Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

L ucian ignored the stares and whispers directed his way the moment he stepped into the Monroes’ ballroom. When the butler announced his name, a collective gasp went up around the room. All pairs of eyes were on him now as he slowly descended the marble staircase to the lower level of the room where most partygoers were gathered. So much for being discreet.

He made a show of smiling and nodding to anyone who welcomed him back. He went from group to group, shaking hands and exchanging small talk, but all the while his gaze impatiently darted about the large room. Where was Gemma?

He’d been at the blasted ball for the better part of an hour before Lord Tidwell, who was obviously deep in his cups, had the temerity to blurt out, “I should think you’d want a word with your duchess, Grovemont. I believe she’s out on the balcony with Pembroke at the moment.”

Lucian’s head snapped up. He just so happened to be standing at the far side of the ballroom next to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Monroes’ verandah. He slowly turned his head to look out the window. Two figures were there, standing outside against the balustrade. A man and a woman. The dark-haired woman was wearing a bright-turquoise gown. Her head thrown back, she was laughing uproariously. The man was down on one knee, holding her hand.

Lucian’s jaw clamped tight. Was he to believe that his wife was out there alone with a man who appeared to be…proposing marriage? After the stories he’d heard at the club, he didn’t doubt it.

“Yes, there she is. With Pembroke,” Tidwell verified, pointing to the couple and slapping Lucian on the back. “They’re thick as thieves.”

Lucian didn’t wait to hear more. Without so much as excusing himself to the group, he turned on one heel and stalked toward the French doors.

A collective hush fell over the ballroom.

Gemma was laughing so hard she thought her sides might burst. Pembroke had become one of her closest friends over the last year, and he’d escorted her out onto the Monroes’ balcony tonight when she’d mentioned that the ballroom was too hot. Now he was on one knee, drunkenly pretending to propose to her with a large pink peony that he’d somehow procured from a nearby bush.

Pembroke had asked for Gemma’s help in ensuring that his proposal, when it came time to make one to the lady of his choosing, would be adequate. Gemma, of course, had happily obliged, and Pembroke was even now practicing.

“My dearest, Lady Gemma,” he said, bending over her hand with an exaggerated swagger. “Will you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The next thing Gemma knew, Pembroke was flying across the balustrade. He landed on the grass below in a tangled heap. And her husband , of all surprising people, was standing in front of her looking like an angry god. His face was dark, clouded with fury, and his nostrils were flaring. Otherwise, he looked annoyingly fit and tanned. A state that made his blue eyes even more arresting.

“She’s already married,” Grovemont spat down to Pembroke without so much as looking at him.

Pembroke jumped up and scrambled away into the darkness, muttering, “Quite right.”

Gemma turned to face her husband. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, careful to keep the long-practiced indifference on her face.

So, he was back? And he’d seen fit to arrive here tonight? It was probably no more than a coincidence. She doubted he’d known she was here. He wouldn’t cross a roadway to greet her. But it was no matter. The Monroes’ verandah was as good a place as any to have this long-awaited discussion.

Her husband was about to find out that she was no longer the uncertain little bride he’d abandoned fifteen months ago. And she would enjoy letting him know it. “Pembroke was only jesting,” she insisted, giving Grovemont a false, tight smile.

“He’s not amusing,” Grovemont shot back.

Gemma narrowed her eyes on him. She let her gaze wander from his head to his feet, sizing him up. He wore straight black boots, tight buckskin breeches, a white shirt and cravat, and a cobalt waistcoat that matched his eyes. He was not dressed for a ball. That was interesting. Why had he come?

Unfortunately, in addition to being muscled, fit, and tanned, he was still as devastatingly handsome as he’d always been. Months in another land hadn’t changed his sharp jaw, perfect nose, and hooded blue eyes that could tempt a saint. Now he looked as if he’d added muscle, and with his darker skin, he looked more like a dangerous pirate than an English aristocrat. Fine. He was exceedingly handsome. Too bad his disposition ruined the effect.

“I found Pembroke quite amusing,” she replied, arms still tightly crossed.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone with a man,” Grovemont ground out.

“Come all the way back from India, did you, to tell me as much?” she asked brightly, blinking at him. “You could have saved yourself the trouble and merely written to me.” She touched a fingertip to her chin. “Oh, wait. That was too much for you, wasn’t it?” She tapped her fingertip along her jaw as if she’d just thought of it.

He narrowed his eyes on her. “We’re going home.”

He turned on his heel, apparently expecting her to follow.

Ha .

Gemma moved her hands to her hips and stood with arms akimbo. “You may go home if you wish, but I’m staying here.”

He stopped immediately, and when his head snapped back to face her, surprise flared in his eyes.

Good. She wasn’t through surprising him. Not in the least.

“I said we’re going home,” he repeated. “ Now .”

“And I said I’m staying here.” She tilted her head and pasted the most indifferent smile to her face. The same indifferent smile she’d practiced in the looking glass, so she knew it was good. “You don’t tell me what to do any more, Your Grace.” With that, she picked up her skirts and flounced past him toward the French doors.