity on her. She sighed, gazing with concern at Gemma languishing in the bed, and clucked her tongue. "Perhaps it is for the best that you remain here today. I should not like for you to weary yourself so much that you catch your death. It is raining today anyway, and you would be in danger of falling ill in this damp weather."

Gemma nodded, exhaling with relief. "Thank you, Aunt Philippa. I pray that you enjoy the exhibit. And do send my regards to Lord Neville." She added generously, "Thank him for his attention and the great considerations he's paid me."

"But of course," Aunt Philippa peered out the window. "Ah! My carriage has been brought ‘round." She bustled over to the door, pausing to offer what Gemma considered to be her warmest smile yet.

"Rest well, my dear," she said, before disappearing, and shutting the door behind her.

When the door closed, Gemma sighed, closing her eyes as she rested her arm over her eyes. She would retire to the library for the rest of the morning, bury herself in Aunt Philippa's extensive collection, some of which Father had been bequeathed from Philippa's and his father. Although, he had sold most other books he'd been given in an attempt to pay his debts.

Gemma nestled in the armchair within the library, read for what must've been hours, until a footman opened the door, and announced that Prudence had called.

Gemma set aside her book and rose, hurrying down the hall to the sitting room where she found Prudence, perched on the settee in orange silk that suited her well.

She rose when Gemma entered, and Gemma couldn't help but beam at her newfound friend. "Prudence!" she exclaimed, hurrying over, grasping the other young woman's hands. "How good it is to see you."

"Are you alone here?" inquired Prudence, looking about for Aunt Philippa.

"Indeed. She departed earlier for the Pall Mall." Gemma sank onto the settee beside Prudence.

"Are you unwell?" Prudence inquired, frowning.

"Somewhat," Gemma admitted. "I needed a day to rest. We've been running about London from one party to the next. Aunt Philippa deemed me vulnerable to falling sick."

"Ah," Prudence nodded.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course," Prudence nodded, her eyes widening at Gemma's low, serious tone.

"I find myself torn," Gemma confessed. "My aunt is bent upon Lord Neville and me making a match. But I confess that, while I find him a goodly man, quite decent and honorable in every sense, something…lacks."

Understanding passed over Prudence's face. "You mean to say," she glanced around to ensure they were alone, "You mean to say that, while you do believe him to be a worthy gentleman, you do not see him in a…romantic sense?"

"Precisely," Gemma gasped. "But he is good, and does not have any sort of faults, if only that he is rather dull in conversation. But should I not overlook this? He has everything to recommend him—manners, wealth, temperament. But—" she shook her head, closing her eyes tightly as a nervous laugh bubbled in her throat. "I cannot abide the thought of him courting me. Though it would seem my aunt is determined to arrange such a union. She practically thrusts us together every chance she gets."

She bit her lip, guilt prickling in her chest. "Of course, she has done so much for me, inviting me to stay with her, ordering new gowns for me…and for that, I am utterly grateful. I do not wish to seem an ingrate."

"Does this perhaps…have to do with Lord Blakemore?" Prudence whispered.

Gemma's throat closed and she stared down into her lap. "No, no," she lied. "I hardly even know the gentleman."

Prudence eyed her, as if disbelieving Gemma's response.

"He is a notable rake, is he not?"

"Perhaps. Well, at least he was." Prudence leaned closer, to whisper in Gemma's ear, "As I told you, many think he possesses a heart of ice. He seems to avoid any sort of attachment to any young woman. I am inclined to believe that he shies from marriage to pursue…" she shook her head, her curls bouncing about her rosy cheeks. "Well, I shan't say it. ‘It is not for us to speak of such things."

"He frequents the gentlemen's clubs?" Gemma blurted, unable to contain her curiosity anymore.

"So it has been said."

Gemma nodded, lowering her gaze to the floor, tracing her eyes over the floor. The lump in her throat wouldn't go away. She gave her head a shake, sighing. She needed to change the subject. "What am I to do about my aunt's determined scheming? To see Lord Neville and myself become betrothed?"

Prudence smiled sympathetically. "My mother and father did not marry for love, and yet, they care for each other very much."

"That is just it," Gemma sighed. "I cannot abide the thought of being content with…amicable indifference, or even tolerance."

"Some can abide it, but if you cannot, then you must not force yourself to endure."

"If I refuse…" Gemma closed her eyes. She had yearned to return to London, as much as she loved the cottage in Willow Grove. But she had evidently fled one unpleasant arrangement and traded it for another. But there was no telling how Aunt Philippa and Mama would respond should she flatly resist.

Her legs shook, stomach tossing, until at last the panic subsided and she took in another mouthful of air.

"Do you intend to wed for love?"

"Oh, I would wish to. But not everyone can rebuff a proposal. My parents count on me to marry well. And that may very well mean I will not marry he who has won my affection, but he who is the most eligible match."

"How should we bear it? To be trapped in a marriage without tenderness, passion…warmth?" Gemma shuddered.

Prudence shrugged. "A great many have born it well. Although, I would not be astonished should you decide to let your heart guide you."

"My heart," Gemma patted her chest. "My heart is my north star."

Prudence frowned at that, confused. But before she could reply, Aunt Philippa swept in, stopping short at the sight of Gemma sitting beside Prudence on the settee.

"Good day, Miss Harcourt," she nodded to Prudence. She sailed forth, and lowered herself onto the settee across from them. "Gemma."

"Lady Kenway," Prudence smiled politely.

"How do you fare, Gemma?"

"Better than this morning. Thank you, for permitting me to remain here."

"But of course," Aunt Philippa nodded, mouth tightening. "Your colour has returned," she added, holding up a monocle to her eye, examining Gemma through it.

"How was the exhibit?" Gemma hurried to divert the subject.

"Wondrous, in a word. ‘It was everything I'd hoped. Though, of course, Lord Neville was disappointed by your absence."

Gemma resisted the urge to shoot Prudence a look. Instead, she bit her lip, nodding. "What sort of paintings did you see?"

Aunt Philippa waved her hand. "I'll tell all in a moment. Now, Prudence, do you have any prospective suitors?"

Prudence's shoulders sagged. "I am afraid not."

"Why ever not?" Aunt Philippa cried. "You inherited your mother's complexion and eyes. Your father's hair. A delightful combination. Before long, you will have a dozen suitors falling at your feet, eager for your attention."

Prudence ducked her head. "You are too kind, Lady Kenway."

"As for the paintings, you missed out on a treat, my dear," Aunt Philippa turned to Gemma. "We saw such a vast assortment of pieces, most from Italy, an excellent collection lent by a famed patron of the arts here in our own London." She lifted a thin brow, leaning forward as if about to divulge a secret. "I did see Lord Blakemore there. He was paying his cousin a great deal of attention, as he was the night of the opera. It would not surprise me if his uncle intended to make a match of them."

She deliberately misread Gemma's aghast expression, letting out a tinkling laugh. "If, of course, Lord Blakemore lets himself be committed to another in a conjugal fashion."

Gemma tried to swallow and couldn't. Of course, this should come as no surprise. She would put him from her mind, determine not to think of him again. Regardless of how much he fascinated her, drawing her like the needle on a compass towards true north. The way the planets were destined to encircle the earth in a never-ending parade. Such was her interest in Lord Blakemore, however ill-placed.

After Prudence departed, and Aunt Philippa retired for a rest before dinner, Gemma returned to the library, browsing its shelves for a book on the subject of astronomy. But alas—most of the books in Aunt Philippa's collections were of poetry or religion, and a few pertaining to her late husband's role as a minister in Parliament. There were law books, and history tomes, thick and covered in dust. At last, she perched on the window sill, a smile playing at her lips when Udolpho entered the library, trotting up to her to join her on the ledge.

"Perhaps it was a great mistake to come here, Udolpho," she murmured, tilting her head back against the paneled wall. Udolpho curled up in her lap, and for a wild moment, Gemma considered retiring to her room, writing to Mother and telling her she meant to return home, posthaste.

She'd been so foolish. So foolish. To let herself imagine that Lord Blakemore could possibly see her in the same light she had seen him. That he found her interesting, that they had truly connected over a shared love of the stars. Clearly, she had been blinded by his charm, that bewildering pensiveness in those blue eyes. Anger slashed through her, quick and hot, like a bolt of lightning. Childish. You've been childish , she told herself, tears pricking her eyes. Rain began to fall as twilight drew closer, and she listened to the clang of church bells from the chapel down the street.

I should have never come. Never.

A footman rapped on the library door. "Miss, dinner will be served in an hour."

Gemma clambered to her feet, and with a meow of protest, Udolpho slipped to the floor, darting out between the footman's legs. Gemma stifled a grin as she hurried past to her room, to change into a proper evening dress. Upstairs, she paused before the looking glass. She was hardly a Celeste. Celeste was tall, elegant, with perfect pointed features and the clearest eyes. No, Gemma was small. Rather plain. Eyes too big for her face. Lips that were too full. Dull hazel eyes. Hair that would never be tamed.

With a sigh, she hurried to the wardrobe and withdrew a deep blue gown, that made her skin look paler than it was. She missed running barefoot through the garden in nothing but a light frock, sometimes in an apron, reading books for hours, cooking with Mama.

"Miss, it is dinner time?' A maid stood at her door, and Gemma nodded, slipping her feet into her shoes and following the maid out into the hall.

Downstairs in the dining room, Gemma picked at her food, until Aunt Philippa set her fork down with a clatter, frowning across the table at her.

"Are you unwell, my dear?"

"Perhaps a little," Gemma whispered, blinking away the sting in her eyes.

Aunt Philippa motioned for a footman to take Gemma's plate. "We have a lively day tomorrow. Do get some rest. As you ought to have earlier rather than gossiping with Miss Harcourt."

Gemma flushed but nodded. "Yes, Aunt Philippa. Goodnight."

Once she reached her room again, she flung herself on the bed and let the tears come. She cried and cried, a sinking sense in the pit of her stomach.