Tempted by a Lady's Smile (Lords of Honor #4)(3)

She laughed, tucking Cuvier’s work under her arm. “Yes, well, she does value propriety.” As such, she’d long despaired of Gemma’s penchant for garnering all the wrong kinds of notice.

“And good matches,” Emery put in with a wink. He offered his elbow and Gemma slid her fingers onto his sleeve.

“I daresay you are the real reason for her hopes with this event,” she said out the side of her mouth.

Alas, poor Emery had been dodging their mother’s clear attempts to make a match for him since he’d left university nearly eight years ago. She’d been less than veiled in her aspirations for him to make a match with the still unwed Lady Beatrice.

As they climbed the stairs of the palatial estate, the butler threw the doors wide. With Emery at her side, Gemma hesitated. Do not be a coward… Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced her feet into a forward movement.

“You look as pained as I about being here,” Emery whispered as they were ushered through the long, carpeted corridors to their respective guest rooms.

“What would I have to be pained about?” she shot back, waggling her eyebrows. “My mother’s pathetic attempt at matchmaking? Or her desperate wish to see me wed any suitable gentleman before the London Season begins?”

Their melded laughter earned a frown from their mother and Gemma tamped down her smile. They made their way through the labyrinth that was the Duke of Somerset’s country estate and Gemma peeked about. It was hard not to gape at the evidence of such opulent wealth. Elaborate gilt frames hung upon the satin-wallpapered walls with stern, disapproving ducal ancestors looking on at Gemma.

She drew her book close to her chest. Or mayhap it was her reading material they disapproved of.

Regardless, even those long-dead ancestors no doubt recognized a flawed lady amidst their ghostly midst.

How many of the guests now occupying these hallowed walls coveted the lavish adornments? And yet, the ornate, gold sconces lining the halls and the mahogany furniture artfully placed throughout the abode made Gemma’s hands moist. And not in the greedy, grasping way of the ladies who now darted their gazes about did, but with the panicky, nausea-inducing dread that came from being an out-of-place oddity amidst this elaborate household.

She wrinkled her nose. Why did Lord Westfield have to be a future duke? Why couldn’t he be a baron, or knight, or even a successful merchant? All of those would do a good deal more preferable than falling in love with the gentleman whose future title commanded awe, power, and respect just by being uttered.

“You are not usually this quiet,” Emery observed.

“I gathered Mama had enough to say for the whole of the family.”

A sharp laugh escaped Emery and she welcomed that calming, familiar chuckle as it echoed off the hallway walls. The sound of it made the Duke of Somerset’s estate more of a home and less of a… tomb. Yes, it would have been far preferable if Lord Westfield had proven a lesser lord and not a gentleman on the cusp of inheriting a near kingdom.

A short while later, Gemma was shown to her room, while her family continued on to their respective chambers. With blessed silence her only company, she tossed her copy of Le Règne Animal onto a nearby table, and then layered her back against the paneled door. She closed her eyes.

She’d thought overly long about finding the gumption to confess her feelings to Lord Westfield and, yet, now that she was here, she’d really not considered how one went about finding a gentleman amidst a crowded house party—or rather, finding a gentleman alone.

Knock Knock Knock

A gasp burst from Gemma’s lips and she jumped. Pressing a hand to her chest, she pulled the door open, and her only friend in the world, Lady Beatrice Dennington spilled inside.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’ve arrived.” The perfectly golden-haired young lady flung her arms about Gemma. She staggered back a step, before returning the embrace.

In an instant, she took in the tight drawn lines at the corner of Beatrice’s mouth and the glimmer of sadness in her cerulean blue eyes. A pang struck Gemma over her own selfishness. She captured Beatrice’s hands and gave a slight squeeze. “How are you?” she asked softly. The same way the ton saw in Gemma an unattractive bluestocking, undeserving of notice, was not unlike the way in which they viewed the flawlessly perfect, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. They failed to see the young woman Beatrice truly was, hoping for love, and even now suffering a broken heart over her father’s slow death.

Beatrice’s lips formed a brittle, forced smile. “Fine,” she said. “I am fine. Truly,” she added. The muscles of her throat moved and then she returned Gemma’s squeeze. “Enough with that. Let us focus on this horrid event my father has organized.” Yes, it was far safer to speak on those proper affairs, than in death, dying, and inevitable loss. “It’s been dreadfully dull without you. Countless guests simpering over Robert and gentlemen feigning an interest in me.” She mumbled that last part, high color filling her cheeks. “As though they seek anything more than a ducal connection and the wealth attached to my name.”

Gemma snorted. “It could be a good deal worse. You could have no gentlemen showing any interest whatsoever in you.”

“I would prefer that,” Beatrice said matter-of-factly. Taking Gemma by the hand, she guided her purposefully toward the bed. “Better than to be courted and then passed over again and again and again and again.” Which Society well knew to be the case for Beatrice, who’d been courted by no fewer than three gentlemen who’d all gone on to wed another. Gemma would never figure out just what it was a gentleman wanted in a lady when he’d pass over one such as Beatrice. “I’ve no intention of making a match with someone desiring my dowry.” Beatrice shoved her into a sit.