Page 27

The number rang in his ears, and the fog of lust and desire that had enveloped him lifted in an instant, replaced by a cold clarity. He looked at her sharply. Vivian observed the sudden change in Frederick’s demeanor and frowned worriedly.

Vivian had always been acutely perceptive. She rarely let such details slip by unnoticed.

“Sixteen years?” she echoed, her voice calm but laced with intrigue. She tilted her head, studying Gemma with refreshed intensity. “You must be younger than five and twenty. If you have not eaten something like that in sixteen years, that would mean… the last time you tasted it was when you were a small child.”

The dessert itself had been nothing extravagant; it was one that any household would serve. The impact of Gemma’s statement gnawed at both Frederick and his grandmother.

Frederick noticed the immediate shift in Gemma’s posture. Her back, which had been straight and confident moments earlier, slumped ever so slightly. The light that had brightened her face just seconds ago drained away when she realized that she had said too much.

She lowered her gaze, focusing intently on the table, her fingers gripping the edge of her plate.

“My mother… she sent me away,” Gemma finally murmured, her voice quiet, almost hollow. “After my father died.”

Vivian’s expression softened, her brows furrowing in sympathy. “How old were you when this happened?”

Gemma swallowed, her throat bobbing as if she was trying to push down a lump of ice. Her fingers twitched nervously at the table’s edge.

“Seven,” she whispered. “I was seven.”

Frederick felt a sharp, cold anger rising in his chest. He had seen that look before; the haunted, hollow gaze of someone who had been abandoned.

His jaw clenched, the image of Helen flashing in his mind, her wide eyes filled with sorrow, her fragile body taken away to that wretched place. It was all too strikingly similar and painful.

His eyes turned to Vivian, who was now fully invested in Gemma’s story, her tone softening even further.

“And your mother?” she pressed, though not unkindly. “She sent you to live in the convent after your father’s death?”

Gemma nodded, her face still downcast, clearly reluctant to share more. She was holding back and Frederick knew why. She didn’t trust them enough yet to reveal everything.

And so she should. Too many must did have disappointed her and caused her pain by abusing her trust before she met us.

The people in their neck of society could be ruthless. Gemma knew better than to reveal all of her vulnerabilities to two strangers she had only just met.

Taking notice of the direction in which their conversation was heading, Vivian was about to ask Gemma more questions, but before she could speak again the thin thread holding Frederick’s self-control frayed and snapped.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor, the sound loud and jarring in the deep silence of the dining hall. The abruptness of his movement caught both women off guard.

Vivian’s eyes widened in surprise and Gemma’s head shot up, her expression both confused and startled.

“I am tired,” Frederick said coldly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that churned inside him. “I shall now take my leave and retire for the evening.”

Without waiting for a response he turned sharply on his heel and marched out of the dining hall, his long strides echoing in the quiet corridor. He could feel Gemma’s bewildered eyes on him but he didn’t turn back. He couldn’t.

The moment he was out of sight, Frederick’s mind raced with conflicting thoughts, his emotions swirling together in a cloud of anger, desire and frustration.

How could someone like Gemma, so strong and vibrant, have endured such pain and hardship? And why did he care so much?

He reached his study and slammed the door behind him, his chest heaving with barely restrained rage.

He didn’t want to feel this way.

He didn’t want to care about her past, about her suffering, or about her. He especially didn’t want to care abouther.

Frederick leaned heavily against his desk, his hands gripping its edge so tightly that his knuckles turned white with effort. Images of Gemma flooded his mind. Her glossy brown hair and sparkling smile, her laughter, and how small and vulnerable she had looked a few moments earlier when she confessed to being sent away and cast aside at such a tender age.

A glow of protectiveness bloomed in his heart. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in many years.

And then, just as quickly, another image replaced it—of her mouth, and the way her lips had tasted earlier that day when they had kissed. The memory of her soft skin under his fingers and the way her body had pressed against his consumed him.