Chapter 19

Theodore rubbed his eyes as he appeared in the drawing room doorway after ten minutes with tousled hair and wrinkled shirt paired with a black silk waistcoat and house slippers. He squinted at Dalton, who had been shown in by the butler. "Good heavens, Dalton! What are you doing up and about at this hour? Don't tell me you've been—"

"I've just come from Vauxhall Gardens," Dalton waved his hand. "Do you have any whiskey on hand?"

"Just coffee," Theodore sighed. He'd obviously resigned himself to this impromptu visit.

"That will do. I must have a word with you, friend."

"Heavens," Theodore shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. He turned to the butler. "Please have a pot of coffee prepared."

"Of course, my Lord," the heavyset butler bowed, and disappeared into the hall.

Theodore sank onto one of the settees before the hearth, and Dalton followed suit, before shooting to his feet and stalking over to the mantle, leaning against it. He gazed down into the fire, watching the flames leap and pirouette.

"You, Theodore, are a veritable gentleman. Which I have always admired you for."

"Thank you," Theodore snorted.

"That being said, I seek your most sage advice regarding a delicate matter, which I cannot wait to discuss any longer."

"We could have discussed this at coffee the other morning—"

"I was not yet prepared to face the facts of the matter."

"Ah, well. Of course. Go on, then. Enlighten me on what vexes you so."

"Vexes," Dalton scrubbed a hand down his face. "It's more than that."

Theodore leaned back on the couch, as if settling himself in to be entertained. Dalton plucked one of the buds from the bouquet on the mantle, bringing it to his nose. It was a little rose, small and dainty, unassuming. After a long pause, he sighed. "Gemma Hayesworth entrances me, deeply."

Theodore did not respond for another prolonged moment, studying Dalton with an unreadable expression.

Dalton shifted his weight from one foot to the other before demanding, "Come. What am I to do about it?"

"'Do about it'?" Theodore repeated, his mouth twitching. "What is there to do? You are in love. Besotted. With Gemma Hayesworth, the talk of London."

Dalton groaned. "In love? You suppose that's what it is?"

"You've never been in love before, have you?" Theodore chuckled.

"No." Dalton blinked, frowning. "Have you?"

"Once, years ago. As a mere boy. But then I went to Oxford, and when I returned…"

"She'd flown into the arms of another?" Dalton grimaced.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Just then, the butler hurried in with a tray laden with a silver coffee pot, cups and saucers, and refreshments. He set it upon the drawing room sideboard and began to pour the coffee, requesting if they should desire milk and sugar in it.

Dalton returned to the settee across from where Theodore sat and rested leaning on the sofa's arm.

"Ever since you've met her, you've been utterly changed. Your outlook is refreshed, your spirits lifted. And I haven't seen you like that since before your father's passing."

"But I am nothing more than a profligate. A libertine. A wastrel who has lost his direction in life."

"You can find it again. And you are the only one condemning yourself to such a way of life."

Dalton waved his hand. "I was right to name you a true gentleman, was I not?"

Theodore laughed more loudly this time, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing his head as if accepting a great commendation. "Indeed, you were."

"She has this spark for life, or should I say…passion…that I envy." Dalton pressed the back of his hand to his lips as a giddy chuckle escaped.

"Do you wish to know what I think?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you ought to divulge to her your true feelings. If I were to correctly interpret her response to you the other morning, she loves you in return."

"You believe it to be so?" Dalton breathed.

"It is unmistakable. Moreover, how common is a shared love of astronomy?"

"The same thing occurred to me." Dalton received his cup of coffee and sipped it slowly. Theodore followed suit. "But what of Neville? He has set his sights upon her, and I am certain he means to propose to her any day now."

"But she does not favour his intentions, does she?"

"No." Dalton resisted the urge to smirk and failed. But his smirk faltered as something else occurred to him. "But he does not have the reputation that I have. He is as unsullied as a woman locked in a nunnery."

Theodore laughed at this. "Indeed he does. But he does not connect with Miss Hayesworth in the same way you and she do."

Dalton relished the warm, rich flavor of the coffee as it spread across his tongue. He savored it for a moment or two, considering. "And her aunt despises me, surely. She makes no attempt to disguise it."

"Well, you can be a boor. But you have lost your taste for those trivial pursuits. You are a new man."

"You really think I ought to let her know of my feelings?"

Theodore's smile softened. "I think you must. Or you will always lament it."

Dalton couldn't agree more, and he grinned, lifting his coffee cup. Theodore leaned forward with his own, and they clinked their cups together in a cheers.

***

Gemma could not sleep. She perched on her bedroom's window sill, the astronomy book Dalton had sent her clutched tightly in her arms. At her feet, Udolpho curled up in a ball, deep asleep. Her tense conversation with her aunt downstairs, when they'd returned home from Vauxhall Gardens, did not dampen her exhilaration. All she could think of was Lord Blakemore's expression as he drew closer to her in the shadows of the gardens, in the bowers of that tree. The air had gone heavy and warm, almost suffocating, as she lifted her face to his.

His arms had gone around her, strong and warm, and she'd felt his breath brush against her face. Her heart still fluttered, her knees still going to water when she thought of it.

She buried her face in her knees, shivering. Aunt Philippa had tried to pry from her what had happened when she'd disappeared, but Gemma had sidestepped her prying questions. She did not want to horrify her aunt or appall her. Perhaps it had been unwise to flee into the shadowy depths of the gardens, unchaperoned and alone, save for Lord Blakemore. But it had happened, nevertheless, even if none of it had ever been intended.

"I don't understand him one bit," Gemma whispered to Udolpho. "He is hardly the rake I expected. And yet…do you think this is but an act?"

Udolpho didn't stir from his nap, and Gemma sighed. "I wish I could speak to Mama about this. But she would just tell me to pay heed to her beloved Vicar Jennings."

Gemma rose, crossing the room, and plucked a rose from the vase on the small table near the door. She brought it to her nose, the scent reminding her of the flower garden where she had met Lord Blakemore that first night.

Rake though he may be, his quiet intelligence, his kindness…it was very un-rake like. Or perhaps that was just part and parcel with the rest of his charm. She lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She'd loved doing this back at home in Willow Grove, on her own bed. Surrounded by cats. It afforded her a chance to think everything out, whether it was a conversation—or disagreement—with Mama, or a passage of a Gothic novel she'd been reading.

Tonight, though, her mind only whirred faster and faster. Tonight, when Lord Neville had dropped Aunt Philippa and her off at their home, he had kissed Gemma's hand with a wide smile that said a thousand things she didn't want to hear.

She'd drawn her hand from him quickly before fleeing the carriage. Aunt Philippa had whispered to her, as they ascended the steps, that she'd been discourteous to Lord Neville. And Gemma had struggled not to respond with vitriol.

But how could she care for Lord Neville? All he enjoyed speaking of was parliament and the sermons given at Westminster, or the latest gossip in London.

Yet, Aunt Philippa had been so generous with Gemma. Another prick of guilt began in her chest. She sat up as Udolpho climbed onto the bed and curled up on her pillow. With a sigh, Gemma sat down at her vanity, and called for Rose waiting in the hall. Rose hastened in and began to take her hair down out of its pins to ready her for bed. Gemma studied herself in the mirror, wondering if Lord Blakemore noticed the faint freckles scattered upon her nose. Did he find them repulsive?

If the way he'd nearly kissed her was anything to go by, probably not.

When she at last fell asleep, her dreams were strange, disorienting. In the beginning, she stood in Westminster as a bride. She might be a queen about to wed her royal consort. But dismay flooded Gemma when her future husband manifested before her. Lord Neville.

Her expression must have fallen, for his smile faded, before he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. But when he drew back, she let out a cry. Lord Neville no longer stood before her. Instead, Lord Blakemore drew back from kissing her, his smile faint, almost sad. He lifted a hand to caress her cheek, brush a loose tendril of hair away from her forehead.

***

The next morning, she joined Aunt Philippa in the dining room for breakfast. She found her aunt in a dour mood, her face pale and drawn, her lips pursed, as she stirred her tea loudly.

Gemma sank into her seat beside her diagonal to her aunt's at one end of the table, and Aunt Philippa shot her a hard look. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very," Gemma tried to smile, though it faltered in the face of Aunt Philippa's raised eyebrow.

"And I trust you enjoyed Vauxhall Gardens?"

"Very much," Gemma nodded. She spooned some sugar into her own tea, and poured some milk into it.

"Lord Neville is taken with you. Very. I should not be surprised if he were to offer you a proposal of marriage by the end of this fortnight."

Gemma nearly choked on her tea, and carefully swallowed so as to not spit it all out. "A fortnight?"

"Like I told you, my dear. You could not do better than Neville. His reputation is flawless. And I cannot say the same for another certain someone."

Gemma drew in a deep breath, reminding herself to remain composed. "As much as I am grateful for Lord Neville's attention to me, I confess—I do not believe we would make a good match."

"A good match!" Aunt Philippa barked out a laugh. "He is the most eligible bachelor there is. And you, my dear—you are not this season's most eligible girl on the marriage mart. Nor will you ever be."

Gemma stared at her, stunned by her aunt's bluntness. "That may be. But I will not surrender my desire to marry for love."

"Love will grow," Aunt Philippa leaned over and tightly grasped Gemma's hand. "It will grow . Don't you understand?"

Gemma's eyes pricked. "But it is possible. And I cannot give up that chance."

"That is folly," Aunt Philippa's expression hardened.

"Maybe it is. But I cannot help it."

"Do you want to marry well?"

"I told you—"

"Yes, yes. You will only wed for love. But love is not enough. It never is. He will tire of you, and return to his old ways. He is tempestuous. Led by baser instincts."

Gemma pressed her lips together tightly. "Aunt Philippa!" She shot to her feet. "I'm no longer hungry," she whispered, and fled the room, leaving her aunt in the dining room alone.

Upstairs, Gemma picked up the astronomy book that Lord Blakemore had sent her. Opened it gingerly, carefully. And then she drew a gasp as she noticed a small inscription just inside the cover of the book. It was addressed to her.