Page 53 of Her Notorious Rake
“Then, not all is lost!”
“No, it isn’t.” But why did it seem like it? Why had a pit opened up inside her, a sinking sense of desolation that reminded her of the day Papa died?
As if she’d lost something so much greater than she could ever comprehend. Something that she’d think about years from now, the sting still as sharp as ever.
“Lord Neville is a much better man, is he not? He cares for you very much, I think?” Prudence whispered, letting Gemma lean an aching head against her shoulder.
Gemma could do nothing but nod, stomach sinking. “He has been most kind to me,” she managed, her voice trembling.
“He would be a much better husband than Lord Blakemore, I daresay,” Aunt Philippa declared, as she entered the bedroom just then.
Gemma chewed her lip, staring at the floor. She couldn’t speak.
“It no longer matters,” she whispered. “I just want to go home.”
“Home!” Aunt Philippa echoed, paling. “Why, now that you are freed of the spell that man has cast on you, you are freed to let yourself be courted by Lord Neville.”
Gemma shot to her feet. “I don’t wish to be courted by him, or anyone,” she informed her aunt, voice trembling. “I don’t. I just wish to return to Willow Grove. To Mama.”
Aunt Philippa closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Gemma--”
“I am forever indebted to you, Aunt, for your generosity,your benevolence. But I don’t wish to be a burden on you any longer. I will not be a burden to you any longer.”
Aunt Philippa marched across the room, grasping Gemma by the shoulders. “You are so close to receiving a proposal from Lord Neville, I can fairly taste it. Why would you dispose of such an opportunity now?”
“Mama wishes for me to wed a Vicar Jennings, and—”
“If you were to wed Lord Neville, he would humor your every whim. You could publish papers in the Royal Society, if you liked. He would coddle you so. You would not be fated to a tedious life in the country.”
“Perhaps it is for the best.” Gemma blinked away the stinging sensation in her eyes, letting out a deep breath. She called for Rose, who waited in the hall throughout this conversation. “I should like to pack my things.”
***
It began to rain as Dalton mounted the slope in the cemetery to his family’s mausoleum. Climbing the slippery stone steps, he entered the dark room, and stood in silence, staring down at the name carved into the wall where Father had been laid to rest.
Here lies Viscount Blakemore...
He drew in a deep breath, wiping away the dripping strands of hair clinging to his forehead, and traced his fingertips over the letters.If only you could still be here, Father. Everything would be different. Mother would be joyful again. Uncle Ernest would not be here...and I might be a better man.
He might catch his death out here, but what did it matter? Dalton reached into his pocket and drew out a flask, taking a long draught from it and letting the liquid burn a hot trail down his throat into his stomach. He lifted it in a silent cheer to his father’s grave. The late viscount did not believe in drinking and had been somewhat of a moralist. He lived by a set of strict ethicswhich Dalton had always admired.
But then again, Father never had to watch his mother sink into a melancholic mire, never had to face the abrupt death of his own father...never had to endure the schemes and machinations of someone like Ernest Blakemore.
He had not lost the woman of his dreams.
Dalton closed his eyes, and swallowed yet another draught, and another. When he at last set out for home, he barely knew where he was any longer. He clutched his walking cane, intent on fending off any accosters or brigands who might see his attire and deem him a worthy target.
When he at last reached home, Celeste met him at the door, her cheeks pale, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of him. “Dalton,” she whispered, grasping at his arm, but he wrenched away.
“Haven’t you done enough?” he choked.
“Dalton, please—”
“Leave me be, I beg you.” He tore past, up the stairs, until he found his way into his bedroom. But he didn’t remember reaching the bed. Instead, his face pressed on the plush carpet, and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 24
Gemma’s throat closed as she scanned the latest scandal sheets, just released mere hours before. She’d found Aunt Philippa’s copy on the breakfast table in the drawing room, and her knees buckled as she read the front page, centered upon the happenings at Lord and Lady Neville’s soiree.
