Page 24 of Her Notorious Rake
Keep your distance from the girl, Blakemore.
However, when he returned outside after taking a few draws of his pipe, he stopped short, finding Gemma, her aunt, and Neville, caught up in conversation with Duke Ashton and his wife, the Duchess. Dalton was drawn to Gemma like a bee to a flower, and as if by instinct, moved towards her, positioning himself in the group directly behind her, so that he and she stood back to back.
Turning his head, he peered at her, and as the rest of her group carried on their conversation, he addressed her. “You seem enraptured by the performance, Miss Hayesworth.”
He watched her start and turn, mouth falling open as she stared up at him out of the corner of her eye. “Indeed. It has been too long since my last opera. I’ve been dreaming of attending one for the last few years since quitting the city.”
“Ah? Dreaming of it? And pray tell, what else do you dream of?”
Color rose into those sun-kissed cheeks, her lashes lowering. “I possess an abundance of dreams, which I could scarcely confess even to my own mother, much less to—” her cheeks flushed a deeper hue, and a startled laugh escaped her lips. She raised her chin, as though in defiance. “You cannot reasonably expect me to acknowledge such a tender matter without first being afforded the same degree of candour from you.”
“A reasonable consideration,” Dalton allowed, fighting a smile and failing. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “My dreams are vast, I confess, and perhaps specious in some respects. And I am indebted to you for reminding me of one.”
Her back stiffened, as if with a sharp intake of breath.
She turned further, fully meeting his glance now. Her pink lips curved, a mixture of confusion and amusement playing across her features, as well as something else entirely—something that set alight a strange fluttering in his stomach. His head spun.
“And which one is that?” she breathed, soft enough for only him to hear.
“If you recall mentioning William Herschel—”
“Cousin!”
Dalton paused turning to see Celeste and Uncle Ernest pressing through the crowd until they’d reached him. As Uncle Ernest graciously greeted the rest of the group, Celeste bustled alongside Dalton, slipping her arm in his again. “We began to fret about you. You’ve been gone from the box ever so long,” she beamed sweetly. Saccharine sweet, Dalton decided. That was one word to describe Celeste, with her gold-spun hair, large, wet blue eyes and cupid’s bow lips. He had half a mind to draw from her grasp, but noted Uncle Ernest’s glare just before he did. He gave his uncle the most derisive smile he could manage before paying his excuses to the group, and more quietly to Gemma. Then, he led Celeste back towards their box, Uncle Ernest trailing behind. “Your mother is unattended,” he huffed scathingly, shooting Dalton a hard glare. “You’ve spent near the entire intermission apart from your own party.”
“I needed some air,” Dalton retorted.
“And you needed to shamelessly flirt with Lady Kenway’s impecunious niece,” muttered Uncle Ernest.
Dalton clenched his jaw, temper flaring. “I must insist, uncle, that you refrain from such injunctions.”
Uncle Ernest scoffed. “I speak merely out of concern for your mother. She was anxious about your whereabouts to such a degree that we were compelled to set out and find you.”
Dalton ignored him, hurrying on ahead, Celeste clinging to his arm. If his uncle was so worried about Mother, he shouldn’t have left her alone. But Uncle Ernest seemed eager to keep a close eye on him, and that realization rankled in Dalton’s chest. He took his seat, and Celeste hers, and she continued to encroach upon his space, pointing out one of the stagehands struggling to pull a sandbag behind the curtain high into the rafters.
***
Gemma was thankful for a moment alone when Lord Neville excused himself to pay respects to an elderly Viscountess, bedecked in an array of glimmering jewels and pearls, the very picture of refinement. She extended a hand, eyes half-shut, and he nearly fell on his face in his eagerness to bow low, extraordinarily low, pressing his lips to her hand. It would be comedic if she was not endeavoring to make sense of Lord Blakemore, their moment of congress whilst trying to engage in two separate conversations. Though of course, everything else faded away whenever he spoke to her. It was something that happened all too frequently when in his company.
But now that Lord Blakemore had gone, fetched by Celeste who gazed up at him with evident admiration, Gemma tried to catch her breath. Tried to make sense of the warring impressions rising to the forefront of her mind. She did not have much time to think, for Aunt Philippa grabbed her arm, so tight that Gemma winced, and hurried her into a quiet alcove under the stairs.
Aunt Philippa’s blue eyes flashed—yes, she was very vexed. “I am doing everything in my power to maintain my patience. But at every opportunity, you gravitate towards that Lord Blakemore, despite my caveats.”
Gemma’s eyes stung. She despised the thought ofdisappointing or upsetting her aunt, who had been so generous to her thus far. But she ought to know, Gemma had always balked against others attempting to arrange her life to their liking.
And so, here she was again, disappointing the woman who had put so much faith into her, who dedicated so much of her home and money and time to Gemma’s becoming, into Gemma’s success on the marriage mart. Would Father be disappointed? Surely, he would be grieved. And that thought caused Gemma’s throat to close. To her surprise, Aunt Philippa breathed, voice hardened, “Your father would be distraught by your conduct.”
“Forgive me, Aunt Philippa,” Gemma whispered, voice shaking. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
“We will speak of it later. Come now.”
Halfway up the stairs, they turned when Lord Neville called out and hastened up the steps to join them. He extended his arm to Gemma and she took it, batting away her tears and refusing to reach up and brush them away.
“Why, are you unwell?” Lord Neville demanded, so loudly that people nearby turned to stare.
Gemma wanted to melt into the floor and she nodded vigorously. “Simply moved to tears by the countess’s sorrow,” she told him—a lie. In the opera box, she sat quietly, watching the stage, seeking glimpses of the performers hurrying to and fro behind the curtains. Her ears perked up when she heard Lord Blakemore mentioned one booth over.
“…But of course, he is a decided cad…”
