Chapter 9

The Italian soprano's voice floated through the room, so beautiful that Gemma's eyes pricked with tears. When she turned her head, her eyes met Lord Blakemore's, where he sat across the room with his mother, uncle, and distant cousin. He pulled his gaze from hers momentarily, before his gaze flickered back, his eyebrows lifting subtly.

Her face warming, Gemma ducked her head, fighting a smile of her own. Mama would be ever so jealous right now. That Gemma enjoyed a performance by a true Italian opera singer, her warbling voice dulcet and causing gooseflesh to erupt on Gemma's skin.

At last, the performance ended, and Gemma and Aunt Philippa rose. The intercession began, and guests visited the tables laden with sweets and fruit, an orchestra playing faint music.

Prudence bustled over to Gemma, and at an approving nod from Aunt Philippa, Gemma and Prudence crossed the room to the refreshments.

Gemma's chest squeezed when she glimpsed Lord Blakemore through the crowd, his mother holding one arm, his cousin Celeste grasping the other.

But whispering pulled her attention from the young bachelor. Bits and pieces of a conversation seamed themselves together, and Gemma's mouth went dry as the words sank in. Their voices lifted, and Blakemore, drifting closer with his mother and cousin, could clearly hear as well. Most in Gemma's proximity could discern the young ladies behind her tittering and murmuring about her lineage, how Aunt Philippa regarded her as a charming little companion, a mere plaything for the Season.

Gemma's stomach twisted, and Prudence grasped her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Lord Blakemore extricated himself from his mother and cousin and strode over to where Prudence and Gemma stood, sipping punch. Oh, he's coming over, Gemma's stomach began to flutter. Lord Blakemore bowed to both Prudence and her.

"I pray you are well, Miss Hayesworth?"

"Oh, y-yes." Gemma's cheeks burned. "I am in excellent health and spirits."

"Lord Blakemore." The whispering girls behind Gemma approached, fluttering their fans. One of them, a fair-haired beauty of London, daughter of a wealthy aristocrat, paused beside Gemma. She let out an airy laugh and she adopted a teasing tone as she addressed Lord Blakemore. "I profess myself astonished to see you here this evening." Her gaze darted to Gemma, and when it did, her mouth tightened. Gemma didn't know where to look. "I hardly imagined you delighted in…opera."

"It all depends on the company—that chiefly determines my pleasure in an opera, Miss Elderidge."

"Ah," Miss Elderidge tilted her head, her smile freezing. She cast her friends an exasperated look. And then she seemed to recover herself, addressing Gemma again. "Have you ever attended a musicale, Miss Hayesworth?"

"I confess that I have not," Gemma gave her a cordial smile. "At least, not in several years."

"Oh? And shall we fault your…place of residence for that?" Miss Elderidge's mouth twitched into a smirk that plucked at a cord inside Gemma.

She nearly bristled but calmed herself in time. And returned the smile. "I suppose that is fair."

Miss Elderidge's expression froze, though she managed a cool laugh.

"I imagine there are advantages to a residence in the country. A chance to cultivate a love for the natural sciences. The sky is more easily perceived outside of the city, I have found." Dalton met Gemma's curious look. "I take rather too much leisure time stargazing at my family's country estate."

Miss Elderidge let out an airy laugh. "Stargazing, Lord Blakemore?" She angled her body directly towards him, as if to exclude Gemma from the entire conversation.

But instead of replying directly to her, Lord Blakemore locked eyes with Gemma. "Do you commiserate with me, Miss Hayesworth?"

Gemma's heart stuttered. She couldn't help but grin. "I'm afraid that should I answer that question, I would expose myself as a stargazing zealot."

Lord Blakemore's mouth twitched, and his eyes darkened. "A zealot?" he murmured, his voice lilting with humor.

Miss Elderidge huffed, lowering her fan. Exasperation tightened her delicate features. "Ah—I must beg you to excuse me, Lord Blakemore. Lady Seymour is beckoning me now. Good evening," she dipped in a brusque curtsey, and Lord Blakemore scarcely afforded her a bow before she and the other girls she'd been whispering with swept off across the room.

Gemma was compelled to tilt her head to look Lord Blakemore in the eye, and the butterflies in her belly stirred. She resisted the urge to fidget with her gloves. His gaze was piercing, intent. Almost…concerned? Had he intended to come to her rescue just now? Was that his plan?

"Are you finding enjoyment in the music?" he inquired softly, before she could think of something else to say. Before she could manage to thank him.

"I am," she nodded. "It's almost unearthly. Like the voice of an angel, I'd imagine."

Lord Blakemore tilted his head slightly, as if studying her. As if he found her singular. She said as much, and this earned a low chuckle from him.

"Would that be a misfortune?"

"I—I don't know," Gemma blurted. Mama would deem it one, surely. She was always scolding Gemma for her whimsical comments, for saying things that she was certain a respectable man might find…odd. Well, Gemma had come to accept long ago that she was odd. She read too much, for one thing—Mama said that a great deal as well. And she wasn't wrong.

But never had a man given her that look, like he found her the most fascinating person in the universe.

"Perhaps there is a want for…singular individuals in society," he murmured. "I've certainly found that to be the case."

"As have I," Gemma laughed softly.

An announcement was made, signaling the end of the refreshment interlude. Gemma dipped in a curtsey, but before she turned, Lord Blakemore offered her another one of those smiles, those smiles that made her weak in the knees. She returned to her seat beside Aunt Philippa, and her aunt shot her a severe look. Gemma fought a grin, assuming her aunt's posture, the prim way she folded her hands in her lap and did not fidget with her gloves.

It was astonishing that Aunt Philippa had not yet insisted she be sent off to a finishing school like Prudence.

She stole a look in Lord Blakemore's direction, and when her eyes landed on his, he turned his head. Her mouth went dry, and she centered her attention back on the Italian singer, trilling the most exquisite songs. The dim room filled once again with her song, and Gemma closed her eyes to take it in.

To be able to sing with such angelic perfection would be wonderful. Gemma sang, of course, all around Willow Grove. On her walks, as she tended to the garden. As she cooked and cleaned about the cottage. Mamma always declared it a pity she'd never received formal tutoring in the art of singing. The song reached its crescendo, but the shiver running down Gemma's spine was not from the aria. Lord Blakemore stared from his place across the aisle, that curious expression back on his face—the same one he'd worn when she had compared the singing to the voice of an angel.

***

The singer's voice faded into the background as Dalton's eyes continued to stray towards Gemma, her profile cutting a delicate silhouette against the candlelight. His mouth was dry, his body restless, as he tried to draw his attention back time and again to the performance. But he was thankful when it ended, and he escorted his mother back to the refreshment table, seeing to it that she ate enough to sustain herself.

One of his mother's friends, an older woman, approached them and began to converse with them, and Dalton hastily bowed out to take a moment, to catch a breath. He needed to clear his head, and another walk should do the trick. It had the other night after the Venetian breakfast. Something about Gemma sent his head reeling, his pulse skipping too fast, and he could scarcely understand it.

"Cousin," a young woman's voice caused him to turn, and there stood Celeste, a glass in her hand, a strange smile curving her mouth.

He bowed. "How do you fare this evening?"

"Most excellently," Celeste murmured, advancing closer until she was rather too close for Dalton's taste. He could smell the wine on her breath.

"How do you find the marriage mart this season?" he asked, in an effort to break the strange silence between them.

Celeste tilted her head, lowering her eyes as if to feign shyness. "Oh, it is tolerable. There are a great many fine men in London this year."

For the last day or two, Celeste had taken great care to linger in his presence, to engage in coy banter that he prayed stemmed from mere familial attachment. Although, before this they had spoken but a handful of times despite living in the same home. He pretended not to mind, but it rather alarmed him, that Celeste should endeavor to flirt with him. He did not see her in any light other than familial, and he did not care to rebuff her severely. Instead, he hoped she would receive the message that he did not wish to form any sort of romantic inclination betwixt the two of them.

"Tolerable," he echoed, taking a sip of his drink. "Only tolerable?"

Celeste let out an airy laugh that was nothing but artificial. The sound plucked at Dalton's nerves. "Is that unjust of me to say?"

"Perhaps you merely have yet to meet the ideal suitor?" he inquired politely.

"Perhaps. Or, perhaps, by chance, I have." Celeste's blue eyes flashed into his, almost challenging. Dalton decided that he had best take leave of this conversation before it went further. This had gone in a decidedly discomfiting direction, and he needed to consider the meaning behind Celeste's words. Though he wasn't sure if he truly wanted to. What had provoked her coquettish demeanor? Surely he had not done something to mislead her?

As he turned to walk away, his eyes landed on Uncle Ernest skulking in the corner with several gentlemen, some of them members of parliament. Uncle Ernest's mouth tilted in a smile that brought Dalton to a halt. What does he have up his sleeve?

He found the terrace, just off the concert hall where the performance had been held. It overlooked a small garden, but in Dalton's estimation, any refuge from the machinations of his uncle or his flirtatious cousin was welcome. Tonight, however, he did not withdraw his pipe from his coat pocket.

He merely sipped at his drink, recalling how his walk the other night had refreshed him more than a wanton night at a gentleman's club ever could. And he kept his gaze trained on the constellation Orion, just barely visible through the clouds overhead. They glistened like tiny jewels in the sky. What is Gemma's favorite constellation? He wandered over to one of the windows in a dark portion of the terrace, and paused their, peering inside for a glimpse of Gemma. Something about her calmed him, drew him like gravity rooted him to the earth. But a glance gave him no sign of Gemma within. Had she already departed with her aunt?

The creak of a door opening alerted him, and he retreated to the shadowy corner of the terrace, watching from there as Gemma Hayesworth, the object of his fascination, hurried out onto the terrace as well, tightening the scarf around her shoulders with gloved fingers, the evening breeze tossing tendrils of her hair about her face.

He should alert her to his presence, but something brought him up short. Perhaps it was the way she tilted her head back to observe the sky, just as he had done moments before. Or the soft sigh that escaped her lips as she looked.

Return inside, Blakemore. For she is unchaperoned.

But he could not compel himself to move.

***

Gemma let out a gasp when she heard a scraping sound behind her, that of boots scraping the ground. Turning, she caught her breath at the sight of a tall, angular figure, immediately recognizable. Lord Blakemore. Gemma's heart lurched, and perhaps she should be worried about finding herself alone, without a chaperone, in his presence. Though of course, this wouldn't be the first time.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to impose upon--"

But Lord Blakemore lifted his hand, brushing away her apology as he joined her at the balcony, though he maintained a polite distance from her. "Are you too seeking refuge?" he inquired, a sardonic smile tilting his mouth.

Gemma bit her lip, planting her hands on the balustrade in front of her, more as a means of grounding herself. "I confess I am. Sometimes I think the best way to listen to such music is to do so while observing the stars above us." She hesitated for a moment before asking, "Who taught you the stars, Lord Blakemore?"

Lord Blakemore's chest rose and fell as with a sharp intake of breath, and he turned his gaze from hers, as if attempting to conceal his expression. "My father passed onto me his penchant for stargazing."

He didn't look at her still, his jaw tightening.

"It would seem that both of our fathers bestowed us with their astronomical inclinations," she murmured.

Lord Blakemore did not reply, but his eyes widened as her words seemed to sink in, his lips parting as if he meant to speak. Gemma caught her breath, wondering if she had been presumptuous to align herself with him in such a way, despite their shared love of the stars. Fine work, Gemma, she told herself severely.

And then, Lord Blakemore's lips curved into a smile, with this wry edge that Gemma recognized. He employed that smile often, she'd noticed. "I ought to take leave. It would be most untoward of us to linger out here. Unchaperoned," and he glanced about meaningfully, causing a flush to rise up Gemma's neck. Yes, she had misspoken, grievously. And it was a pity, as she had come to fancy his company—she enjoyed his conversation.

There was no denying that he was different from every other man she had met thus far in London. Within him lay a sea of complexities, ones which at times seemed to contradict the other. She truly did not know how to reconcile the whispers of his caddish ways with the somber, pensive man standing beside her.

She dipped her head in a nod. "Lord Blakemore, if I spoke too boldly--"

He wagged his head, and her heart lurched when his eyes wandered down, ever so fleeting to her lips, before darting away. "Not in the least, Miss Hayesworth. I beg you not to trouble yourself over it. Now, if you will excuse me..."

Gemma dug her fingers into the stone balustrade she'd leaned upon, watching as he strode back inside. Heart sinking, she frowned to herself. But I must have been presumptuous. What an utterly bewildering man.