Chapter 15

Gemma was thankful to be alone when a delivery arrived at Aunt Philippa's house. For Gemma herself, the footman announced, placing it in her hands. Tears blurring her eyes, she stared down at the book in her hands, with the same cover as the one she had once read over and over again. She caught her breath, tracing her fingers over the gilt letters upon it, and opened to the heavy vellum pages that she almost knew by heart.

True to his word, Lord Blakemore had sent the book. She had half-expected him to forget. To apologize, make excuses at the next ball. But he had indeed remembered. And she sat staring at the proof of it, of his consideration, his thoughtfulness. Her throat tight, she began to flip through the worn pages, and it was as if she were walking a path she'd strolled down a thousand times before. She snapped it shut and hugged it close to her chest, a sob wracking her.

For a moment, her grief lessened, and it was as if Father were there, right beside her on the settee. Reading aloud a section on the comets. She would lean her head against his shoulder, listening intently. And so many days she had stolen into his library, curled up on the windowsill, a kitten napping on her feet, and read the book from cover to cover.

Taking in a deep breath to compose herself, Gemma opened her eyes and rose, smoothing her skirts. She would take it upstairs at once. As she was about to climb the stairs to her room, the butler, Gibbons, stopped her. "Miss. You have just received a letter. From Willow Grove."

Gemma caught her breath. A letter from Mama.

"Thank you, Gibbons," she smiled, receiving the envelope. She hurried up the stairs with her book and now her letter, and once inside her room she set the book down carefully before tearing open the envelope. The lump returned to her throat as she read the first line on the page, My darling Gemma.

Homesickness swelled inside her, and she sank down onto her bed, flopping back upon it in a most unladylike way as she read.

Her mother wrote that she missed Gemma desperately, that the cottage was hardly the same without her. Vicar Jennings is quite melancholy about your departure. He calls frequently, inquiring about your season in London. I do believe that he is anxious for your return. Should he, there is no doubt you might secure a proposal of marriage.

Gemma lowered the letter, grimacing. The kindly vicar was certainly of a pleasant temperament, but she could not imagine a life tied to him as husband and wife.

It was the same thing with Lord Neville, who her aunt evidently sought for on Gemma's behalf.

She huffed out an exasperated sigh. As much as she missed Mama, if she were to return to Willow Grove, she would need to be forthcoming about not wishing to marry for anything but love. Although, something told her that Mama would find such a sentiment ridiculous. Impractical.

So be it , Gemma told herself. If it means remaining true to myself.

Someone rapped on the door and Gemma sat up, calling, "Come in."

Aunt Philippa swept in, casting her a pointed look. Gemma straightened correcting her posture.

"Better," Aunt Philippa approved. "Tonight, I shall hold a dinner party. Does that sound agreeable?"

"Oh, very!" Gemma scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. Perhaps she could invite Lord Blakemore, thank him in person for the book.

But before she could speak, Aunt Philippa declared, "Lord Neville shall attend. He's quite taken with you." So is Vicar Jennings, evidently.

Gemma tried to smile.

"Now, let me decide upon your gown. Ah, this red suits your complexion very well. It almost exactly matches the colour of your lips. Come, come!"

Gemma hastened over and Aunt Philippa handed her the dress. "Begin to change, I will call in Rose!" she practically screeched, causing Gemma to start.

Rose hastened into the bedroom. "Help Miss Hayesworth into her gown, and there are several others she will be trying as well. Such as…this emerald. It would suit your complexion and your hair."

"Aunt, it seems that this evening bears more significance in your estimation. May I inquire as to why?"

"Why, Lord Neville, of course. He is London's most eligible gentleman on the marriage mart. He is older, so I do not imagine he carouses as most younger men do. And his wealth cannot recommend him more."

"But," Gemma shook her head, "what if I do not wish to wed him?"

Aunt Philippa began to laugh boisterously. "You do not wish to wed—" she wagged her head. "How ludicrous? Why ever not? I promised your Mama I would see you wed to the most eligible bachelor in London, and that is precisely what I've done. If I do not, you will be resigned to marrying a country vicar. But surely you do not wish for that misalignment, do you?"

"No, I—"

"Then Lord Neville it is. You shall be afforded a beautiful home in Manchester Square, everything yours should you wish it…you could not find a man more devoted than Lord Neville."

Gemma couldn't speak, staring at her reflection in the mirror as another maid entered, and began to help Rose arrange her hair.

***

Gemma descended the grand, front staircase, trailing her hand down the banister as she went. Below, Lord Neville stood, smiling up at her. His blond hair with a touch of grey shone like spun gold in the candlelight.

He bowed to her when she paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Good evening, Miss Hayesworth. You are most exquisite."

Gemma flushed, dropping her eyes to the ground as she curtsied, and then took his proffered hand. He escorted her to the sitting room with the rest of the guests, who Aunt Philippa ushered along, telling the Ashtons what she had selected for the primary course. "Venison! The best cook could find at the butchers." Gemma held her breath as she hurried forth on Lord Neville's arm, his gaze trained upon her.

To her alarm, he led her to the window, everyone's eyes upon them, and turned to her once they reached it, his hand still clasping hers. "Miss Hayesworth, I should be honoured if you were to accompany me to Vauxhall Gardens."

The rest of the room waited quietly for Gemma's reply. She took in a deep breath, and nodded. "I would be delighted to, Lord Neville."

He smiled broadly. "You would?"

Gemma nodded, just barely refraining from shooting her aunt a glare across the room. Aunt Philippa must have known he meant to do this. She must have planned it. Clenching her jaw, Gemma offered Lord Neville her thanks for his generosity, to which he chuckled softly, swaying closer. His eyes lit into hers, his chuckle fading, and for one terrible moment, Gemma feared he meant to steal a kiss. Of course, he didn't. To do so would be an affront, an egregious misstep. But his eyes did wander to her lips, and she forced another smile. "I am in want of a drink," she told him. But he shook his head, hurrying past her. "Please, Miss Hayesworth. Permit me."

Gemma sank back against the wall just behind her, staring out the window. This evening couldn't end soon enough. Guilt bit beneath her skin. I could not do better than Lord Neville. Prudence would delight to have such a suitor. But I cannot fathom wedding him.

"Gemma," Aunt Philippa hissed, just at her elbow. "He has just made it known to all in attendance that he means to court you. Isn't that simply marvelous?"

"But of course," Gemma choked.

"Come, now. You are to remain on his arm. Make haste."

Gemma was whisked back to Lord Neville and wound her arm with his. She stared at a point on the wall, wishing for the night to be over.

***

The following evening, Lord Neville send his carriage for Gemma and Aunt Philippa, along with Gemma's maid, Rose. That at least would be a comfort, to have the kindly Rose nearby throughout the evening. Gemma had never visited Vauxhall Gardens before, so she plied Rose with questions as the maid arranged her hair as well as a necklace she'd fastened around Gemma's throat.

"It is something of a fair, with rope-walkers and fire-eating men," Rose informed her, smiling at Gemma in the mirror. She went on to describe the fantastical shows that were performed all over Vauxhall, the stalls of food, the bustling crowd. Gemma's eyes opened wider and for the first time that day, excitement stirred in her stomach. Even if she didn't enjoy the fawning nature of her companion, it would still be a delightful experience. She couldn't find fault in that. So, as she sank into her seat in Lord Neville's carriage, averting her eyes from his adoring gaze, she reminded herself that the excursion would at the very least be interesting.

Aunt Philippa persisted in drawing her back into the conversation when she tried to slip out of it. And each time she did, her mouth grew thinner and tighter. Gemma nearly laughed aloud at the sight.

At last, the carriage rumbled to a stop at the banks of the Thames, where their boat would take them to the gardens, and Lord Neville climbed out first to help them each from the cabin.

***

Dalton stared out the window of the carriage, certain that if he turned back to face the rest of the passengers, Celeste would attempt to chatter his ear off.

At last, the carriage slowed and then stopped at the appointed place where the boats set off for Vauxhall Gardens. Dalton climbed out first and then helped Mother and Celeste down the carriage steps. Celeste's foot slipped on one of the steps and she fell with a cry. Dalton lurched forward, catching her in his arm, and she lifted her chin, blinking up at him coyly. Dalton gave her a taut smile and withdrew once her feet touched the ground. She pouted. "Cousin, won't you take my arm?"

Dalton could barely refrain from groaning, but he nodded and hooked his arm with hers. She laughed softly, gratified.

Ignoring his mother's frown, Dalton led Celeste towards the dock where their commissioned boat awaited. Another party approached. They must have commissioned the same boat. Dalton nearly stumbled, however, when his eyes landed on a familiar face. Gemma. He nearly gasped, staring.

A cloak swirled around her, and beneath that he glimpsed a silken red. His throat went tight, and he took in a shuddering breath. She walked arm-in-arm with that stodgy Neville.

And she was…exquisite. Her eyes starry, curls tumbling elegantly about her rosy cheeks. And she stared back at him, lips parting. He nodded, the rest of the world melting away as her throat moved, as if she'd just swallowed. "Miss Hayesworth," he whispered.

Her lips curved, and she returned his nod. "Lord Blakemore."

Her aunt bustled over, grasping Gemma's arm, shooting Dalton a withering look. And then she hastened her niece onto the boat. Dalton raised an eyebrow. Philippa Kenway made it no secret that she believed the rumors about him. Well, the veritable rumors, that was.

Her party fled to the other side of the boat, and Dalton extricated himself from Celeste, retreating to the boat railing to watch the banks. The sound of voices drew his attention, and he turned his head, espied none other than Gemma and Lord Neville. Clearly, they'd been possessed of the same notion, and found their way to the railing. Gemma turned her head, and her eyes locked with his. A slow smile spread across her face, and Dalton's pulse raced.

He reached up, touched the brim of his hat, warmth spreading up his chest and throat.

Oh, heavens, he ached for her. He wished it was he at her side, her hand on his arm. Knees locking, he leaned more heavily on the railing, unable to pull his gaze from hers. The air thickened round them, his pulse thudding heavily in his ears. Her face flushed a faint shade of pink, those red lips falling open as if in a soft gasp. Lord Neville beside her was occupied, engaged in a conversation with Gemma's aunt on his other side.