Page 16 of Her Notorious Rake
“Understood, love?” Aunt Philippa asked in a soft but steely undertone.
Gemma dipped her chin in a brief nod. “Yes, Aunt Philippa,” she whispered.
“Very good.” Aunt Philippa patted her cheek. “Now, let us go and try some of that delicious French pasty they’re serving tonight. Lady Dunne isardentabout French food.”
Gemma trailed after her, joined by Prudence who leaned over and whispered, “You danced with Lord Blakemore? Have you heard what he’s called?”
Check to see that her aunt was occupied, Gemma and Prudence drifted to one of the big windows, affording themselves a bit more privacy.
“He is the rake of the Ton, of course,” Prudence whispered urgently. “Half the girls in London swoon over him.”
“Does he ever swoon over anyone?”
“Not that I know of. Presumably, he possesses a heart of ice. He leads ever so many girls into thinking he will court them, and yet he never does. What did the two of you speak of during the dance?”
“Astronomy,” she murmured.
“Astronomy? Do you mean, the study of the stars?”
“Yes.”
“Why should you and he speak of that?” Prudence furrowed her porcelain forehead, tilting her head.
“He knows about William Herschel.”
“Who?”
“Oh,” Gemma shook herself from her daze. “Nothing.”
“I just implore you to take care.”
Gemma smiled at her new friend. “And for that I truly thank you, Prudence.”
***
Dalton welcomed the cool air against his skin as he walked down the grassy bank to stare at the water. It sparkled in the moonlight, almost mesmerizing. But not enough so that he forgot about Gemma Hayesworth. He couldn’t remember experiencing this sort of mad, fluttering sensation bursting to life in his stomach. And he certainly couldn’t as of yet remember meeting a young woman who knew of William Herschel. Herschel was of course a popular member of the astrological community. But Dalton hardly expected the girl hailing from deep in the country to know much about such things.
He took a drag of his pipe, exhaling the smoke into the chilly air of the spring night. His own frosted breath melded with the smoke, rising up into the sky. It drew his attention to the stars there, only partially visible tonight. He tugged at his cravat, hoping to ease the tightness there. Despite the cool air, he was still sweating under his coat. Why, he couldn’t be certain.
Grimacing, he lowered onto the grass, sitting on his coattails as he listened to the nightingales singing in the trees and hedges all around.
He eased out a shaky breath and placed the pipe back in his mouth for more of the soothing haze. Maybe he ought to leave early. Join his friends for a night carousing. It had been a weeksince his last time—something of a record for him these days.
Perhaps this was his body’s way of protesting that. Theodore could say what he liked. The chap was something of a prude—always had been. Even in their school days.
But his mother wasn’t abed most days, letting her melancholy drain what was left of her health away. His father had not died under strange and disturbing circumstances. So he couldn’t possibly understand Dalton’s need for such diversion. It simply confounded Theodore, and that explained why he spoke of it in such a condemning manner.
Of course, Daltonusedto be a prude as well, once upon a time. But as the years passed since his father’s death, he’d watched Mother plunge deeper and deeper into that despair and wondered how soon he would lose his only remaining parent. One night—he couldn’t recall exactly when, but he’d had one drink too many, and before he knew it, he’d been careening, lost and drifting.
He lowered his head into his clammy palm. He centered his attention on taking deep breaths and letting them out. That night—it still eluded him how it had all happened, but he must have been out of his senses. He just knew that he craved the numbness it brought him.
Gemma’s voice echoed through his head.This season’s William Herschel. This, with her eyes sparkling in the candelabra remained in his thoughts. Pink lips curved into a smile that wrenched him. Something so guileless andgoodin her eyes that he wanted to cry out. Untouched by man or life…
Dalton rose to his feet, flexing his hand at the memory of her fingers twining with his, before returning inside, to pay the required pleasantries to the hosts. His legs ached for a good walk. These days he walked some, but mostly rode—by horseback or carriage. He just needed to stretch his legs, maybe. If he so happened to end up at a place he should not, then so beit.
He needed to forget about Gemma Hayesworth. That was for certain. He tossed out the ashes remaining in his pipe and pocketed it, stamping the glowing sparks on the ground.
He trudged up the slope, pausing for a moment on the terrace to peer inside the room at the glowing faces, searching for a glimpse of that one face…
