Tempted by a Lady's Smile (Lords of Honor #4)(8)

“Will you?” A challenge laced that question.

“The marquess won’t a-approve of your k-kissing his guests.” Gemma yanked her knee free of his hold. That abrupt movement sent her tipping back and she tossed her arms out to keep from toppling over in an undignified heap, but he shot a hand out and easily steadied her.

“Won’t he, love?” He wrapped that last word in a husky, slightly mocking endearment.

“You wouldn’t understand, sir, because you clearly are not a gentleman.” She settled her hands upon her hips.

“I imagine he’ll have more questions about why a supposed lady is wandering his property with no proper chaperone.”

At the unerring truth and accuracy to that charge, a dull flush heated her entire body and she tripped over herself in her bid to get away. And hating that this man was accurate and hating how very damning this seemed to him in his opinion of her attempts at “trapping” the marquess and her scandalous return of his kiss.

Given his position on the estates, however, there was little need for their paths to again cross. Which was, indeed, good. “If you will excuse me?” she asked stiffly. Not allowing him a chance to respond, she spun on her heel and sprinted down the graveled path, on to the entrance of the Duke of Somerset’s grand home.

The back of her neck burned from the eyes trained on her by the gruff, mannerless, towering steward. The quality of his attire revealed him to be a member of the duke’s staff and yet he spoke in the cultured tones with the insolent charges of a man of loftier origins. The quality of his horseflesh also revealed him to be a man of some wealth.

And whoever the stranger had been…he’d discovered her, which would prove calamitous to her intentions for this entire blasted event—to bring Lord Westfield ’round. Being caught alone, with her hair tumbled past her shoulders, and racing in such an indecorous manner would cause nothing less than a scandal. Then, mayhap the stranger didn’t truly find anything of interest in her gallivanting about the grounds—alone. She stole a quick look over her shoulder and even with the distance she’d placed between them, found his eyes burning into the path she now traveled. Gemma hurriedly yanked her stare forward.

Her breath coming fast from her exertions, Gemma skidded to a halt outside the rear entrance of the palatial estate. She brushed her hands over her flushed cheeks and then stood frozen until she regained a semblance of calm. Shoving aside thoughts of the duke’s steward, she returned her attention to what, rather who, was responsible for her having been traipsing about the lake.

Her first efforts at locating Lord Westfield had proven wholly dismal. Gemma firmed her jaw. For all Society had to say about her, there was one elemental piece they’d not gleaned—she was a determined young lady.

And she was determined to capture the Marquess of Westfield’s heart.





Chapter 3





In the course of his thirty-three years, Richard had never been one of those gentlemen who’d caroused, wagered, and drank.

Until just recently, that was. Much had changed—as was evidenced by the brandy even now in his hand and the thick plume of smoke from his previously lit cheroot.

Since Eloise had married his younger brother…if one wanted to be truly precise. Now Richard quite enjoyed a good bottle of spirits and a turn at the gaming tables.

In addition to drinking and wagering, it would seem he had also become the manner of man who say…taunted blushing young ladies and sent them fleeing in fright, and only after he’d kissed them senseless. His body stirred with the memory of the nameless schemer. Not a lady who’d ever be considered classically beautiful, or even really remotely pretty, that particular figure had occupied his thoughts since he’d returned to the duke’s estate.

“How many points?”

Richard swirled the contents of his drink as Westfield’s inquiry cut across his musings. Thrusting aside the memory of the young woman, Richard returned his focus to the billiards game. “Five hundred?”

Westfield snorted. “You’ve no intention of leaving this room, then?”

“I expect with the number of ladies seeking to corner and trap you, that would be preferable.” A garrulous miss with limp, brown hair flitted to his mind.

A muscle jumped at the corner of Westfield’s eye. “My father’s blasted brilliant plan to see me wed.”

Generally, matters of marriage and prospective brides were the manner of talk gentlemen took pains to avoid—unless they had to. And in Westfield’s case, with his father nearing the end of his life, it was a topic that could not be avoided. Not by a friend, at least.

The crack of the cue ball resonated in the quiet room done in crimson and mahogany hues. Richard eyed his shot as it settled closest to the baulk. “I do not envy you your responsibility.” At one time, he’d fashioned himself as the marrying sort, but had come to appreciate the singular impossibility of finding the one person who owns your heart, and having that lady’s sentiments so closely align that it resulted in that forever love.

His friend made a crude gesture that roused a laugh from Richard. Westfield motioned to him. “Your decision.”

Richard picked up the red ball and placed it at the top of the table. Wordlessly, he walked a slow path about the table and then, positioning his cue, struck the red ball. The smooth force of the movement propelled it forward and the red ball knocked the other into a pocket. “Have you selected the lady who will be the future Marchioness of Westfield?”