Page 23 of Her Notorious Rake
He had not yet seen her, and nor would he, Gemma told herself sternly. She centered her attention instead on the stage, its curtains still drawn. Lord Neville plied her about her plans for the rest of the week, and she tried to recall every event Aunt Phillippa had mentioned lately, trying to make it seem as if she would be most busy. Perhaps it would deter him.
“And yourself, Lord Neville?” Aunt Philippa said when she had finished, her expression one of barely veiled exasperation.
His reply faded into the back of her mind as she tried to listen to the soft music played by the orchestra. But her eyes kept stealing in the direction of the box across. Lord Blakemore was seated beside his cousin, and she was gesturing to the orchestra, telling him something, which he politely leaned over to hear. He replied, and she threw back her head, laughing. The sound rang like a bell through the air.
“Why, she would adore it! Wouldn’t she?” Aunt Philippa’s voice cut into her thoughts.
Gemma turned quickly. “Ah, forgive me. I did not happen to hear.”
Behind Lord Neville, her aunt gave her head a shake, making no attempt to hide a glance of chagrin towards Gemma.
“There is a new exhibition at the Pall Mall, that I think you would take great pleasure in. I should be most honoured if you were to accompany me, Miss Hayesworth.” He watched her eagerly, awaiting her answer. “Ah—why—” she stopped, her aunt bobbing her head up and down behind Lord Neville.
With an inward sigh, Gemma smiled and nodded. “I should like that.”
“Excellent,” Lord Neville breathed.
The theater rapidly filled until at last footmen emerged, dimming the lights everywhere, and the music swelled. And once the curtains drew back, the opera beginning, Gemma was treated to Lord Neville’s attentive, whispered explanations throughout, scarcely permitting her to hear most of the actual singing.
And here, Aunt Philippa seemed to take mercy on her, observing that Gemma strained to hear the opera to no avail, and took liberty to divert Lord Neville’s attention, asking him questions of her own about the performance, to which he eagerly supplied answers.
Gemma lifted her eyes slowly, and nearly started to find herself meeting the gaze of Lord Blakemore from his shadowy box. His expression was unreadable at first, but when he realized she’d noticed him, his mouth tilted again, and Gemma was half-inclined to wonder if it was a smile he reserved for her and her alone.Silly thought, Gemma,she rebuked herself. But it seemed almost like a secret he was sharing with her, intended for her and her alone.Is this why he is deemed a rake?
But another warring thought occurred to her.Perhaps he is merely indulging you, the country dweller? Amusing himself at your expense.
Gemma straightened, withdrawing her gaze from his, and returned her attention to the performance. Her lungs would not work properly, and she found it difficult to draw breath, to steady her whirling mind. A strange, autonomous response that she could not make sense of. And yet, she knew it was diametrically opposed to the mild revulsion that filled her at the thought of Vicar Jennings or Lord Neville beside her.
She would not let herself look back towards Lord Blakemorefor the rest of the performance. She resolved against it, her breath tripping in her throat, her hands clasped so tight in her lap that her bones ached. She felt rather too warm, flushed, and considered exiting to catch some fresh air. Instead, she trained her attention upon the current singer, her voice ringing out through the theater with such majesty that thrilled Gemma to the core. She closed her eyes, focusing on the rich, soprano tones that the Countess Rosina Almaviva effortlessly trilled to her husband across the stage.
Gemma watched Earl Almaviva chase a servant girl across the stage, and wondered if any girl who married a rake like Lord Blakemore would endure such a life. A life with a husband who chased other girls outside of matrimony.
Chapter 11
Dalton’s gaze continued to wander over to Gemma for the rest of the first part ofMarriage of Figaro.Celeste leaned over and murmured, “I find the singer’s performance to far exceed any praise given her in the papers. Do you find it the same?”
“Indeed,” Dalton nodded, forcing his attention back to his cousin beside him, angling herself towards him, fluttering her long eyelashes at him. He gave her a smile. “Indeed I do.”
Celeste followed his glance, and her expression shifted subtly. He read exasperation. “She comports herself as though she has not been to an opera yet, doesn’t she?”
Irritation pricked in Dalton’s chest but he didn’t let his smile waver. “She is, after all, freshly arrived from Derbyshire, is she not?”
“But of course. I merely meant to say that her fascination with the performance is rather…droll.” Celeste’s let out a soft, grating laugh.
He didn’t reply, catching his breath as he tried not to let his glance stray again in Gemma’s direction. But it proved difficult. She stood out in the theater, her rapt gaze fixed upon the players on stage, her eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parted. Beside her sat Lord Neville, the musty but kindly gentleman Dalton had watched Theodore best in fencing the other day. He kept leaning in towards Gemma, whispering sweet nothings to her, and Dalton’s stomach turned, indignation stirring low in his stomach.
It was clear to him that Gemma did not much care for her companion, that she would rather him not speak a word to her and leave her be. But of course, Neville did not notice. How could one so well-bred be at the same time so utterly dense?
“I’ve heard that Lady Kenway is intent upon making a match between Gemma and Lord Neville. And he hardly seems opposed, does he not? Most arrested by the little country dweller.” Celeste smirked.
Dalton bit his tongue before he could rebuke Celeste for using that ridiculous name from the scandal sheets. Instead, he cast her a hard look that made her wither in the chair beside him, letting out a nervous laugh and fluttering her fan again more vigorously.
Once again, the night before, he had avoided the billiard rooms and clubs that he had frequented only until recently. But ever since he had met Gemma, his taste for such repast had languished away, and he couldn’t find any true enjoyment as he once had. Instead, he walked and walked. He’d spent himself walking earlier that day in Hyde Park, walked until his legs protested. And then retired to the fencing courts to burn away the last traces of his energy. Tonight, it was a wonder his legs supported him yet, with the intensive exercise habits he had begun to adopt.
Gemma’s delicate profile was turned towards the stage, her eyes glistening during the particularly heartfelt aria performed by the aggrieved countess, watching her husband pursue a maid. That was one thing Dalton respected in his late father, his devotion to Mother. He had shown Dalton that fidelity within marriage was utterly critical, that a man should only have eyes for his wife. Of course, if one could ever find love. And love was not exactly a luxury Dalton could afford himself. At least, he’d believed so. Now, he wasn’t so sure. And of course, he scarcely knew the girl. But he yearned to know her more, and as of yet he had not experienced such a longing for any young woman. Ever since his father’s death, he had contented himself with brief liaisons that would never last, eager to fill that void.
And what did he have to show for it? A gaping emptinessthat would not be filled, not even by the prettiest, most charming courtesan.
At last, the intermission began, and Dalton rose, excusing himself from the booth. He needed a good smoke to soothe his roiling turmoil of emotions.
