Page 9 of Her Notorious Rake
Chapter 4
Dalton Blakemore breathed a prayer of thanks when he found the terrace, and neighboring garden empty, not a soul in sight.
He hurried down the steps into a tunnel lined by bowers and pergolas that overlooked the nearby pond, fishing in his pocket for his pipe. He needed a smoke, needed to breathe. If he stayed one more moment in that crowded room, full of apoplectic social climbers, he might very well go mad. With a grimace, he at last came to a pause in a bower where the scent of roses hung heavy in the air. The cool spring air against his face was a balm, and he managed to inhale and exhale. He’d been out too late last night. Drank too much.
His stomach still roiled and balked at the thought of food. He stuck his pipe between his lips, holding it there as he pulled out a tinderbox to help light it up.
“You’re going to drive yourself to an early grave, Blakemore.”Theodore’s voice echoed through his head.
He grimaced as he lit his pipe, the golden spark blazing vibrantly in the dim garden. Dalton took several draws before exhaling a cloud of smoke through his teeth. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, Theodore was right. It seemed as though each time he went out nowadays, he suffered more than he used to the morning after. As if his body was attempting to give protest. He was weaker these days, always angry it seemed. Always wanting to drive his fist into somebody, anybody.
And last night, he finally had. He had not attended one in years, but someone at a party had invited him—who, he couldn’t remember. But it had been a relieving endeavor, somehow, to expend himself not on wine or girls but on driving his fists inround after round until he was slammed into the floor.
His chin was still rather tender, but perhaps he would attend another. Uncle had been most displeased to see his bruised face this morning. Although he ought to be grateful for those fights. It meant that Dalton wasn’t driving a fist intohisface.
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Guilt pricked inside him as he thought of Celeste, his distant cousin, who he had all but abandoned inside. Uncle Ernest would be most indignant.
A soft tearful voice reached him from nearby, and he waved away some of the pipe smoke, listening closely. “Lyra…Vega…Orion…Andromeda…Cepheus…Cassiopeia…”
The voice paused, and then he heard a watery sigh. The voice began to recite the names again.Constellations. He’d recognize those names anywhere. Father had instilled in him a love for the stars since his boyhood.
Without thinking, he spoke aloud when the voice paused at Andromeda. “Cepheus and Cassiopeia,” he supplied, and stepped around the edge of the bower to see a young woman standing there against the wall of roses, her face glistening in the dim lantern lighting.
She gasped and drew back when she turned and saw him, her delicate face blanching.
Without even thinking, he reached into his chest-pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He held it out to her, holding his breath. Her eyes were big, wet, her lips pink, forming a small “o” as she stared at his offered handkerchief for a moment. And at last, she reached out, taking it from him with a soft, shaky breath. When her fingers brushed his hand, a shiver coursed through Dalton, causing his mind to blank. He hastily stepped back, clearing his throat.
He studied her, trying to place her despite the fog hanging thickly over his head. But it was far too dark.
Her doe-like eyes, golden in the dim light, gave him a senseof virginal innocence, and—he ought to take leave. It would not do to taint her reputation, lingering out in this dark garden without a chaperone. But a desire surged within him sharply, like molten gold in the depths of his stomach. He took another step back, before pivoting on his heel and striding deeper into the garden. The last thing he wanted or needed was to be thrust into a hasty marriage.
***
Gemma slipped back inside the ballroom, her legs still shaking. But her little fit of nerves had ended abruptly when that kind gentleman had appeared and offered his handkerchief. He’d dissolved into the dark garden before she could speak a word to him, attempt to converse, and in retrospect, it was perhaps for the best. But she could still see the delineations of angular, almost hawkish features, piercing eyes beneath dark brows.
Gemma’s heartbeat thudded faster as the memory of his fingers grazing her wrist sent shivers through her.
She began to scan the room for a glimpse of him, hoping that somehow, she’d recognize the man from the garden.
Aunt Philippa descended on her before she could. “Where have you been?” Aunt Philippa whispered tautly.
“I—I just needed some fresh air.”
“Fresh air? There is much to be done this evening. Come!”
Gemma let her aunt draw her along towards a cluster of people near thegrand hearth that roared merrily, dispelling the early spring chill.
The night droned on for what must have been two hours, full of dancing and chatter, small-talk mostly involving this season’s concerts and upcoming parties. She learned that one singular case of good fortune had made its rapid rounds through London gossip, regarding a certain beauty of the Ton, who, in the firstweek, received three proposals of marriage.
“Three,” Lady Mary Reid huffed, shaking her head. She was younger than Gemma, but this would be her second season out. Her curls bounced against her flushed cheeks. Her blue eyes flashed. “Can you believe that?”
“And her parents are intolerably pleased, as you can imagine,” added Miss Clara Gable beside Prudence. She scoffed under her breath. “They’d regale every soul in England with the news if they could.”
A titter rippled through the circle.
“Well, I daresay. Their eldest daughter is an inveterate spinster,” retorted Miss Olivia Benson. More laughter.
The wordspinstermade Gemma wince. Mother had called her this on more than one occasion—at twenty-two, she could hardly be considered ripe for the marriage mart. No, if she were to continue with the analogy, she’d liken herself to a withering flower on the vine.
