Page 14 of Her Notorious Rake
She and Prudence exchanged looks and peered as best they could to catch a glimpse of the tall, solemn-faced Viscount Blakemore, on his arm an older woman garbed in black silk. She was pale and slightly built, her mouth as severe as her son’s, her features pointed and angular like his as well.
Gemma glanced at Prudence, wondering if she ought to tell her what had happened the other night in the garden. But it was so inconsequential, and she doubted her aunt would be pleased to hear her bandying about that she’d been alone with a man ina dark garden.
It could scar her reputation, and with the scandal rags talking about her as it was, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to say a word. Not that Prudence would go and gossip, but one could never be too sure in a city like London.
She twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt, inhaling sharply when the viscount turned his head, and his eyes met hers. Time stood still, the voices around her fading into the ether as the music reached a euphoric height.
Gemma couldn’t breathe.
And then, the moment passed, and he strode forward at his mother’s side, leading her towards the host and hostess, Lord and Lady Dunne, for a greeting.
The room remained quiet as they spoke, Lady Dunne’s exclamation ringing about the room like a silver bell, “It is a true honour to receive you this morning, Lady Blakemore.”
“’This is the viscount’s melancholic mother,” Prudence whispered to Gemma. “It is an astonishment to see her in society today. She rarely leaves her home these days.”
Gemma’s eyebrows lifted, still reeling from that moment she’d locked eyes with the viscount.
“Why is she melancholic?” she whispered back to her friend.
“Ever since her husband passed, Lady Blakemore has suffered terrible bouts of low spirits and poor nerves. The physicians have tried everything, but she has not shown improvement. Until as of late I suppose.”
Behind Viscount Blakemore and his mother walked an elderly man, rather stooped and wearing a wig, and on his arm, a fair young woman. The Viscount’s uncle and distant cousin. They had attended Aunt Philippa’s ball honoring Gemma.
Lady Dunne announced to the room that breakfast would commence, and everyone began to find seats at the long tables set up in the adjacent dining hall.
The seating was pre-arranged, and Gemma found her place soon enough, thankfully just diagonal to Prudence and Aunt Philippa was seated further down the table. At least she would not be alone, stranded amongst utter strangers. The footmen drew out the chairs for the guests and Gemma lowered herself down, praying she did not somehow make a fool of herself, drop food, or accidentally clatter her fork on the plate. Mother had once declared her perhaps the clumsiest girl in England.
The chair beside her screeched as it was pulled out, and she turned to see Viscount Blakemore lowering himself into the chair beside her. A footman helped him ease himself closer to the table.
Heat flooded Gemma’s cheeks as he looked up into her eyes, his lips parting almost in surprise.
Or perhaps, she was simply imagining things.
He gave her a slight smile, as beside him, his mother took her own seat, her profile strikingly similar to her son’s.
Gemma stared down at her plate, her heart thudding in her ears.
The breakfast began, footmen carrying platters from those heavily-laden tables and serving them to each guest. Gemma wondered if she’d be able to eat much, her stomach once again becoming a tangle of knots.
“Miss Hayesworth.” His deep voice was but a murmur, yet he was close enough—mere inches from her. Gemma steadied herself and turned to him. He was truly speaking to her? Did he recollect meeting her in the garden? Or did he even know it had been her?
“Viscount Blakemore,” Gemma replied, offering a smile.
Dalton gestured to Mother. “Permit me to introduce my mother, Lady Adelaide Blakemore. I’m afraid she was not in attendance the night of your aunt’s ball.”
“Good day, Miss Hayesworth,” Mother smiled at the young woman. “It is a pleasure to have you back in London this year. How do you find it after being away?”
Gemma flushed, her large eyes a bewitching shade of hazel. “I have missed it, my lady.”
Dalton resisted the urge to reach up and tug at his cravat—it constricted his throat, somewhat. Or had the room just grown warmer?
A footman moved forward, serving each of them a plateful of delicious food. But it was not from excess the previous evening that had subdued Dalton’s appetite at the present moment.
The young woman beside him proved utterly distracting.
She began to nibble on a little piece of cake, and Dalton pulled his gaze back to his plate. When Mother became occupied in conversation with the guests across the table, he spoke to the young woman beside him. “I confess Miss Hayesworth, that I was privy to your recitation of the constellations. The night of your aunt’s ball.”
He heard Gemma inhale softly and he at last lifted his eyes to her. “Did you?” she murmured.
