Chapter 20

Dalton would have slept in late if it weren't for the knock on his door and Wilson entering, announcing that Uncle Ernest wished to have a private word with him in the library. Dalton groaned as he rolled over onto his stomach, pulling the blankets over his head.

"What does the old lout have to say?" he muttered into his pillow.

After ten minutes, he roused and with Wilson's assistance, he dressed.

Someone knocked on the door and Wilson hastened to answer it. He lingered there a few moments, speaking to a footman in a low voice, before he returned to Dalton before the mirror. "A note for you, my lord," he announced. "From a Miss Hayesworth."

Dalton snatched it out of Wilson's hand and unfolded it, leaving the mirror to perch on the windowsill. A smile tugged at his mouth as he read it. Her humor was unmistakable, clever. He read it several times over before tucking it into the inside of his waistcoat pocket, drawing in a shaky breath. "Fetch me my maroon waistcoat, Wilson. And the matching coat."

"Of course, my lord," Wilson nodded. He pulled those items from the wardrobe and laid them neatly upon the bed. Dalton began to readjust his cravat. Lately it had become tight around his neck, nearly suffocating. Especially around Gemma Hayesworth.

"Going out, my lord?" Wilson inquired as he lifted the maroon coat to Dalton's shoulders, helping him push his arms into the sleeves.

"Yes. When we are done, have my uncle informed that I won't be able to meet him this morning. I have more important matters to attend to."

"Yes, my lord."

Dalton examined himself in the mirror, turning this way and that. The color maroon suited his complexion, the color of his hair, and his eyes. And today of all days, he wished to appear his best.

Especially since he intended to call upon Miss Hayesworth. He had not made such a call in years.

"What do you think?" He turned to Wilson, holding out his hands.

"I think that a black silk cravat would do better."

"I think so too," Dalton grinned. He waited, struggling against a surge of impatience, as Wilson removed his white cravat and replaced it with the black silk neckerchief.

Once he'd drawn on his boots, polished that morning by Wilson, he grabbed his hat and cloak off the bed and hurried downstairs to the front door. There, his uncle cornered him.

"Where do you think you are going?" he seethed, grasping Dalton by the arm.

Dalton tried to pull his arm away. "Out."

"Out where?" Uncle Ernest glared at him, mouth a flat line.

"That is hardly your concern, uncle."

"Is it not? Your comings and goings become more frequent by the day. Is that not a reason for apprehension?"

Dalton's lip curled with distaste. He jerked his arm again, this time succeeding in freeing it.

"Good day, uncle," he said under his breath, before opening the door and slipping out onto the sidewalk.

A carriage awaited him on the street, and once in it, he rapped the ceiling to let the driver know to take off.

The drive to Philippa Kenway's home did not take long, as it was in a fashionable neighborhood adjacent to the one where Blakemore Manor was situated. He lit his pipe, taking several draws of it to calm his fluttering nerves, until at last the carriage rolled to a stop. The footman opened his door, and he stepped out, pausing on the walk to gaze up at the Kenway house.

His driver opened the door and Dalton hurried down the steps on wobbly legs. He paused for a moment, checking his appearance in the reflection of the carriage window, before mounting the front steps and knocking. A butler answered the door and admitted him, and Dalton asked, his stomach twisting into knots, if he could inform Lady Kenway of his wish to call upon Gemma.

The butler bowed and disappeared, and Dalton paced back and forth across the foyer, pulse racing.

***

Aunt Philippa waved the folded paper in the air. She'd just received it from a runner, and Gemma listened politely as her aunt informed her of its contents. "Lord Neville's sweet sister, Lady Sarah Neville, has sent me a note this morning inviting you and I to a little soiree. I am certain that this is her way of signaling her brother's intentions."

"Oh, yes. Very good," Gemma forced a smile and nodded, though Aunt Philippa took no notice. Or else, she simply ignored it.

"You will adore Sarah. She is a great reader like yourself, and I am certain the two of you will be friends—and sisters."

Gemma rose suddenly and crossed the room to the window, unwilling to let her aunt see the tears springing to her eyes. If the stars were out right now, she'd wish on one. She'd wish that somehow, she would find a way to be with Dalton. Though, for all she knew, this was but a spring dalliance for him, and he was merely toying with her. Aunt Philippa could be right after all, but that didn't make Lord Neville any more of a desirable prospect.

Aunt Philippa's butler stepped into the room, and in a low voice, informed them that Lord Blakemore had come to call upon Gemma.

Aunt Philippa went pale, her eyes sparking with indignation, and her good mood evaporated like steam. "He's here?" she sputtered. "To—to call upon—"

"He's in the hall, my lady."

Aunt Philippa closed her eyes and prayed aloud. "May the good Lord grant me forbearance."

Gemma leaned back against the wall, touching her heart. It had begun to thunder under her fingertips, and she couldn't breathe. Lord Blakemore…here? Had her wish truly worked?

"What shall I tell him, my lady?"

"Why, send him away—"

"No!" Gemma whispered urgently, crossing the room. "Don't send him away."

"Gemma!" Aunt Philippa's voice went shrill.

Gemma sank down on the settee beside her, grasping her aunt's hand in hers as a tear ran down her flushed cheek. "Don't send him away, Aunt Philippa. I wish to see him."

"Think, Gemma. What good could possibly come of this?" Aunt Philippa hissed.

"Everyone can change, Aunt. Don't you believe that?" Gemma dabbed away her tears. "He has shown me nothing but kindness, and thoughtfulness. And our connection—there's nothing like it. Weren't you young once, in love? Couldn't you try to understand?"

Aunt Philippa's mouth thinned as she stared at Gemma shrewdly. With a soft sigh, she softened and shook her head. "Very well. But let me remind you that this is against my better judgement. And if it goes amiss, you have none to blame but yourself. If Lord Neville were to hear of this—" she closed her eyes, sighing again. "Bring him in," she ordered the butler.

Gemma flew over to the mirror to check her appearance, to tuck any loose strands of hair back into place, to dab at her reddened eyes. She'd just returned to the settee when the butler entered, and announced Lord Blakemore.

He entered, tall and imposing as usual, dressed in a fine wine-red suit, black silk cravat tied neatly at his throat, and when his piercing eyes landed on Gemma, her chest constricted. She and Aunt Philippa rose to greet him, but she twisted her hands together, heart beating faster until it might burst. His lips curved into a subtle smile.

"Lady Kenway," he bowed. And then, to Gemma, "Miss Hayesworth. I pray you fare well this morning."

"We do," Aunt Philippa said stiffly, casting Gemma an exasperated look. "And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Lord Blakemore?"

"I thank you for receiving me," he replied to her, though his eyes remained fixed on Gemma.

"Refreshments and tea," Aunt Philippa instructed the butler as Lord Blakemore smiled at Gemma, and she smiled back, grateful to sink back down onto the settee. "Won't you have a seat, Lord Blakemore?"

He acquiesced with a terse nod, lowering himself onto the settee beside Gemma.

"Miss Hayesworth," he murmured. "How do you fare this morning?"

"Very well. And you?"

"The same. How do you find the astronomy book?"

Gemma blushed beneath Aunt Philippa's confused glance. "It's just as wonderful as I remembered. I've been poring over it every night. It is just as comprehensive as I recall."

"Yes, it is very detailed, is it not?" Lord Blakemore smiled. "David Gregory's knowledge of the stars is fathomless, I think. Have you been to one of the academic salons yet?"

"Oh, what would Gemma have to do at one of those places?" Aunt Philippa interrupted, sniffing.

"Well, your niece's passion for the study of astronomy would be one reason," Lord Blakemore replied, unabashed by Aunt Philippa's glare. "She would meet a great many learned scholars on the subject, who I'm sure would be pleased to make the acquaintance of a young lady of her learning and caliber."

Gemma's chest ached at his words. "You truly believe so?"

"I do," Lord Blakemore turned to her, his smile broadening. It transformed his usually serious face.

"How often do you visit those salons?" Gemma asked him.

"Not as often as I did in my Oxford days. I still keep up with the recent scholarship on the subject, but it is something I'm eager to delve back into."

"Astronomy? The study of the stars?" Aunt Philippa asked in astonishment. "Why, do you intend to become William Herschel?" she laughed at her own joke, though Lord Blakemore nodded earnestly.

"I would be honoured to one day assume such a place in the scientific community as William Herschel once did." He directed this to Gemma, who nodded with a soft smile.

"Have you ever read through his catalogues?" she asked him.

"All three. I find his class system most impressive and comprehensive. What do you think of it?"

"Remarkable," Gemma clasped her hands together, heart beginning to race. Aunt Philippa glanced between the two of them, stunned by this turn in the conversation. "It is my dream to study the comets, like Herschel's sister. And someday publish my work in the Philosophical Transactions journal as she did."

"Perhaps we could write something together."

"I should like that very much," Gemma laughed breathlessly. She couldn't help it. Surely nothing could match the exhilaration in this moment, and nothing could take it away. Ever. If he was here to call, he couldn't be toying with her, could he?

The arrival of the tea interrupted their conversation but they presently resumed it and spent more than half an hour discussing Herschel and his sister Caroline, and how it was said that Caroline these days was studying stars of similar polar differences.

Aunt Philippa began to work on her embroidery of a handkerchief, clearly bored by the conversation, and gave up on trying to participate.

Gemma's heart sank when Lord Blakemore at last rose. "I ought not to intrude upon you any longer. Thank you for having me, Lady Kenway. And Miss Gemma, it has been a pleasure." He bowed low over Gemma's hand, and a shiver went through her when his lips brushed her skin.

And then, with a last smile for her and her alone, he strode out.

He was not gone five minutes when the butler entered the drawing room, and Gemma's heart leapt. Had Lord Blakemore returned?

"Lord Neville here to call on Miss Hayesworth."

Aunt Philappa flew to her feet with a cry. "Oh, how wonderful!"

***

On his way out of the Kenway house, Dalton met Lord Neville in the hall. He bowed to the older man, and Neville returned the gesture with a tight smile. His eyes were wide with surprise, however, to see Dalton here.

Dalton returned the smile stiffly, even as envy twisted in him. There would be no objection from Lady Kenway about Lord Neville's visit, surely. She made it no secret that she distrusted Dalton, if her glares and compressed mouth was anything to go by. She'd barely managed to speak more than a few words with him.

But, Dalton reminded himself as he slipped out the front door onto the street that he could understand why. He'd made a name for himself in the upper echelons of London society, as the man who danced with girl after girl but never called, who spent too many nights out carousing. He'd seen nothing in the scandal sheets reporting that he'd withdrawn from that lifestyle. But of course, they were the scandal sheets.

Lord Neville, if dull, was at least graced by a pristine repute here in London. And with his wealth to recommend him, Gemma could not hope for a better suitor. But Dalton's visit might have spurred Neville to question if his suit would be accepted by her.

Dalton clenched his jaw, telling his footman that he would walk home rather than go by carriage. He needed to clear his head. And walks were quickly becoming the best way for him to do so.

Instead of going directly home, he meandered his way through the streets, thinking. He'd been doing a great deal of thinking lately. Too much, perhaps. For some of the revelations he'd experienced were unpleasant to face.

Gemma was a remarkable young woman, with beauty, intellect, kindness…she deserved only the best. Dalton paused, frowning. With his past lapses into irreverent pursuits and infamy…how could he hope to think himself the best suitor for her? Lord Neville was everything he wasn't. And even at Dalton's best, she deserved far better.