Chapter 4

Dalton Blakemore breathed a prayer of thanks when he found the terrace, and neighboring garden empty, not a soul in sight.

He hurried down the steps into a tunnel lined by bowers and pergolas that overlooked the nearby pond, fishing in his pocket for his pipe. He needed a smoke, needed to breathe. If he stayed one more moment in that crowded room, full of apoplectic social climbers, he might very well go mad. With a grimace, he at last came to a pause in a bower where the scent of roses hung heavy in the air. The cool spring air against his face was a balm, and he managed to inhale and exhale. He'd been out too late last night. Drank too much.

His stomach still roiled and balked at the thought of food. He stuck his pipe between his lips, holding it there as he pulled out a tinderbox to help light it up.

" You're going to drive yourself to an early grave, Blakemore." Theodore's voice echoed through his head.

He grimaced as he lit his pipe, the golden spark blazing vibrantly in the dim garden. Dalton took several draws before exhaling a cloud of smoke through his teeth. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, Theodore was right. It seemed as though each time he went out nowadays, he suffered more than he used to the morning after. As if his body was attempting to give protest. He was weaker these days, always angry it seemed. Always wanting to drive his fist into somebody, anybody.

And last night, he finally had. He had not attended one in years, but someone at a party had invited him—who, he couldn't remember. But it had been a relieving endeavor, somehow, to expend himself not on wine or girls but on driving his fists in round after round until he was slammed into the floor.

His chin was still rather tender, but perhaps he would attend another. Uncle had been most displeased to see his bruised face this morning. Although he ought to be grateful for those fights. It meant that Dalton wasn't driving a fist into his face.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Guilt pricked inside him as he thought of Celeste, his distant cousin, who he had all but abandoned inside. Uncle Ernest would be most indignant.

A soft tearful voice reached him from nearby, and he waved away some of the pipe smoke, listening closely. "Lyra…Vega…Orion…Andromeda…Cepheus…Cassiopeia…"

The voice paused, and then he heard a watery sigh. The voice began to recite the names again. Constellations . He'd recognize those names anywhere. Father had instilled in him a love for the stars since his boyhood.

Without thinking, he spoke aloud when the voice paused at Andromeda. "Cepheus and Cassiopeia," he supplied, and stepped around the edge of the bower to see a young woman standing there against the wall of roses, her face glistening in the dim lantern lighting.

She gasped and drew back when she turned and saw him, her delicate face blanching.

Without even thinking, he reached into his chest-pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He held it out to her, holding his breath. Her eyes were big, wet, her lips pink, forming a small "o" as she stared at his offered handkerchief for a moment. And at last, she reached out, taking it from him with a soft, shaky breath. When her fingers brushed his hand, a shiver coursed through Dalton, causing his mind to blank. He hastily stepped back, clearing his throat.

He studied her, trying to place her despite the fog hanging thickly over his head. But it was far too dark.

Her doe-like eyes, golden in the dim light, gave him a sense of virginal innocence, and—he ought to take leave. It would not do to taint her reputation, lingering out in this dark garden without a chaperone. But a desire surged within him sharply, like molten gold in the depths of his stomach. He took another step back, before pivoting on his heel and striding deeper into the garden. The last thing he wanted or needed was to be thrust into a hasty marriage.

***

Gemma slipped back inside the ballroom, her legs still shaking. But her little fit of nerves had ended abruptly when that kind gentleman had appeared and offered his handkerchief. He'd dissolved into the dark garden before she could speak a word to him, attempt to converse, and in retrospect, it was perhaps for the best. But she could still see the delineations of angular, almost hawkish features, piercing eyes beneath dark brows.

Gemma's heartbeat thudded faster as the memory of his fingers grazing her wrist sent shivers through her.

She began to scan the room for a glimpse of him, hoping that somehow, she'd recognize the man from the garden.

Aunt Philippa descended on her before she could. "Where have you been?" Aunt Philippa whispered tautly.

"I—I just needed some fresh air."

"Fresh air? There is much to be done this evening. Come!"

Gemma let her aunt draw her along towards a cluster of people near the grand hearth that roared merrily, dispelling the early spring chill.

The night droned on for what must have been two hours, full of dancing and chatter, small-talk mostly involving this season's concerts and upcoming parties. She learned that one singular case of good fortune had made its rapid rounds through London gossip, regarding a certain beauty of the Ton, who, in the first week, received three proposals of marriage.

" Three, " Lady Mary Reid huffed, shaking her head. She was younger than Gemma, but this would be her second season out. Her curls bounced against her flushed cheeks. Her blue eyes flashed. "Can you believe that?"

"And her parents are intolerably pleased, as you can imagine," added Miss Clara Gable beside Prudence. She scoffed under her breath. "They'd regale every soul in England with the news if they could."

A titter rippled through the circle.

"Well, I daresay. Their eldest daughter is an inveterate spinster," retorted Miss Olivia Benson. More laughter.

The word spinster made Gemma wince. Mother had called her this on more than one occasion—at twenty-two, she could hardly be considered ripe for the marriage mart. No, if she were to continue with the analogy, she'd liken herself to a withering flower on the vine.

She turned her head, scanning the crowd for a sign of Aunt Philippa, who chatted nearby with a large circle, the feathers in her hair twitching with every turn of the head.

And then, Gemma froze. There—through the blurring crowd she glimpsed a tall man, perhaps as tall as the man in the garden, dark-haired, severe eyes that flashed into hers. Her head spun, her knees turning to water. It was over as soon as it began, as he pulled his gaze from hers, and the room began to move again. Gemma blinked, shaking herself free of her daze.

Perhaps Aunt Philippa would know who he was.

She managed to extricate her aunt from her circle. "Is something amiss, my dear?" Aunt Philippa whispered behind her fan.

"Forgive me for intruding, but I was—" Gemma glanced over, and found the man again, a glass of wine in his hand now. "I was wondering if you could tell me again who that gentleman is." Noticing Aunt Philippa's exasperated expression, she added hastily, "Forgive me. There were ever so many people that I can hardly keep up with everyone's names."

"Viscount Blakemore. And do try to memorize as much as you can. It wouldn't do to have your forgetfulness offending a member of the Ton."

"Blakemore," Gemma repeated in a whisper before she could catch herself.

Aunt Philippa frowned. "A veritable rake. He is only here due to his stature and his family."

"A rake?" Gemma stole another glance in the tall man's direction. Black hair and heavy brows. A sharp jawline. Vivid blue eyes that had pierced into her in the garden lantern-light.

"Run along now. I see that you are forming connections with the other ladies of the Ton. Heed everything I've taught you."

Everything she'd taught Gemma? She'd rambled on forever about the do's and don'ts of London society, much of it unknown to Gemma. She'd entered society too early, and due to tight finances, Mother and Father had never been able to afford a governess. Which made her something of an outlier amongst people of this ilk.

Balled up in her fist, she still held Viscount Blakemore's handkerchief.

***

"The gossips are most appalled that you left dear Celeste all alone this evening." Uncle Ernest flashed Dalton a humorless smile, rapping the roof of the carriage to signal they were ready to leave.

Beside him, Celeste made a face and Dalton couldn't help but grin.

"Let the gossips do what they do best," he told his uncle.

It was too dark to tell for sure, but Uncle Ernest must have turned red with irritation.

"Hush," he snapped. "Is everything beneath you? Even keeping Celeste company?"

"I needed a moment. It was rather warm tonight indoors."

"Warm," Uncle Ernest snorted. "You were sick, weren't you?" He smirked when Dalton stiffened. "Yes, yes. The servants tell me things. They tell me you're out at all hours of the night, carousing—"

"Uncle!" Celeste cried.

Uncle Ernest's mouth pinched. He pointed a gnarled finger at Dalton. "I will not have you grieving my sister in law," he spat.

Dalton glared at him. This carriage ride couldn't end soon enough.

Celeste endeavored to dissolve the foul mood, asking Dalton about a popular opera that had just opened this season, a reenactment of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro.

She adored everything about the opera. Dalton forced himself to humor her. It wasn't her fault her uncle was such a…

Be Christian, Mother's voice sighed through his head.

He didn't go out that night when they returned home from Lady Kenway's ball. Instead, he went to bed early, to Wilson's astonishment.

"Bed?" he repeated blankly when Dalton rapped out an order to prepare his bedclothes.

"Wilson."

"Ah—yes, of course. Your bedclothes," And Wilson scurried to oblige.

But once in bed, he yearned for a stiff drink of brandy. Dalton tossed and turned, his mind continuously returning to the young woman he'd met in the garden tonight. Who could she be?

The next morning, Dalton woke as the first rays of morning sun peeked through the curtains, spilling onto his brocade bed cover. For the first time in what must have been an eternity, he roused from sleep without a headache.

After having breakfast he met Theodore at the fencing courts again, and managed to carry on a full match without tiring early.

"You aren't as pale as the other morning," Theodore joked. "You seem in much better spirits today."

"Perhaps a little. I slept well last night."

"Last night?" Theodore and he paused their fight to wipe at their faces shiny with perspiration. "Did you attend Lady Kenway's ball?"

"My uncle wished me to be there. To dance with his cousin's daughter."

"The scandal sheets are rife with mentions of Lady Kenway's niece, a Miss Hayesworth. Did you see her?"

Miss Hayesworth…Gemma Hayesworth. Of course—he'd glimpsed her throughout the evening, flanking Lady Kenway most of the time. She was willowy, a bit older than other girls in their second season, but no doubt beautiful, with curly dark hair and—

He froze. Could it be? Had it been Miss Hayesworth in the garden?

The young woman who had taken his handkerchief was slight, just as willowy as Miss Hayesworth, with the same curly hair that clung to her tear-stained cheeks. His heart jolted as he remembered the thrill that had surged through him when her hand brushed his. Her recitation of the constellations…

"Ah—yes. I did make her acquaintance."

"I expect her aunt has put her back on the marriage mart?"

"It would seem" Dalton managed in a casual tone.

***

Lady Philippa Kenway has taken a country dweller under her wing. Will Miss Gemma Hayesworth secure a husband this season? Or will she return to her burrow a spinster?

Gemma reread the scandal sheet several times, her heartbeat thudding heavily in her throat. Just as she began to read it for the fifth time, Aunt Philippa, who she had not even noticed enter the room, plucked the sheet from her hands and ripped it into several shreds before discarding it in the fireplace. "It would be most advisable to refrain from reading these rags," she sighed, patting her hair into place. "You shall only grieve yourself should you continue to do so."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Gemma murmured. But her eyes pricked as her mind replayed the exact words she'd read on the sheet.

"I have dwelt in London for many years, and if there is one thing that I've learned, it is that people will always crave gossip, something to gasp about. But you must learn to take no heed to any of it. Or else, you shall drive yourself mad."

Gemma gulped but nodded. "Yes, Aunt Philippa."

Her mind returned to Lord Blakemore though, she'd tossed and turned all night thinking about him, about his gentle kindness with her in the garden, and how that flew in the face of Aunt Philippa's evident distaste for him. He'd known the constellations Cepheus and Cassiopeia, and perhaps he too enjoyed astronomy like she did. She scrambled off the settee and begged for pardon from her aunt, that she meant to take a walk in the garden.

Once outside in the fresh morning air, she darted back down the row of bowers to where she'd paused last night in the throes of apprehension, trying to compose herself desperately. And then, Lord Blakemore had emerged from the shadows, if only for a moment. But in her pocket she'd tucked his handkerchief, and now, in the shadow of the rose arbor, she pulled it out and unfolded it in her palm to stare down at the delicately embroidered initials of D.B.