Chapter 23

Gemma ran until her sides hurt, tripping and falling once and getting her beautiful gown all stained and torn. But she got back up and kept running until she at last reached her aunt's house but a few blocks away. Gibbons let her in, his eyes widening when he noticed her disheveled appearance. As he stepped aside for her to enter, he cried, "Miss, are you unwell? What has happened?"

Gemma ignored him, flying up the stairs and rushing to her bedroom. Once there, she slammed the door shut and sank back against it, her eyes slamming shut. This must be a nightmare of some kind. It had to be.

Covering her face with her hands, she let the sobs finally come. They racked her body as she lowered her head into her knees in the dark room. After what might have been hours, or only a few minutes, someone rapped on her door. Gemma blinked, realizing she'd shifted onto her side on the floor. Sitting up, she rose, sniffling, and walked over to the window. Numb. She felt numb. And so foolish.

"Gemma?" Aunt Philippa called through the door, her voice sharp as always. Gemma couldn't bear to see or speak to her aunt right now, though. She just knew the woman would say, I predicted this very thing.

Eyes stinging, tears dripping off her jaw, she wished that she could just go back home. For the first time in a while, that was all she wanted. The door creaked open and Aunt Philippa entered, her mouth pinched, her eyes piercing. Gemma turned back to the window, digging her fingers into the bare skin of her upper arms.

Her body slowly became conscious of the chill in the dark room, since the fireplace had not yet been lit. Aunt Philippa remained silent as a maid hastened in to start a fire. When she at last left, Aunt Philippa whispered, "Did I not—"

"Yes," Gemma choked, "You did tell me. And I do wish I listened. I truly do. But for now, Aunt Philippa, will you just let me be?" She began to weep again, and she heard Aunt Philippa sigh, weary, before crossing the room to take Gemma in her arms.

"Rakes are nothing but rakes, my dear," she murmured.

"I thought he was different. That he was truly a good, decent man. But—" Gemma found her aunt's hug comforting, more so than she expected. She let herself just cry, no longer holding the tears back, until her head ached, her eyes burning, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

Aunt Philippa called Rose in to help Gemma ready for bed, before she swept out of the room.

Gemma fell into a deep sleep quickly, her dreams full of Lord Blakemore and Celeste, entangled in one another's arms, in the privacy of the dark garden. She awoke with a gasp, sitting up abruptly. For a moment, she wondered if it had all just been a dream. Until it all came rushing back, crushing.

How could she have been so ridiculous to think that someone like him, worldly, reckless and headstrong, would ever truly care for someone as naive and unremarkable as she was? He'd just been toying with her, enjoying her innocence, her blind trust. It had all just been a diversion to him.

A tear rolled down the bridge of her nose onto her pillow as she stared at the flickering shadows on the wall, cast by the fire.

Gradually the fire dwindled into mere embers that glowed brightly in the dark room. The door opened softly again, and Rose carried in a tray with tea and other sweets. "The lady of the house sent these up," she said softly, setting the tray down on the bed.

"I can't eat anything," Gemma whispered. Her head pounded with a dreadful headache, and she closed her eyes slowly. She prayed for sleep, though it continued to elude her.

"I'll leave it here on this table by the door. Should you need anything, pull the cord to ring for me."

Gemma didn't hear the door close. She drifted asleep again.

***

Dawn had just broken as Dalton reached his room. The whole house was dark and quiet, save for the faint echoes of servants stirring downstairs. As he turned the doorknob, Uncle Ernest's voice rang out in a tight whisper, "Where have you been?"

Dalton jumped, whirling around to face his uncle. He swallowed hard at the sight of Uncle Ernest emerging from the shadows, a candle in one shaking hand. His face was mottled with an anger that Dalton had never seen in him before. It caused him to step back.

Uncle Ernest grabbed him by the arm and led him to a dark study down the hall, where he kicked the door shut behind them.

"You wish to ruin her, don't you?" Uncle Ernest rasped, setting down the candle and advancing upon Dalton. "Don't you?" he boomed, shaking his hand.

"You arranged this whole thing, did you not?" Dalton fought the urge to grasp the older man by the shirtfront, send him sprawling to the floor. It would be wonderfully satisfying. "You did. I know you did."

"You have none but yourself to condemn." Uncle Ernest glared at him. He jabbed a finger into Dalton's chest. "Admit it."

"I'll admit to no such thing," Dalton cried. "I never cared for Celeste as anything more than—"

But Uncle Ernest waved his hand. "You've led her to believe you mean to wed her. And now you've just shown the whole world your true intentions, haven't you?"

Dalton stared. "That's nothing but a lie and you know it."

"Do I?" Ernest shouted, his tone mocking. "I saw it with my own eyes, and Celeste is beside herself."

Dalton turned to go but his uncle called out, "If you wish to ever show your face in London Society again, you will marry her. Save both your reputation and hers."

Dalton kept walking, vision going red.

"Think of your mother. What would she say, should she learn of your indiscretion?"

"She'll know—"

"Will she? I should hope so. Though you've given everyone quite good reason to believe that you are a rake. And that is all. Why should anyone think differently? Don't you know how your actions grieve Adelaide?"

Dalton turned, glaring at his uncle, contempt for the man boiling inside him.

"Let Miss Hayesworth marry Lord Neville. Her family would never approve of you as a suitor for her, not after this. If you wish to at least attempt to salvage the Blakemore name, you will let Miss Hayesworth go, and marry Celeste. For both of your sakes. For your mother's."

Dalton closed his eyes, his throat tight with a helpless outrage that threatened to choke him. "I'm going out," he at last muttered, before tearing out of the room, down the stairs, and back out the front door. Behind him, Uncle Ernest railed for him to stay, not to walk out the door. But Dalton didn't care. He didn't care about anything any longer. For as much as he despised the man, he knew his uncle was right.

Gemma would never marry him after this. She would never be able to trust him, to open her heart to him, now that he had shattered it. Even if none of this was his doing, he had already set himself on this course at high speed, with his carousing, his reckless lifestyle. And if he couldn't marry Gemma, he couldn't imagine marrying anyone else for love.

He made his way to the gentlemen's rooms several streets over, and once there, he sank down in a private alcove and ordered a whiskey. His first whiskey in weeks.

***

Gemma sat in the windowsill she'd begun to love, that overlooked the busy street in front of her aunt's home. She perched here, Udolpho in her arms, when Prudence called and was allowed by Aunt Philippa to visit her. She called Gemma softly, causing Gemma to start and turn, blinking her aching eyes.

"Oh, Prudence," she whispered, setting her chin back down on her arms folded atop her knees. "Forgive me, I'm not in the best of spirits today."

"I've heard what occurred at the Neville soiree. Your aunt told me of it. As did Lady Neville herself."

"I know I behaved so dreadfully abominable there. I just had to leave. I couldn't stay. I just couldn't."

"I know." Prudence put her arms around Gemma's trembling shoulders in a fierce hug. "I know."

Gemma sniffled, tears running down her cheeks, unbidden. But it seemed as if the last night and day she'd spent lost in a daze. Wishing that this was just a nightmare. But it had happened. It had truly happened.

"I've been so foolish, Prudence," she choked. "I ought to have listened to my aunt. She told me. She said that—that—"

Prudence gently hushed her. "You strove to see the best in him," she said with a small shrug, a sad smile. "That is the most you could do, Gemma."

"It was all merely a game for him." Gemma gulped, sinking down upon her bedroom settee.

"Perhaps, but you've done nothing that will have a lasting effect on your repute. You have not entangled yourself into any sort of liaison with him, have you?"

"That is right," Gemma could barely speak around the lump in her throat "I know."

"Then, not all is lost!"

"No, it isn't." But why did it seem like it? Why had a pit opened up inside her, a sinking sense of desolation that reminded her of the day Papa died?

As if she'd lost something so much greater than she could ever comprehend. Something that she'd think about years from now, the sting still as sharp as ever.

"Lord Neville is a much better man, is he not? He cares for you very much, I think?" Prudence whispered, letting Gemma lean an aching head against her shoulder.

Gemma could do nothing but nod, stomach sinking. "He has been most kind to me," she managed, her voice trembling.

"He would be a much better husband than Lord Blakemore, I daresay," Aunt Philippa declared, as she entered the bedroom just then.

Gemma chewed her lip, staring at the floor. She couldn't speak.

"It no longer matters," she whispered. "I just want to go home."

"Home!" Aunt Philippa echoed, paling. "Why, now that you are freed of the spell that man has cast on you, you are freed to let yourself be courted by Lord Neville."

Gemma shot to her feet. "I don't wish to be courted by him, or anyone," she informed her aunt, voice trembling. "I don't. I just wish to return to Willow Grove. To Mama."

Aunt Philippa closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Gemma--"

"I am forever indebted to you, Aunt, for your generosity, your benevolence. But I don't wish to be a burden on you any longer. I will not be a burden to you any longer."

Aunt Philippa marched across the room, grasping Gemma by the shoulders. "You are so close to receiving a proposal from Lord Neville, I can fairly taste it. Why would you dispose of such an opportunity now?"

"Mama wishes for me to wed a Vicar Jennings, and—"

"If you were to wed Lord Neville, he would humor your every whim. You could publish papers in the Royal Society, if you liked. He would coddle you so. You would not be fated to a tedious life in the country."

"Perhaps it is for the best." Gemma blinked away the stinging sensation in her eyes, letting out a deep breath. She called for Rose, who waited in the hall throughout this conversation. "I should like to pack my things."

***

It began to rain as Dalton mounted the slope in the cemetery to his family's mausoleum. Climbing the slippery stone steps, he entered the dark room, and stood in silence, staring down at the name carved into the wall where Father had been laid to rest.

Here lies Viscount Blakemore...

He drew in a deep breath, wiping away the dripping strands of hair clinging to his forehead, and traced his fingertips over the letters. If only you could still be here, Father. Everything would be different. Mother would be joyful again. Uncle Ernest would not be here...and I might be a better man.

He might catch his death out here, but what did it matter? Dalton reached into his pocket and drew out a flask, taking a long draught from it and letting the liquid burn a hot trail down his throat into his stomach. He lifted it in a silent cheer to his father's grave. The late viscount did not believe in drinking and had been somewhat of a moralist. He lived by a set of strict ethics which Dalton had always admired.

But then again, Father never had to watch his mother sink into a melancholic mire, never had to face the abrupt death of his own father...never had to endure the schemes and machinations of someone like Ernest Blakemore.

He had not lost the woman of his dreams.

Dalton closed his eyes, and swallowed yet another draught, and another. When he at last set out for home, he barely knew where he was any longer. He clutched his walking cane, intent on fending off any accosters or brigands who might see his attire and deem him a worthy target.

When he at last reached home, Celeste met him at the door, her cheeks pale, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of him. "Dalton," she whispered, grasping at his arm, but he wrenched away.

"Haven't you done enough?" he choked.

"Dalton, please—"

"Leave me be, I beg you." He tore past, up the stairs, until he found his way into his bedroom. But he didn't remember reaching the bed. Instead, his face pressed on the plush carpet, and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.