Page 2 of Her Notorious Rake
“May I say, you are looking very well this morning. Very well indeed.”
Gemma dipped in a polite curtsey.
“Well, Vicar Jennings, I must tell you. Our cook has prepared pheasant, and it’s far too much for just Gemma and I. Really, we would be indebted to you should you come by and join us for dinner.” Of course, the fictional cook Iris had devised. She was too mortified to admit to anyone, even the villagers of Willow Grove, that she ever cooked her own supper. “And she has also prepared far too many biscuits. I must insist you take these.” She held out the basket on her arm which Vicar Jennings took obligingly.
“Ah!” His eyebrows lifted, and his glance flickered to Gemma, hopeful. “I should be delighted to join you for dinner, Mrs. Hayesworth. Miss Hayesworth.”
“Divine. Then, we shall see you at six this evening?”
Gemma grabbed her mother by the arm as they turned and hurried on down the road. “Mama!” she hissed, once they were reasonably out of the vicar’s earshot. “The last time you invited Vicar Jennings to dinner, I cleaned the floors of his crumbs for days. And his laugh—it scares the cats.”
“Gemma,” Iris’s voice was low but no less firm. “When will you understand that a matrimony between Vicar Jennings and you would be most fruitful in more ways than one? I am certain that you only mean to oppose me in this to vex me and fray my nerves.”
“Mama—”
“Enough, Gemma. He will join us for dinner,” Iris peered over her shoulder to be sure that nobody was close by. “And you will be cordial and everything else I raised you to be.” She waved her hand, scoffing. “And I am not certain why you protest so much. You both love books.”
“Very different books. He prefers Fordyce’s sermons, and I read novels. And you’ve heard the way he rails against them at church.”
“Because novels are frivolous. Now, let’s go home and pick out a dress for you to wear. It must be demure, but becoming. Striking, but modest.”
Gemma nearly groaned aloud. But she followed her mother back along the path to their cottage, steeling herself for an agonizing evening ahead.
***
Dinner dragged on for an abominable three hours, most of which were filled with Gemma trying to make polite conversation, and then suffering through a droning monologue about the principles of sobriety. And although Gemma had never much cared for wine, tonight she considered getting up, finding her mother’s bottle of Madeira from the London days, and taking a long draught of it in front of Vicar Jennings.
When it was at last over, and the vicar had gone home, and Gemma had finished putting everything in the larder or in the pig-sty bucket, she retreated to the solitude of her bedroom,changed into her bedclothes, and perched on the window seat that overlooked the garden below. She drew her knees up to her chin, and Udolpho curled up at her feet. Gemma leaned her head against the window frame, taking in a deep breath. She fixed her eyes on the constellation Lyra, a small harp delineated by twinkling stars.
Gemma leaned forward to stroke Udolpho, and he began to purr, blinking at her hazily.
“This can’t be all there is,” she whispered to him. She told Udolpho everything. It was better than having a diary, because Iris couldn’t sneak about and read it. “I don’t want to be a vicar’s wife. Or, maybe I do…but not this vicar. I know he would throw out all my novels, and I would die an early death of boredom.”
Udolpho meowed in concurrence.
“I knew you would agree,” Gemma smiled. “Perhaps, perhaps if there was a way for me to return to London…Mama would like that. And she would forget all about Vicar Jennings.” Gemma leaned down and pressed a kiss to Udolpho’s forehead. “Of course I shall bring you with me. I know Puck and you don’t get on well.”
Across the room, the large, orange Puck rose and stretched, as if he knew he’d been mentioned.
Perhaps wishing upon a star was only meant for fairy-tales. But Gemma couldn’t resist a moment of whimsy. She never could.
***
His skull might split open any moment. Viscount Dalton Blakemore was certain of it. He swallowed down bile and rolled into a sitting position on the edge of his bed, waiting a few moments for the nausea to pass before he rose to his feet, pressing a palm to his pounding temple. He let out a curse before sinking back down onto the plush mattress.
When someone knocked on the door, Dalton doubled over, digging his fingers into his hair, praying for it to stop.
Presently, a familiar voice reached through the fog swirling in his head. His valet, Wilson, stood at the end of his bed. “Your mother is asking for you, my Lord.”
Dalton blinked several times, trying to clear the haze from his vision. “Pray, convey to her that I shall arrive in no less than five or ten minutes.”
“Of course.” Wilson strode over to the bedroom’s double doors and informed the footman waiting outside, so he could relay the information to Dalton’s mother across the house. And then he returned to assist Dalton with dressing and readying himself.
Dalton stepped over to the dressing table adorned with a mirror to examine himself and paused in surprise at the sight of his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot, more deep-set than he remembered, his face pale and shiny with sweat. He hardly recognized himself.
And he could smell the stench of brandy and gin with every breath he took. The scent seemed tattooed into his very flesh. He’d need a bath before visiting Mother.
“A bath, sir?” Wilson, Dalton suspected, could read minds.
