Page 15 of Her Notorious Rake
Dalton dipped his chin in a slight nod, studying her delicate profile, olive skin sun-kissed by too much time outdoors without a bonnet or parasol. The faintest scattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose which he found charming in the extreme.
“My father instilled in me a fondness of the stars,” Gemma continued, with a soft, rather nervous laugh.
Something in him wrenched at her mention of her father. He understood the gutting pain of losing one’s father and watching one’s world crumble as a result. Dalton suspected that his younger self would hardly recognize the person he’d become since.
What would Gemma think if she were to learn of his own passion for the stars?
The meal passed in a blur before the orchestra began to play again and people began to swarm into the adjoining hall, where dancing would begin.
As he and Mother rose, so did Miss Hayesworth, and an idea sparked in Dalton’s head. “Miss Hayesworth,” he turned to her, catching his breath. “Might I have the pleasure of a dance with you?”
Gemma’s eyes widened and she nodded. “It would be an honour, my Lord.” She dipped in a brusque curtsy, and Mother’s eyes pierced into Dalton.
But she stepped back, and when he did manage a glance in her direction, her mouth was curved in an amused smile.
Dalton held out his arm to Gemma and his pulse quickened when her hand slid over his arm, her touch burning through the fabric of his coat. The dance began and they circled one another, her gaze locking with his again, the warmth of her hand in his sending heat flooding through him. He scolded himself, reminding himself to focus on the dance, to say something.
“So your father instructed you in astronomy. Did you ever use a telescope?”
Her cheeks darkened again, and she pulled her gaze from his once more. “We used to own one.”
“But no longer?”
She gave her head a small shake. “Alas, no. But I will read anything I can about astronomy.”
A shiver ran down Dalton’s spine. He had never met anyone with a matching singular interest in the stars like himself. He took in a deep breath, circling with her again, so close that she had to tilt her chin to look him in the eye. “And you knew the constellations by heart. You spoke the names to me that night.”
Dalton couldn’t help but smile. “Indeed. I have always possessed an interest in that subject.”
Gemma’s lips curved. “Then do you mean to become aGrand Amateur of astronomy?”
“Why—perhaps I should,” Dalton chuckled. “It would be a pleasant diversion.”
Gemma’s expression turned almost dreamy. “Perhaps you shall become this season’s William Herschel.”
Dalton’s heart missed a beat. “Herschel is a fellow I deeply admire. His work advanced Astronomical study by leaps and bounds.”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t mean that!” she cried. “I have always held him in great esteem.” She let out a laugh.
The dance ended, and Dalton blinked, startled that the time had rushed by. He couldn’t recall ever enjoying a dance as he did today.
Gemma curtsied and he bowed, but as she straightened, their eyes locked again and something deep inside him ached. He reminded himself to release her hand, and bid her a good day, before turning on his heel and hastening to the far side of the room. He needed some fresh air.
Chapter 7
Gemma floated off the dance floor, hardly noticing where she walked. Her mind kept replaying those moments she’d rotated within inches of Lord Blakemore, his heated stare, his mouth open as he danced with her. Even his touch had sent comet-like sparks through her, and her head spun as she walked towards Prudence near the refreshment table. Before she could reach her friend, however, Aunt Philippa intercepted her, dragging her towards a quieter alcove.
“Aunt Philippa!” Gemma gasped in surprise. “Is something amiss?”
“I must beg you, my dear, to take heed to what I’m about to say. I understand how perfectly natural it is to be enchanted by a man like Lord Blakemore. But as I advised you the other night, Lord Blakemore is a…” and here her aunt glanced around, her eyes wide, before she lowered her voice even more, “…he is arake.And I cannot stand by and let you, my dear niece, fall prey to his wiles. You would do well to guard yourself, to not only protect your heart but your repute as well. You have a promising season ahead of you, with your name,andyour beauty to recommend you. But should you attach yourself to Blakemore, well…”
Aunt Philippa sighed heavily, shaking her head. “It would be a great pity, that is all I mean to say.”
Gemma took in a shaky breath. Aunt Philippa would know more about Blakemore and London gossip than she could even begin to comprehend. More than ever, mortification flooded her, a hot tide that left her almost sick to her stomach, her head reeling too fast. Lord Blakemore was a puzzle—no, more than a puzzle. He was like some blurry and indistinct star she caughtin the sights of her telescope, who she couldn’t quite bring into focus. There was the rake he was supposed to be, according to Aunt Philippa. But then, there was the quiet man who danced with her, a deep sadness behind those eyes that piqued her curiosity.
“Yes, Aunt Philippa,” she whispered, setting her jaw. She was in no position to argue her aunt’s view on Lord Blakemore. She’d only met him twice.
It was unwise to think in such a manner of a man she’d only just met. But more than ever, she wanted to learn more about him.
