Page 7 of Her Notorious Rake
Gemma took a deep breath to center herself. She couldn’t let herself think about that.
“Is something amiss, my dear? You look pale.” Aunt Philippa whispered, before transforming her tone abruptly to greet a young man, “A pleasure to see you, Viscount Standridge. Permit me to introduce my niece, Gemma Hayesworth.”
Gemma just barely remembered in time that she was meant to curtsey.
Viscount Standridge bowed low over her hand, and she didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over her. Oh yes, she distinctly remembered despising it when men did that during her debut season.
She offered him a pasted-on smile as the viscount moved on, and Aunt Philippa leaned close to her, whispering, “He makes eightthousandpounds per year.”
Gemma tried to maintain her smile. Eight-thousand pounds or not, he possessed a countenance she did not admire.
Gemma spent what must have been an eternity greeting strangers, trying to remember names, trying to come up with some excuse to return to her bedchamber, to fetch something—anything, really. To powder her nose, perhaps? Or re-apply color to her lips?
She was just about to sink into the crowd, after the last introduction, when her aunt touched her arm. “Oh, come now. I must introduce you to a dear friend of mine. Lord Colin Neville.”
Gemma turned to stare up into an older gentleman’s brown eyes, which crinkled in a soft smile.
“Lord Neville, my long-lost niece, Gemma Hayesworth. She’s been hiding away in the country.”
“Ah yes, the humble little country dweller.” Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of his eyes as his smile broadened. At his temples, she noted touches of gray hair, indicating that he must be well over twenty years her senior. Perhaps even older than Aunt Philippa.
“Oh, Lord Neville,” Aunt Philippa chortled, fluttering her fan. “Do not jest.”
Gemma’s face heated at the man’s rather odd remark. She tried to smile, dipping in a small curtsey.
“It appears that the merrymaking has begun,” Lord Neville murmured as the ensemble started to play. He turned to Gemma, and bowed again. “Might I have the honour of this dance, Miss Hayesworth?”
Gemma glanced at Aunt Philippa, who gave a small nod, as if hissing, “Do accept his invitation.” She could only imagine Aunt Philippa’s expression should she attempt to refuse.
“It would be an honour.” She curtsied again, and took Lord Neville’s proffered hand, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. She crossed the shiny floor to assume her place in the rowof women waiting for the dance to begin.
“It is my understanding, Miss Hayesworth, that you have entered London society once before?”
“Ah—yes. Well over four years ago.”
“It is a shame about your father. Permit me to extend my sincerest regrets. Your father was an estimable man.”
“Thank you,” Gemma’s throat closed. She attempted to change the subject. “What is it that you enjoy as leisure, Lord Neville?”
“I thoroughly enjoy a good ride, or a walk about Hyde Park.”
The dancing began, and Gemma tried to remember the steps she’d been relearning over the past few days. Aunt Philippa had been kind enough to bring in a dancing instructor, but the instructor had been wildly exasperated by Gemma’s lack of grace while dancing.
She moved forward, focusing on the placement of each foot, and as she circled with Lord Neville, her hand in his, she held her breath, hoping she didn’t trip. So distracted was she by the art of dancing that she didn’t hear a word her partner spoke until he addressed her, in an uncertain tone. “Miss Hayesworth?”
Gemma flinched. “Oh, yes.” She could do one of two things: pretend as if she’d heard him, or simply ask him to reiterate. “How lovely.”
“Lovely?” Lord Neville’s pale eyebrows drew together and Gemma’s stomach dropped.
“Forgive me,” Gemma was thankful for the opportunity to turn away from him, sure that her face had gone beet red.
He offered her a slight smile when she circled back to face him.One step forward, two steps forward, three steps forward…and back.
“Ah,” he let out a soft chuckle, something like dismay tugging at his features. “I see that I am boring you. Droning on and on…” he managed a polite smile when she drew close to himagain. “Forgive me.”
“No, no—forgive me,” Gemma blurted. “I truly did not design to ignore you or disregard our conversation. It is merely—I mean—” her face burned hotter until it might have outshone the candelabra hanging high above their heads.
“Never mind,” Lord Neville grasped her hand, leading her forwards in the dance procession. “Let us turn to other more diverting subjects. How have you found London this season? Your aunt tells me she means to take you to a concert promptly.”
