Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (18 page)

“But…”

Richard eyed the man expectantly.
Do not say it. Do not mention your betrothal to Miss Gemma Reed and all the joyous festivities that would commence following that pronouncement.
“What is it?” He curled his fingers into tight balls.

“I just thought…” Westfield shook his head once. “I just thought you might have more of a reason to stay.”

He did. It was, ironically, also the reason he had to leave.

Then, Richard had long excelled in running. With the exception of horse breeding, it was the one thing he’d done with a remarkable ease. His feet twitched with the need to make a midnight retreat. But when he’d arrived at the duke’s country party, he’d promised to meet Westfield about acquiring a Friesian. His stomach muscles knotted. Richard would be forced to sit across from the other man and talk about a bloody mare for his sister, casually discussing business transactions and details about the mount when all the while Gemma remained the unspoken, but forever-divisive, wedge between them.

Westfield searched his gaze over his face. He looked as though he wished to say something but simply said, “You are certain you need to leave?”

“I do.” At the reproachful look, a frisson of guilt went through him. When Richard had been invisible to the other boys at Eton because of his less than lofty status and his odd tendency to run on about everything horses, Westfield had been steadfast—in his friendship, in his loyalty. When Richard had mourned Eloise’s marriage to first a powerful earl, and then later to Lucien, Westfield had kept company with his miserable self, allowing him to get soused. For that loyalty, Richard owed the other man
some
explanation. “There is other business I have to attend,” he said quietly. After all, what more important chore was there than maintaining one’s sanity?

“Ah, yes.
Business
.” When stated in that faintly disapproving way, it was as though the other man did, indeed, see. See that Richard was a miserable bastard who’d covet the lady his best friend would one day soon marry. “Before you depart for home, do you still intend to meet with me to discuss the mount for Beatrice?”

Richard swallowed down a black curse. There was a probing glint in the man’s eyes. What was home, exactly? It was no longer the place he’d grown up as a boy, running through the hills with his brother and Eloise. It was not this place he’d found an equal comfort in during his earlier years.

It was a person. And that person would belong to another. Nay, she’d belong to Westfield. Jealousy, knifelike and jagged, slivered away at his insides, chipping away all warmth.

“Of course,” he said tightly. “On the morn, then?” He sketched a bow and made to leave when Westfield held up a staying hand. Gritting his teeth, he forced his features into a smooth mask, braced again for that revelation that would knock Richard’s feet out from under him.

“I understand you were hurt by Eloise’s marriage to Lucien.”

Eloise? Richard blinked slowly. Of all the words he’d expected, mention of Eloise had assuredly not been the ones. Gentlemen partook in drinks and overindulged in spirits to silently lament the breaking of a man’s heart, they did not, however, speak candidly on it.

“You always deserved a lady who wanted only you. And I believe if you but look before you, you’ll find that woman.” Westfield cast a glance in the opposite direction he’d just traveled. The library.

I did.
Bitterness crept into his thoughts.

“Eloise was never that woman,” the other man said matter-of-factly. “In time, I expect you’ll realize that.” With that, Westfield took his leave.

I already have.

And as the marquess disappeared around the hall, Richard quietly entered his rooms and closed the door with a soft click. On wooden legs, he wandered over to the edge of the bed and sank onto the edge of the mattress. With a ragged groan, Richard buried his head in his hands—and damned the day Gemma Reed had stepped into his riding path.

H
e hadn’t come.

With the hum of silence thunderous in her guest chambers, Gemma glared at the bedroom door.

Last evening, for the request she’d put to Richard and his pledge to come, he had never shown. She’d sat there so long thinking at first he’d been waylaid. And then when the minutes continued ticking by and turned over the first hour, she’d convinced herself that she’d forgotten to mention the specific room where he might find her. With that, she’d sat in guilt, imagining him opening door after countless door in the duke’s palatial country estate.

And then somewhere when the sun had crept above the horizon a painfully bright crimson and red orb, she’d forced herself to acknowledge the truth.

Richard wasn’t coming.

There had been no mistake or misunderstanding. There had been nothing more than a man who’d not cared as deeply as Gemma herself to even merit honoring that meeting.

For the better part of the morning, she’d been consumed with a nauseating sadness. Until she’d promptly rationalized her way through her reaction to find she’d only allowed herself to become one of those morose, pining ladies. One could say what one would about Gemma; ugly, odd, eccentric, but one would never dare call her a pining lady.

A knock sounded at the door and she welcomed the interruption. It provided a diversion from the tumult of emotion swirling in her chest. Gemma jumped to her feet and sailed across the room in a whir of noisy skirts and pulled the door open.

Beatrice froze mid-knock, unblinking like an owl.

“Beatrice.”

The greeting sprung her friend into movement and she swept inside, closing the door shut with a firm click. Suspicion glinting in her eyes, her friend spoke without preamble. “You left the ball early last evening.”

Of course, the same friend who’d loyally stood at her side through infernal gathering after gathering would notice Gemma’s conspicuous absence. Her mind raced. “I developed a headache.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. She’d been riddled with bothersome thoughts of a certain horse breeder since he’d broken his promise.

She recoiled as Beatrice leaned close and peered into her eyes. “And you were not at breakfast.”

“I was not hungry.” That was at least the truth.

The young lady said nothing for a while, but rather scrutinized Gemma until she shifted on her feet. Then… “My brother intends to ride to the lake this morning.”

At one time, that information would have mattered. No longer. Gemma slid her gaze away. For the friendship between them, Beatrice deserved the truth. “I cannot marry your brother.”

Her friend tipped her head. “But you love him,” she blurted. Gemma opened her mouth to speak when the other young lady spoke in a flurry. “Oh, I understand he is a dunderhead most of the time who does not always see what is right before him.” She began to pace a small path in front of Gemma. “He is hopelessly obstinate and not always romantic.” The agitated pace sent a perfect, golden curl falling over her brow. “Oh, very well,” she muttered and then blew at the strand. “Not at all romantic.”

Gemma took her friend by the shoulders and stopped her frenetic movement. “Your brother will someday be romantic, but I suspect only with the lady who earns his heart.” She gave her a gentle smile. “I however, am not that woman.”

Beatrice’s lips formed a small moue. She opened and closed her mouth several times and then said, “You do not love him.” The same wonder of the astronomers who’d discovered the sun was, in fact, the center of the universe lined her words.

“I do not love him,” she confirmed.

At that concession, Beatrice’s shoulders sank. “But you were going to marry him and live happily ever after, and we were to have been sisters and—”

“And I do not need to wed Lord Westfield to call you sister.” Gemma gave her shoulders a slight squeeze. Their friendship had been borne of a close bond of two ladies who both desired more—from life and love. Who Gemma wed had no bearing on that kindred connection.

A look passed between them and then some of the disappointment receded from her friend’s eyes. “Very well,” she said in a perfunctory manner. Then a grin turned her lips. “Who is the gentleman who’s earned your heart?”

Of course, given that friendship, Beatrice would never be content with that telling and, yet, vague revelation. At the prolonged silence, four lines creased the other woman’s brow. Gemma sighed and stepped away. “Richard…Mr. Jonas,” she said at last.

Fluttering her hand to her lips, Beatrice covered her mouth with her palm. “
Mr
. Jonas?”

As Gemma did not quite know what to make of the consternation in that two-word inquiry, she wandered away, walking to the window. With restless fingers, she drew the curtain back and stared out at the cloudless summer sky. Where was he even now? She did a sweep of the rolling green pastures, squinting off into the distance. She looked toward the invisible to the eye copse that marked that special place shared by she and Richard. “Mr. Jonas,” she murmured, more to herself.

In the crystal windowpane, Beatrice slid into focus. “I did not know that you…” The young lady cleared her throat and then pressed ahead. “…
knew
Mr. Jonas.”

Releasing the curtain, Gemma turned, and as Beatrice deserved the whole of it, she recounted all of her meetings with Richard. When she’d finished, a wistful smile danced on her friend’s lips, because where Gemma had forever been the clear-headed one, Beatrice had been the romantic. Oh, Society did not know, nor suspect that the regal duke’s daughter held onto the dream of love, but Gemma knew, and that whimsical trait was never more obvious in this moment.

Then, Beatrice’s smile dipped. “He is leaving.”

Of course their time here would end and by his failure to meet last night, the end had been signaled sooner than later. Still, even with that, pain squeezed like a vise about her heart. How dare he? How dare he enter her life and upend her world and leave without so much as a by your leave? Gemma curled her hands into hard fists and welcomed the comforting fury thrumming through her veins, the sentiment far safer than the gripping pain.

Beatrice touched her shoulder and Gemma stiffened. “I saw him riding earlier with his fishing equipment.” The
ton
saw nothing more than a proper English lady in Beatrice. The actuality was, not unlike Gemma, she’d long perfected the art of escape from their notice.

She narrowed her eyes. Fishing equipment. He’d gone off
fishing
? The lout. “Did you?”

“He was alone.” Those words hung meaningfully in the silence.

He was alone. That meant if Gemma was so inclined, she could seek him out. Where she’d sought him out yesterday evening for altogether different purposes, now her feet twitched with the urge to sprint off, find Richard, and… The fight drained from her body and out the soles of her slippers. And what? Berate him for not wanting her with the same desperate regard that she wanted him?

She dragged her palm over her forehead.

The other woman nodded.

Gemma wanted to send Richard to the devil for his perfidy, but more, she wanted to see him—and share everything she carried in her heart.

A slow smile spread on Beatrice’s cheeks. “That is better. You may borrow one of my mounts.”

“I do not require a mount,” she graciously declined.

So it was, not for the first time since she’d arrived at the Duke of Somerset’s house party, Gemma found herself slipping off without the benefit of a chaperone. The sun beat down on her neck, warming her face. She would return with reddened skin and a freckled nose and to a furious diatribe from her mother. Adjusting the burden in her arms, she made the same familiar trek across the duke’s property, trudging along. However, braving her mother’s wrath would, indeed, be worth this final exchange. With each step, the clean, summer air filled her lungs and she contemplated what she’d say to Richard Jonas. She gritted her teeth.

Never showed, had he? Ignored her request? Nay, pledged to meet, and never came. Where was the honor? Those were not the actions of the gentleman she’d come to love. And it only increased the healthy fury rolling through her.

Where anything as undignified as perspiring had been sternly forbidden, Gemma had welcomed the invigorating cleansing that came with exercise. It was purifying and had the power to blot out the muddied and muddled thoughts.

She reached the copse and came to a slow stop, only to be proven a liar, once again, in life. She wasn’t calm and she wasn’t composed. She was hurt and furious. Only, she had no right being upset with Richard for caring, nay, loving another. She hated herself for not having the ability to love someone who “saw her”, as her brother had so aptly said.

All perceived attempt at equanimity and control lifted. Standing there, on the outside of Richard’s sanctuary, her palms grew moist. She picked her way through the densely wooded area, scanning for a hint of him. And then came to a stop.

With a smooth, fluid movement, Richard cast his reel into the lake.

A sweat-dampened lock fell over her eye and she shoved it behind her ear. Oh, the lout. Only a man could be so composed as to fish when a woman stood embroiled in a maelstrom of emotion. Gemma withdrew an arrow and loaded her archer’s bow. She let the arrow fly into the trunk of the tree beside Richard.

A curse escaped him and the pole slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. In one fluid movement, he spun to face her.

“You, sir, are a liar.” Her chest heaved from the force of her emotion.

“What did you say?” He looked at her through thick lashes. At his infuriating calm, she shifted her archery equipment over to her other arm and jabbed a finger in his direction.

“I. Said. You. Are. A. Bloody. Liar.” Which wasn’t quite true. After all, she’d merely called him a liar. With each word, she took a step closer. “You, Mr. Jonas, promised to meet me.” He retreated a step. “You were not there.” He continued backing up. “Do you know how long I waited for you?”

Richard gave his head a brusque shake.

“Until the sun came up, Mr. Jonas.” With his heels at the back of the lake, she stopped, and stuck her finger in his chest. Then promptly winced. Must he have a chest made of sheer stone? It only added to her healthy anger. “I waited and you never came. You don’t promise to meet a lady and then never show.” She hated the faint quiver to her words, but hated more the softening in his eyes. “Nor do I want your pity.”