Tempted by a Lady's Smile (Lords of Honor #4)(11)

But some men were worth braving scandal over and Lord Westfield was one of them.

Yes, he was whispered about as something of a rogue, but surely even a charmer such as he would not go about kissing young women he did not know and grab them closer than ever could be appropriate. Her lips burned from the memory of earlier that evening and she paused in the corridor, touching her fingertips to her lips. Then, gaining control of her thoughts, she refocused on Lord Westfield. She didn’t give a fig if he was a duke or destitute. She’d loved him since he’d rescued her from a dance-less debut at Almack’s. She’d loved him for being a devoted brother who cared about the happiness of his family, when most lords only cared about wagering and carousing. And she loved him for every kindness he’d shown her through every painful London Season.

Gemma wiped her damp palms along the sides of her wrinkled skirt and continued walking. Except, with each step, her courage deserted her. She touched the handle of the door…and then froze.

What are you doing, Gemma Reed? Young ladies did not steal upon a gentleman who sought privacy, declare their love, and make an absolute cake of themselves all in the hopes that he would return those very sentiments.

It was that small lingering hope that he would, in fact, profess his love that compelled her to press the handle, entering the quiet room. She closed the door behind her so softly the faint click barely registered with her own ears.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened billiards room. But for a handful of candles, the thick black of night shrouded the room in an eerie quiet. She searched the grand space adorned in crimson curtains and heavy, red mahogany furniture. She stilled as her gaze found the tall figure seated on the leather winged back chair. As if sensing her presence, Lord Westfield stiffened in profile and then made to rise.

“D-do not!” she called out, and he froze. “Stand, that is.” Her voice echoed around the room. Digging deep for the courage to share the words she’d kept silent for too long, she drew in a slow, steadying breath. “It would be easier if you were to sit there for me to say this. To say what it is that I need to say. What I’ve been longing to say.” She flinched at her jumbled ramblings. “You have captivated me since the moment I first met you.” Her impassioned declaration echoed off the walls. “From the moment I first saw you smile, I’ve longed to tell you how good and kind and loyal you are.” He is not a blasted hound, Gemma!

She took a step forward, appreciating his silence that allowed her the courage to continue. “I would have you know the feelings I’ve carried.” She held her palm up, forgetting a moment that he could not see her. “But I love you. I’ve loved you for so very long and given the party hosted by your father, I thought you should know how ardently I admire you, as I carry the hope that you might feel the same way, too. You are my heart’s greatest yearning.”

Gemma cringed at the silence, which met her impassioned profession. Her heart beat loud in her ears. As she waited, breath suspended in her lungs for Lord Westfield to say something. Alas… Gemma shifted on her feet. She’d really settle for anything.

When it became apparent he had little or no intention of saying anything more on it, she cleared her throat. “Will you not say anything to me?” Where did she, so often without words, find the courage to toss that question out to him?

He slowly stood, unfurling to his full height. She swallowed hard and allowed herself one infinitesimal moment to believe the dimly lit room merely played cruel tricks upon her eyes. Except, she blinked.

And then blinked again.

For the man before her, the dark-haired, broad figure was so very different than the blond-haired, charming gentleman she’d sought.

And…

Oh God…

She curled her feet into the soles of her slippers as mortified heat set her body ablaze over the horrifying mistake she’d made. Shame spiraled through her being as a slow smile formed on the steward’s hard lips; lips that had covered hers, giving her, her first kiss, earlier that evening.

He sketched a bow. “What is there to say? Other than I’m flattered. Now, may I ask the name of the woman so hopelessly in love with my smile?”

Oh, my God. “No, you may n-not,” she squeaked. Gemma winced at that high-pitched, broken utterance. “And I was not commenting on your smile. I don’t even know your smile.”

The steward leaned against the chair, cradling a drink in his hand. “Well, that is not altogether true.”

She groaned. For it wasn’t. She did know his smile, just… “Not well,” she said tightly. “I’ve seen but one of your grins.”

The steward smiled all the more. Now two grins. And even if it was a slightly wicked, slightly teasing, expression, she’d certainly not admire it. Not from a man whose name she did not know, and only just met. Her mind slowed, stalled, and then resumed a rapid spinning pace. Oh, God. “You are not the duke’s steward.”

Hers was a statement borne of horrified fact.

“I am not,” he confirmed, anyway, with yet another of those seductive, teasing grins.

Which could only mean…. “You are a guest?” Please let him be an insolent servant nipping brandy from his employer. Please let him be anyone other than a guest who’d witnessed her two humiliations and who’d kissed her senseless.

“I am, indeed.”