Tempted by a Lady's Smile (Lords of Honor #4)(2)

Gemma resisted the urge to jam her fingertips against her temples and rub the growing ache caused by her mother’s prattling. As her grasping parent continued on about the marquess’ marital prospects, Gemma again yanked back the curtain and stared intently out the lead window.

The ladies invited to attend the duke’s summer party would all do so with the intent purpose of making a match—ideally with the Marquess of Westfield. Tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome, he was a glorious specimen of masculine perfection…and a smidge below royalty, given his future title, every lady’s not so secret wish in her bridegroom.

And Gemma didn’t give a jot about any of it—his wealth, his male beauty, his title of marquess and eventual duke. She’d been in love with the man for three years now. Since her partnerless first Season, when he’d offered her a quadrille on the disastrous day of her Come Out. Oh, she wasn’t so na?ve that she’d give a man her heart for one small, though heroic, act. He’d been the only gentleman to partner her in a set at whatever event he was in attendance. Never two dances together to signify anything more, but those single dances mattered to her.

“…Tell me you will have a care at the duke’s party.”

Silence registered and, blinking several times, Gemma shifted her attention from the passing countryside to her mother. With her perfect golden curls and sapphire blue eyes, could not a single speck of that beauty have passed to Gemma? Not that she minded being…well, plain, it was just that…

“Well?” Mama prodded, favoring Gemma with an entreating look.

Her mind raced. What were they speaking on? Ah, right. In a roundabout way, Mama was pleading with her to watch her tongue and avoid embarrassment. “I promise to be nothing but myself,” she pledged.

That, thankfully, led to an endless speech on the perils in Gemma attending the most coveted summer event. She’d long been an oddity in her own family. Emery, with his blond locks and captivating demeanor, charmed young ladies and dowagers alike. Her flawlessly beautiful mother was a leading hostess and matron. And then there was Gemma; who was everything…well, ordinary. Limp, brown hair that could not curl with a prayer and a magical brush. Plain brown eyes. Not even the type of brown with flecks of gold or green in them. Just brown. At five feet four inches, she was not too tall, not too short.

She startled as a hand touched her knee and she lifted her gaze.

Her mother gave her a gentle look. “There is no reason you cannot make a match with the marquess.” The softly spoken words were said with a mother’s pride and love.

She mustered a smile. “I know,” she replied automatically. There was no one reason. Rather, there were all number of reasons she couldn’t.

Mama leaned closer. “Even if it is not the marquess, you will find the gentleman who will appreciate you and love you for who you are.”

What her mother could not know was that Gemma had already found the gentleman she would spend her days with. For now, she loved him and appreciated him, and it was merely a matter of bringing the gentleman around to the truth that all of those quadrilles, waltzes, and reels were more than mere polite dances.

The carriage rumbled down a drive, on through the park-like grounds of an opulent estate. Fountains lined the graveled drive; the stone adornments at odds with the tucked away corner of Somerset owned by the duke.

They had arrived.

Gemma’s heart pounded hard and fast, and where her mother’s ramblings had previously aggravated, now she welcomed the distracted prattling about proper summer party etiquette. Welcomed the diversion away from the very sudden realness of her planned meeting with Lord Westfield where she would, at last, confess all that was in her heart to him.

And what had seemed so very simple, now seemed the manner of failed tasks assigned laughingly by the gods to watch a mere mortal fail.

I cannot…

As soon as the cowardly thought slid in, Gemma firmed her jaw. Failure was not an option. For if she didn’t, at the very least, confess her feelings to Lord Westfield then she would forever harbor regret of what might have been and what should have been, if she’d not been a coward. Yes, she’d been labeled unattractive, ungainly, and untalented, in her two and twenty years, but not once had she been called a coward.

The carriage dipped as their driver climbed from the box. A moment later, the door was pulled open and the liveried servant held a hand out to assist the viscountess from the carriage.

Relishing the momentary quiet, Gemma collected her book and then reluctantly placed her fingers in the young man’s hand. She offered him a smile. “Thank you, Connor.”

He inclined his head. “Miss Reed.”

Gemma’s feet settled on the ground and she moved her legs experimentally, willing movement back into them after countless hours of uninterrupted sitting. She placed one hand on the small of her back and arched—

“Never let Mother see you doing something as scandalous as stretching.”

At the unexpected drawl, Gemma spun and promptly lost her balance. Her small, leather tome fell indignantly to the earth.

Emery shot his hands out and steadied her at the shoulders.

“Gemma,” Mother called.

Their mother missed nothing. Why, she could be used to ferret out secrets for the Home Office with the eyes she possessed.

Emery retrieved Gemma’s book and handed it over. “I told you,” he whispered.