Page 20 of Her Notorious Rake
“Oh, y-yes.” Gemma’s cheeks burned. “I am in excellent health and spirits.”
“Lord Blakemore.” The whispering girls behind Gemma approached, fluttering their fans. One of them, a fair-haired beauty of London, daughter of a wealthy aristocrat, paused beside Gemma. She let out an airy laugh and she adopted a teasing tone as she addressed Lord Blakemore. “I profess myself astonished to see you here this evening.” Her gaze darted to Gemma, and when it did, her mouth tightened. Gemma didn’t know where to look. “I hardly imagined you delighted in…opera.”
“It all depends on the company—that chiefly determines my pleasure in an opera, Miss Elderidge.”
“Ah,” Miss Elderidge tilted her head, her smile freezing. She cast her friends an exasperated look. And then she seemed to recover herself, addressing Gemma again. “Have you ever attended a musicale, Miss Hayesworth?”
“I confess that I have not,” Gemma gave her a cordial smile. “At least, not in several years.”
“Oh? And shall we fault your…place of residence for that?” Miss Elderidge’s mouth twitched into a smirk that plucked at a cord inside Gemma.
She nearly bristled but calmed herself in time. And returned the smile. “I suppose that is fair.”
Miss Elderidge’s expression froze, though she managed acool laugh.
“I imagine there are advantages to a residence in the country. A chance to cultivate a love for the natural sciences. The sky is more easily perceived outside of the city, I have found.” Dalton met Gemma’s curious look. “I take rather too much leisure time stargazing at my family’s country estate.”
Miss Elderidge let out an airy laugh. “Stargazing, Lord Blakemore?” She angled her body directly towards him, as if to exclude Gemma from the entire conversation.
But instead of replying directly to her, Lord Blakemore locked eyes with Gemma. “Do you commiserate with me, Miss Hayesworth?”
Gemma’s heart stuttered. She couldn’t help but grin. “I’m afraid that should I answer that question, I would expose myself as a stargazing zealot.”
Lord Blakemore’s mouth twitched, and his eyes darkened. “A zealot?” he murmured, his voice lilting with humor.
Miss Elderidge huffed, lowering her fan. Exasperation tightened her delicate features. “Ah—I must beg you to excuse me, Lord Blakemore. Lady Seymour is beckoning me now. Good evening,” she dipped in a brusque curtsey, and Lord Blakemore scarcely afforded her a bow before she and the other girls she’d been whispering with swept off across the room.
Gemma was compelled to tilt her head to look Lord Blakemore in the eye, and the butterflies in her belly stirred. She resisted the urge to fidget with her gloves. His gaze was piercing, intent. Almost…concerned? Had he intended to come to her rescue just now? Was that his plan?
“Are you finding enjoyment in the music?” he inquired softly, before she could think of something else to say. Before she could manage to thank him.
“I am,” she nodded. “It’s almost unearthly. Like the voice of an angel, I’d imagine.”
Lord Blakemore tilted his head slightly, as if studying her. As if he found her singular. She said as much, and this earned a low chuckle from him.
“Would that be a misfortune?”
“I—I don’t know,” Gemma blurted. Mama would deem it one, surely. She was always scolding Gemma for her whimsical comments, for saying things that she was certain a respectable man might find…odd. Well, Gemma had come to accept long ago that she was odd. She read too much, for one thing—Mama said that a great deal as well. And she wasn’t wrong.
But never had a man given her that look, like he found her the most fascinating person in the universe.
“Perhaps there is a want for…singular individuals in society,” he murmured. “I’ve certainly found that to be the case.”
“As have I,” Gemma laughed softly.
An announcement was made, signaling the end of the refreshment interlude. Gemma dipped in a curtsey, but before she turned, Lord Blakemore offered her another one of those smiles, those smiles that made her weak in the knees. She returned to her seat beside Aunt Philippa, and her aunt shot her a severe look. Gemma fought a grin, assuming her aunt’s posture, the prim way she folded her hands in her lap and didnotfidget with her gloves.
It was astonishing that Aunt Philippa had not yet insisted she be sent off to a finishing school like Prudence.
She stole a look in Lord Blakemore’s direction, and when her eyes landed on his, he turned his head. Her mouth went dry, and she centered her attention back on the Italian singer, trilling the most exquisite songs. The dim room filled once again with her song, and Gemma closed her eyes to take it in.
To be able to sing with such angelic perfection would be wonderful. Gemma sang, of course, all around Willow Grove. On her walks, as she tended to the garden. As she cookedand cleaned about the cottage. Mamma always declared it a pity she’d never received formal tutoring in the art of singing. The song reached its crescendo, but the shiver running down Gemma’s spine was not from the aria. Lord Blakemore stared from his place across the aisle, that curious expression back on his face—the same one he’d worn when she had compared the singing to the voice of an angel.
***
The singer’s voice faded into the background as Dalton’s eyes continued to stray towards Gemma, her profile cutting a delicate silhouette against the candlelight. His mouth was dry, his body restless, as he tried to draw his attention back time and again to the performance. But he was thankful when it ended, and he escorted his mother back to the refreshment table, seeing to it that she ate enough to sustain herself.
One of his mother's friends, an older woman, approached them and began to converse with them, and Dalton hastily bowed out to take a moment, to catch a breath. He needed to clear his head, and another walk should do the trick. It had the other night after the Venetian breakfast. Something about Gemma sent his head reeling, his pulse skipping too fast, and he could scarcely understand it.
