Page 17 of Her Notorious Rake
There.
His breath hitched, and he stepped forward. Through the sheen of gossamer curtains that hung over the windows, he watched Gemma laughing as she wove in and out of the other dancers, her eyes crinkled up, her hair clinging to her forehead in little delicate tendrils. Something about her…he felt himself drawn to her like a bee to honey.
He slipped inside, remaining along the edge of the room. He picked up a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray and took a long sip. His stomach knotted strangely as he watched Gemma get passed from one partner to the next, each one making it no secret that they found her alluring. Who wouldn’t, Dalton asked himself.
She was a newcomer amidst the seasoned circles of society, wholly unaccustomed to the intricacies and intrigues that awaited her and he feared they’d tear her to pieces with their gossip, their superficiality, their artifice. Why, they would taint her with it, stain her with their disparaging looks.
London could make even the most glorious hot-house flower wither. He took another sip of his drink, unable to tear his eyes from the girl, hazel eyes flashing into his. The rest of the room faded in that moment, a hazy backdrop against which they alone stood in sharp relief. The only thing he could think to do was tip his chin, lifting his glass in a tacit toast meant for her and her alone.
Her eyes remained locked with his, something in her gazethat stirred him. He managed a shaky smile, inhaling sharply.Forget Gemma Hayesworth? He could only hope it was possible.
When Gemma finished the reel, he slipped through the crowd, intercepting her before someone else could pull her into the next dance. For a moment, her eyes widened with surprise. And then a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped face.
“Lord Blakemore,” she let out a breathless laugh, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure of another dance?”
“I hoped to learn what else you knew of William Herschel. I confess myself rather astonished that you’ve heard of him.”
“Pray, why is that?” Gemma tilted her head as she passed him in the next dance, a minuet.
Dalton drew in a deep breath, circling round with her in the complicated steps. She performed them all nearly to perfection, with a fumble now and again. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, for a moment caught up in centering her attention on the steps. He fought a smile.
When he circled back to her side again, he replied. “My intrigue is owed to the fact that it is uncommon to meet a lady such as yourself…with a singular passion for the stars.”
“A lady such as myself?” her dark eyebrows rose. Good Lord, he was fumbling at this. Which was even more disturbing. What was it about her that left him so…discomposed? So at a loss? He could feel himself flushing.
“I mean—” he stammered. “I mean to say—” they parted again for several agonizing moments, Gemma’s brow furrowed, a thoughtful smile curving her lips. When she returned before him, he tried again. “I have been in London nearly my entire life. And only once or twice, I have come into acquaintance with only one or two members of the fairer sex who took such a…particular interest in astronomy. At least, of those I encountered whovisited the salons. And I must confess, they were many years my senior, and their husbands had been scholars in the field. So, I can imagine that is from whence their interest commences.”
“Or perhaps, they truly delight in the study of the stars. That is too a possibility, is it not, Lord Blakemore?”
“Of course,” Dalton allowed. His face had to be crimson at this point.
She shifted the direction of the conversation then, to his relief, inquiring after the Royal Society salons around the city, most often held at Somerset House.
“You ought to attend. If you take pleasure in the study of astronomy, you will find a number of scholars who frequent Somerset House. I must warn you, however. They are eager to secure a patron for their studies. They may attempt to waylay you.”
“I shall have to keep that in mind,” Gemma replied, circling back around to take his hand. He led her forward, and then backwards, as the music floated around them softly. He knew the steps by heart, affording him the opportunity to watch Gemma dance, her laughter contagious as she misstepped once or twice.
Before he knew it, the dance was over. Two dances in one night. Usually, he avoided parties like these if he could help it. With Mother out of society these days, except for lately, he kept his distance from this part of London social life. He preferred the philosophical salons, the gentlemen’s clubs, or the fencing courts. He was hardly the same person he had been several years ago. Until Gemma had arrived in town, the world had been colorless, intolerably tedious. And now…
It had become a sparkling thing once again.
Chapter 8
Ernest Blakemore held up his looking glass, watching his nephew lead this season’s country dweller off the floor. He’d chuckled over that bit in the scandal sheets not too long ago, but he had not realized that this giddy little bumpkin had arrested his nephew so extraordinarily.
So, that was what had rendered Dalton so distracted the last few days. Surely he didn’t intend to court her? But this was the first time inmonthshe’d seen Dalton at a party like this, much less engaging in a dance with your run-of-the-mill inept person on the marriage mart.
And of course, it should happennowthat Celeste was freshly returned from finishing school. Ernest’s hand tightened around the glass of port he’d been sipping throughout the evening. Well, should he even be surprised? Dalton was a habitual hedonist.
The most ludicrous thing? Adelaide was utterly blind to it. Of course, she could never see her son as anything but the duplicate of her husband. Dear, dead brother. Always such a dreamer, hardly capable of running an estate. Father had made such a grave mistake, entrusting it to him rather than Ernest.
Turning his head, Ernest surveyed the room, searching for a glimpse of his sister-in-law, and of course, Celeste. Adelaide sat at one of the tables, engaged in lively conversation. And Celeste, the sweet girl was proving to be a disappointment. However polished finishing school made her, it could never transform her vapid personality. She was speaking with several other young women, not even attempting to dance with any of the dozens of eligible bachelors flooding this season’s marriage mart. He nearly sighed aloud. Not even golden curls and a fair face could offset a bland temperament.
Not a whit like her mother—both a beauty and a shrewd, remarkable woman. Ernest pulled his mind in another direction, though. He did not need to be distracted. Not by Sophie.
He wondered if Dalton would slip out shortly after, go on another of his late-night sprees. Instead, his nephew lingered, his gaze following Gemma Hayesworth about the room.
He joined Ernest, Adelaide, and Celeste in the carriage once the party finished, taking a seat beside his mother.
