Page 2

Wakefield regarded Guy in bewilderment augmented by what smelled like a vast amount of port. “Why a fool? Have youseenher? A goddess, is Gemma Cooke. A more delightful morsel I’ve never supped upon.”
Guy barely hid his distaste. “I have seen Mrs. Cooke many times, and yes, she is a beautiful creature.” The impact of the young woman bursting into Guy’s sanctuary had been intoxicating. “She has also buried three husbands in the space of eight years. Are you aiming to be her fourth?”
Wakefield gazed at him in bafflement. “Of course not. I do not wish tomarrythe gel, only?—”
“She’s no courtesan, Wakefield.” Guy’s voice turned hard. Mrs. Cooke had been stalked by gossip, including the speculation that she’d sent her first two husbands to their graves with her ardor. “She is a widow. The same as your poor dear aunty.”
Wakefield snorted. “Nothing like my dear aunty. Positively antediluvian.”
“Your aunty? Or Mrs. Cooke?” Guy enjoyed Wakefield’s puzzlement. “Never mind, my boy. The lady is not upstairs. You must have confused me with the woman of your dreams. Very understandable. I am told I cut quite a dash.”
Wakefield, who aspired to the status of arbiter of taste, stood somewhat in awe of Guy. He ever tried to ingratiate himself with Guy and Guy’s closest friend, the Duke of Ashford, with poor results thus far.
He laughed dutifully at Guy’s joke. “Ah, well. She’s probably in the garden seducing her next victim. How about we descend, Lovell? Find a few toothsome debutantes and be their ruin?”
Guy sent him a severe look. “Your idea of entertainment is deplorable, Wakefield. Leave the poor things alone and take yourself to the Nines. More to your taste, I think.”
Wakefield brightened, but his face fell in the next instant. “Last time I was at the Nines, I lost my little all. My father nearly thrashed me. And me a grown man.”
“Well, toddle off there and win it back.” Guy flicked his fingers in the direction of the staircase.
Wakefield’s optimism returned. “I say, what a frightfully good idea. Come with me?”
“No, no, dear boy. I’m here to enjoy a smoke. In solitude.”
Guy gave Wakefield a pointed look until the man finally understood the hint. “Right. I see. Well … If you happen upon Mrs. Cooke, inform her of what an opportunity she missed.”
With a vacuous grin, Wakefield wobbled around and pattered toward the stairs. The ladies at the Nines, a notorious hell in St. James’s, would know how to handle him. If Wakefield lost at cards or dice again, and his father truly thrashed him this time, Guy would consider this a good night’s work.
He loitered in the hall until Wakefield’s thumping footsteps faded down the stairs into the general noise from the floors below. He remained in place another few moments after that to make certain Wakefield did not return.
Only then did Guy open the door and slip back into the room.
It was empty. The screen in the corner—a black tri-part affair painted with elongated peacocks and bright chrysanthemums—did not move.
“The dreadful foe is gone,” Guy said cheerfully. “The foul man has been banished.” A few heartbeats of silence trickled by. “Mrs. Cooke?”
He noted another door behind the screen and realized that the young woman had likely taken herself through it to safety.
Guy’s heart felt suddenly heavy. Their brief encounter would be just that—brief—Mrs. Cooke flowing into and out of Guy’s life in a matter of moments. He wondered why this idea bothered him so.
Guy headed for the chair and the waiting cheroot. He’d taken two steps before a rustle made him swing back to see Mrs. Cooke peering around the edge of the screen.
She’d left off a mask for this masquerade, probably deciding it wasn’t worth the bother. Guy liked that nothing impeded the view of her beautiful blue eyes. Her lady’s maid or hairdresser had tried to tame her glorious dark hair into a braided coil on the top of her head, but as he’d noted before, escaped curls trickled to her shoulders and fell in wisps about her forehead. Enchanting.
Guy had first been introduced to Gemma Cooke several years ago, when she’d been Mrs. Pitts—her husbands certainly hadn’t been chosen for their elegant surnames. Since then, he’d seen her only from afar as she went through husbands one after the other. Not her fault, poor thing.
“I am grateful, sir.” Her voice was velvet smooth, falling pleasantly on the senses.
“At your service, madam.” Guy executed a bow. A thin stream of smoke seeped from the not-quite-spent cheroot in the bowl, and he tried to nonchalantly tamp it out. It took several tries, the stubborn thing refusing to die.
Gemma’s lips quirked into a smile as she watched his machinations. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
“A most welcome intrusion.” Guy smashed the cheroot one final time. “I find fancy dress balls dreadfully dull, but I promised a friend I’d arrive, and in suitable attire.”
He spread his arms. Red satin showed through the slashes on his medieval doublet’s sleeves, matching the scarlet breeches he’d worn instead of hose—he couldn’t bring himself to bare his legs all the way to his hips. When he’d surveyed himself in the mirror in his dressing room, he’d decided he resembled a walking tomato.
Gemma Cooke’s full smile flashed, one that made Guy almost regret his avowed bachelorhood. Almost.