Page 10 of Her Notorious Rake
She turned her head, scanning the crowd for a sign of Aunt Philippa, who chatted nearby with a large circle, the feathers in her hair twitching with every turn of the head.
And then, Gemma froze. There—through the blurring crowd she glimpsed a tall man, perhaps as tall as the man in the garden, dark-haired, severe eyes that flashed into hers. Her head spun, her knees turning to water. It was over as soon as it began, as he pulled his gaze from hers, and the room began to move again. Gemma blinked, shaking herself free of her daze.
Perhaps Aunt Philippa would know who he was.
She managed to extricate her aunt from her circle. “Is something amiss, my dear?” Aunt Philippa whispered behind her fan.
“Forgive me for intruding, but I was—” Gemma glanced over, and found the man again, a glass of wine in his hand now. “I was wondering if you could tell me again who that gentlemanis.” Noticing Aunt Philippa’s exasperated expression, she added hastily, “Forgive me. There were ever so many people that I can hardly keep up with everyone’s names.”
“Viscount Blakemore. And do try to memorize as much as you can. It wouldn’t do to have your forgetfulness offending a member of the Ton.”
“Blakemore,” Gemma repeated in a whisper before she could catch herself.
Aunt Philippa frowned. “A veritable rake. He is only here due to his stature and his family.”
“A rake?” Gemma stole another glance in the tall man’s direction. Black hair and heavy brows. A sharp jawline. Vivid blue eyes that had pierced into her in the garden lantern-light.
“Run along now. I see that you are forming connections with the other ladies of the Ton. Heed everything I’ve taught you.”
Everything she’d taught Gemma? She’d rambled on forever about the do’s and don’ts of London society, much of it unknown to Gemma. She’d entered society too early, and due to tight finances, Mother and Father had never been able to afford a governess. Which made her something of an outlier amongst people of this ilk.
Balled up in her fist, she still held Viscount Blakemore’s handkerchief.
***
“The gossips are most appalled that you left dear Celeste all alone this evening.” Uncle Ernest flashed Dalton a humorless smile, rapping the roof of the carriage to signal they were ready to leave.
Beside him, Celeste made a face and Dalton couldn’t help but grin.
“Let the gossips do what they do best,” he told his uncle.
It was too dark to tell for sure, but Uncle Ernest must haveturned red with irritation.
“Hush,” he snapped. “Is everything beneath you? Even keeping Celeste company?”
“I needed a moment. It was rather warm tonight indoors.”
“Warm,” Uncle Ernest snorted. “You were sick, weren’t you?” He smirked when Dalton stiffened. “Yes, yes. The servants tell me things. They tell me you’re out at all hours of the night, carousing—”
“Uncle!” Celeste cried.
Uncle Ernest’s mouth pinched. He pointed a gnarled finger at Dalton. “I will not have you grieving my sister in law,” he spat.
Dalton glared at him. This carriage ride couldn’t end soon enough.
Celeste endeavored to dissolve the foul mood, asking Dalton about a popular opera that had just opened this season, a reenactment of Mozart’sMarriage of Figaro.
She adored everything about the opera. Dalton forced himself to humor her. It wasn’t her fault her uncle was such a…
Be Christian,Mother’s voice sighed through his head.
He didn’t go out that night when they returned home from Lady Kenway’s ball. Instead, he went to bed early, to Wilson’s astonishment.
“Bed?” he repeated blankly when Dalton rapped out an order to prepare his bedclothes.
“Wilson.”
“Ah—yes, of course. Your bedclothes,” And Wilson scurried to oblige.
