Chapter 22

Gemma watched in the mirror as Rose's deft fingers wove her hair into an intricate arrangement, using heated tongs to twist the strands at her forehead into tumbling curls. A bit of stain on the lips brought out the heightened flush on Gemma's cheeks, and her stomach was a chaos of butterflies flying this way and that.

The white dress she'd chosen for tonight was perfect for the warmer weather today at the great Neville house for Lady Neville's soiree. It complemented Gemma's sunkissed skintone, which although might not be fashionable, suited her hazel eyes well.

Rose stepped back to admire her handiwork, clasping her hands together. "You look lovely, Miss."

Gemma grinned. "Thank you, Rose."

"It's only the truth," the maid shrugged, laughing.

Gemma could be walking on air. At least, it felt like that as she half-tripped on her rush down the stairs. Even the prospect of spending the evening in Lord Neville's company did not grate her as it usually did. It didn't matter. For Lord Blakemore had called, and perhaps he would call again…

Perhaps, he would be in attendance tonight.

The butterflies went mad.

Aunt Philippa surveyed her carefully, before giving a nod of approval. "He won't be able to take his eyes off of you, surely," she whispered to Gemma.

Gemma flushed but didn't let her smile waver.

Rose accompanied Aunt Philippa and her that night, mostly because, as Gemma suspected, Aunt Philippa wished for someone to keep an eye on her. To ensure she didn't sneak off unchaperoned and risk her reputation.

As they stood in the sparkling foyer of the Neville home, with its family busts and plushly carpeted stairs, Gemma and her aunt were greeted by Lord Neville and his sister.

Neville took in a deep breath when it came time for him to greet Gemma. "Heavens, you look—" his voice faded and he shook his head slightly, eyes dazed.

"I believe my brother is trying to say you are most comely this evening," Lady Neville laughed behind her fan, leaning towards Gemma conspiratorially.

Gemma dipped in a brusque curtsy, and at last she and Aunt Philippa could pass on into the next room, melt into the crowd. Of course, Lord Neville would find her again, but Gemma wondered if she could get her dance card filled before then. She scanned for Lord Blakemore, but didn't catch a glimpse of him.

Her heart leapt when she caught sight of his uncle and cousin. But she couldn't see him. Perhaps he had declined to attend this evening. Her heart sinking, she began to search for Prudence. It would be comforting to have her friend nearby. She would be a heartening presence.

Especially if Lord Blakemore never appeared.

***

Dalton stared out the carriage window as he, his uncle, and cousin rode the short drive to the Neville residence, a block north of them.

"A pity your mother wasn't up to attend tonight," Uncle Ernest sighed, shaking his head.

Dalton didn't deign to respond. His uncle couldn't care less about Mother's health. She was more of a burden to him than anything.

Celeste leaned over to him. "Dalton, do you think Lord Neville will propose to Miss Hayesworth tonight?"

"Anything can happen, my dear cousin."

At last, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the impressive Neville house and he descended, heaving a sigh of relief.

"I daresay this is a great improvement to a country cottage for the girl," Uncle Ernest stepped down onto the wet cobblestones beside him.

Dalton pressed his lips together and hurried up the steps without a word, though he was probably red with anger. Inside, he was greeted cordially by Lord Neville and his sister. He didn't miss the lack of smiling on Lord Neville's part, his usually cheery expression slipping.

After bowing over Lady Neville's hand, Dalton retreated to a private alcove to sip a glass of champagne. Now that he'd begun to cut back on his carousing, he noticed a significant lack of headaches in the morning. He could owe that to abstaining from heavier drink.

He turned his gaze to the dancers, in the middle of a set. Gemma wasn't amongst them. Though, presently, a new set began, and Lord Neville led Gemma into the middle of the floor. The crowd hushed and watched in reverence as Lord Neville and Gemma stepped into their places at the head of the line, and the orchestra began to play the next song.

Gemma was beautiful. Heavenly. Dalton caught his breath, mouth dry, and forgot all about the champagne glass in his hand. Envy again twisted in his stomach as Neville led Gemma in the dance, masterful, proud as any man ought to be of Gemma on his arm.

But halfway through the dance, Gemma locked eyes with Dalton, and her mouth fell open in surprise, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. Like she was pleased to see him. Dalton raised his glass to her with a nod and couldn't find it in himself to care when Neville noticed their locked gazes.

"Dalton?" Celeste's voice broke the moment and he turned away, struggling to breathe. "Will you dance the next set with me?"

Dalton smiled tightly. "Of course."

When it was time, he maneuvered Celeste over to stand beside Neville and Gemma. If he hoped to win Gemma, then he needed to fight for her.

Gemma smiled at him softly as the music started with a violin solo. They rotated each other, Celeste in his arms, Lord Neville in hers, but they didn't look away from one another. Dalton's throat was tight, his pulse singing, as he at last guided Celeste into Neville's arms and swept Gemma away down the line. It was part of the dance, of course, but his heart squeezed as he gazed down into her starry eyes.

"Lord Blakemore," she breathed.

"Miss Hayesworth. You are my north star. Meet me in the garden after this set?" he whispered before she returned to Lord Neville. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. She glanced at him over her shoulder before Lord Neville led her through the next round of steps, and as the orchestra finished the song, she dipped her chin in a subtle nod. A silent yes.

***

Gemma rushed to find Prudence as soon as the dance ended. "He asked me to meet him in the garden," she whispered to her friend, grasping her hand tightly.

Prudence's eyes went round.

"And I said yes," Gemma sank onto a settee in the alcove they'd retreated to.

"At the soiree Lady Neville is giving you? I think Lord Neville hopes to propose to you this evening."

"I pray he doesn't," Gemma frowned. "Especially not in front of all these people."

"Well, what will you say to Lord Blakemore in the garden? What do you think he wishes to speak with you about?"

Gemma shook her head vigorously. "I don't know. I can't make him out whatsoever."

"He's an impenetrable man, isn't he?" Prudence whispered behind her fan.

"Indeed, he is. Well, I must go. And meet him in the garden." Gemma braced herself, straightening her shoulders. She glanced around until she located the back doors leading onto the Neville's garden terrace, and watched as Blakemore slipped out the large double doors.

After a few moments, she drove forward, eager to follow. She was waylaid by Lady Neville. "At dinner my brother should like to toast you. Would you mind very much?" she said to Gemma, her expression nothing but kind, genial. She would make Lord Neville's future bride a wonderful sister. But not Gemma.

She thanked Lady Neville for letting her know and excused herself, saying she needed a breath of fresh air. Lady Neville lifted her eyebrows, concern sparking in her pale eyes. "Oh yes, do enjoy our terrace," she grasped Gemma's hand, casting her a sympathetic smile. "It's lovely weather today. No clouds in sight all day. Perhaps we will be so fortunate to enjoy such fair weather tomorrow."

"That would be wonderful," Gemma told her as warmly as she could.

She quickened her pace to the door and slipped out unnoticed. No one else attempted to detain her.

Out in the fresh, cool air of the Spring night, she strained for a glimpse of Lord Blakemore in the shadowy garden. Hurrying down the terrace steps, she hastened along the lit path towards the bowers of roses that lined the garden entrance. But she stopped short when two figures came into view around a corner. It was Celeste, in Lord Blakemore's arms, her mouth lifted to him.

***

Dalton stepped away from Celeste, trying to put as much distance between her and himself as he could. This was all wrong—he had not wanted to see Celeste approach him in the privacy of the garden. He'd been waiting for Gemma.

But she breathed his name, and advanced upon him until he had nowhere to go, pressing himself against the prickly hedge. "Celeste, what are you doing?" he hissed.

"Oh, cousin," her pale eyes glistened with unshed tears as she leaned into his arms. "Why do you try to resist what is so manifest between us?"

"Celeste, stop, I beg you," he stepped to the side, trying to extricate himself from her. But he heard a soft cry and turned his head to see Gemma, standing just a few feet away, staring aghast at the scene as it unfolded.

"Miss Hayesworth," he choked out, taking a step towards her. But she backed away, shaking her head. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her expression was gut-wrenching. "Miss Hayesworth, it isn't as it seems—"

Nothing could quite describe the utter grief that twisted her features as she whirled on her heel and fled out of sight. Dalton's knees buckled as it sank in. He'd lost her, forever. And Celeste—

He wheeled on her, heart pounding. "Why, Celeste?" he choked out. "Why would you—"

She ignored him, advancing upon him again, grasping at the front of his coat. Before he could react, Uncle Ernest, Lady Neville, and several of the other guests appeared at the head of the path, staring in horrified shock.

"What's the meaning of this?" Uncle Ernest barked out, his voice trembling with fury as Celeste retreated into his arms, sobbing. Lady Neville hurried in the direction Gemma had gone, while the other guests whispered loudly amongst themselves. Dalton caught snippets of what they were saying.

" What would you expect from him? He's a rake."

"Good heavens."

"That poor niece of yours." That last one was ludicrous, as it was directed to Uncle Ernest.

Dalton glared at his uncle before striding after Gemma, his vision blurring as an indignation he'd never known surged within him. He paused beside his uncle, unable to think of anything to say. But he hoped his stare conveyed it all. How could you?

Uncle Ernest returned his gaze coolly, lifting one eyebrow with immaculately portrayed dismay. As if he had nothing to do with this. As if—

Dalton strode on past him, hurrying his steps until he was nearly running, up the terrace and into the ballroom inside

He scanned for a glimpse of Gemma—if only she would let him explain. Where was she? He prayed she had not left yet.

He raced into the entry hall, nearly jostling into Lord Colin Neville, who was speaking with his sister in low, urgent tones.

"Blakemore!" Neville barked out, stepping towards him. Ernest scanned for a glimpse of Gemma, for any sign of her at all. "Blakemore," Neville repeated. "Mrs. Hayesworth, if that's who you're looking for, is departed already."

"Has she? With the carriage?" Philippa Kenway swept towards them, stately as ever. "Why, what happened?"

When Lord Neville and his sister glanced at Dalton, Lady Kenway whirled on him. "What did you do to her?" she seethed, before.

"I—"

"Miss Hayesworth set out on foot, Lady Kenway," Lord Neville said hurriedly, clearly endeavoring to avoid a scene.

"On foot!" Lady Kenway huffed, brushing past Dalton with a scathing glance. "Why would she—I'd best go after her."

Dalton followed her before she reeled on him, holding up a finger. "Don't you follow," she whispered, her voice shaking, blue eyes bright with fury. "You've done enough, have you not, Lord Blakemore?"

He stepped back, unable to speak, watching as Lady Kenway hastened out the front door, which had been opened by a footman.

"What did you do?" Lord Neville whispered, as the rest of the guests whispered amongst themselves urgently.

Dalton didn't answer him. He took off running out the door, brushing against a footman and nearly upsetting him. Somewhere behind him, Uncle Ernest bellowed out his name, and Celeste cried out, "Uncle !"

Dalton began to walk. Before long he was up the street, away from the prying glances and scandalized whispers. His thoughts ran together as he walked blindly, turning down streets he didn't even read. Maybe somehow, he would find his way to Lady Kenway's, explain everything. Or at least, try to. She had to know that he would never—

Somehow, he ended up at Theodore's, and his friend's butler let him in without question, as if reading everything he needed to know in Dalton's expression.

"Is Theodore—"

"I'll go fetch him, my Lord."

"Much obliged to you," Dalton sank onto the sofa, lowering his head into his hands.

After a little while, he heard footsteps in the hall, and then Theodore voice that sounded somewhere between concern and amusement. "Is something amiss, Blakemore?"

"Everything's amiss, Theodore. Everything. My uncle, he—" Dalton couldn't even finish speaking. He rose to his feet, striding over to the window. Is this truly happening?

He closed his eyes tightly.

"What did the old man do now?"

"He designed to entrap me with his niece. Why? Because he's been conspiring for this very thing for years." Dalton could scarcely breathe, digging his nails into his palm.

He just needed to somehow convey this to Gemma. But it was unlikely he'd even get his foot in the door at Kenway House.