Page 12 of Don’t Let Your Dukes Grow Up To Be Scoundrels (Dukes in Disguise #1)
Chapter Twelve
With many exclamations, embarrassed titters, and stilted apologies, the Londoners agreed to stay the night and the regular hum of socializing recommenced around them. Promising to return in a bit for a good gossip session and catch up, Gemma took her erstwhile friends’ drink orders up to the bar.
Head swimming with logistical concerns—which sets of blankets and bed linens were the driest after this morning’s wash, which two rooms had both the nicest of the Duke of Havilocke’s furniture as well as the best views out over the sweeping green hills and old woods of the North Wessex Downs—Gemma absentmindedly told Hal, “A bottle of scotch whisky and two glasses of sherry. Do we have sherry? We must acquire some, if not. The ladies of my acquaintance will likely all be ordering it.”
Hal set down a tray, and plunked three glasses down on it so hard the amber liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rims. Gemma’s gaze flew to his face, still set in those uncompromising lines.
“We have sherry,” Hal said shortly. “Bess cooks with it.”
Gemma eyed the glasses uncertainly. “Is it…the same kind? She cooks with the kind people drink?”
He shrugged, clearly not giving a damn if he was about to serve some of Gemma’s snobbiest friends the sherry that was only intended for pickling turnips or some such.
“Too late to do anything about it now, I suppose,” she muttered, her mind already racing ahead to what needed to be done to make their rooms ready. The nights were still cool enough for a hot brick in the bed to be very pleasant, she’d have to go and ask Bess, who still hadn’t come back down from her mission of mercy to Henrietta. Oh dear, that must not be going very well, she ought to run upstairs and check…
Gemma blinked. The drinks were still on the bar between Hal and herself. She looked up and met Hal’s green eyes. His gaze on her was steady. “The drinks are ready,” he said softly, prompting her.
She swallowed, and it felt as though someone has put their hands around her throat and applied pressure. She shook her head without even meaning to.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, quiet and relentless. “You served your own housekeeper earlier, without even thinking about it. Why is this any different?”
Because it was, she wanted to protest. These were people she had known when she was the toast of the Ton; people she had caroused with until all hours of the night, dancing and gaming and playing cards, drinking too much and staying out too late, only to fall into bed and do it all over again the next night. They knew her as bold, confident, flirtatious Lady Gemma Lively, who’d kissed her reputation goodbye during her debut Season and never looked back.
If she picked up that tray and carried it over to them, playing the barmaid serving at their whim, she would be crossing a line. One that even her dissolute band of reprobate former friends would never dream of crossing.
From ruling class to serving class. With one tray of drinks.
It shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t care, she knew that. After only a week of working with Bess, Gemma already held more true respect for her new friend than she could ever claim for her old friends.
Yet the taboo was so strong, so ingrained, Gemma almost could not force herself to move. She looked up at Hal, knowing the agony of indecision must be written all over her face, and like some kind of miracle, his stern expression softened a bit. “I understand,” he told her. “It’s all right. I’ll take the tray over.”
Gratitude poured over her in a stream of warmth, tinged perhaps with a touch of shame. But before she could gush her thanks, Hal held up a staying hand.
“I’ll take it over to them,” he said firmly, “on one condition.”
“What?”
He leaned in, that same lock of hair that had taunted her earlier gleaming like ancient bronze in the flickering candlelight. “That you admit, to me and to yourself, that this plan of yours, to use Five Mile House to catch yourself a duke, is never going to work.”
Gemma went still, like a pedestrian realizing a runaway hack was careening wildly toward them. She wanted to object instantly, to stick her chin in the air and argue that her plan was foolproof.
Except she wasn’t a fool, and she knew her plan had every chance of failing. She had only ever kept going with it out of blind hope, and a desperate feeling that there was nothing else to be done, so she might as well do this.
What would it mean to admit that she wasn't at all sure she could land herself a rich, titled husband?
She look across the bar at Hal Deveril’s work-hardened hands and sun-kissed skin, his strong shoulders and the silky beard one would never find on a peer of the realm, and wondered…what would it mean to admit she might not even want that rich, titled husband after all?
An unexpected movement at the corner of her eye had Gemma sending a distracted glance over her shoulder—only to gape in astonishment at the sight of her mother, pale and thin but resplendent in a mourning gown of black velvet festooned in ebony lace, descending the stairs on Bess’s arm. Lucy followed behind, beaming.
At the bottom of the stairs, Henrietta cast a wary eye around the assembled company. Despite her leaning on Bess’s sturdy support, she appeared every inch the Dowager Duchess of Ashbourn. Gemma’s throat clogged with unshed tears to see her mother look almost as she used to when Father was alive.
At the edge of the room, a farmer who’d had perhaps a few too many slammed his tankard of ale down on the wooden table with a roar, his friends joining in with raucous laughter and jeers.
Gemma saw her mother blanch, what little color she’d had draining from her powdered cheeks, and she stopped in her tracks.
Despite Bess’s gentle encouragement, Gemma sensed her mother would have retreated back upstairs at once…were it not for the Duke of Thornecliff.
Known throughout the Ton as the wildest of hellions, Thorne regularly engaged in debauches and deviltry that made even Gemma blush to hear of it. His capacity for wickedness was exceeded only by his vanity; she had never seen him dressed in anything less than the first stare of fashion. The young dandies of the Ton studied him feverishly, emulating every aspect of his attire from the elaborate diamond stick pin that pierced his cravat to the embroidery adorning his rainbow-hued waistcoats to the languid wave of his bright, fallen-angel hair.
Many things could be said about Gabriel de Vere, Duke of Thornecliff—and, indeed, many things had. But one thing that would never be said of him was that his manners lacked refinement and polish.
In short, he must have caught sight of Gemma’s mother because he rose majestically from his sprawl at the bar table to make a very elegant leg in her direction.
The sweep of his arm as he bowed allowed everyone in the taproom to appreciate the perfect cut of his dark teal blue shawl-collared coat. The angle at which he inclined his head showed off the sharp peaks of his crisp, white shirt collar. The way he dipped at the waist drew the eye inescapably to the taut, narrow proportions of his hips, which only accentuated the breadth of his chest and back and the muscular strength of his thighs encased in tight buff trousers.
A sort of sigh went up around the room, and Gemma held back a hysterical giggle at the familiarity of the scene.
Thorne had been on the premises for about ten minutes, and already half the population of Little Kissington—of both sexes—was in love with him.
Henrietta, for her part, was no more immune than the rest of them. Her face lit up and she all but dragged poor Bess along in her haste to reach the table full of London society.
Gemma couldn’t hear what was being said; as the families and older folks finished supper and wended their way home, the taproom had steadily increased in volume until it was now getting a bit rowdy and really quite loud. But she didn’t need to hear the exact words to read the pleasure on her mother’s face. The contrast between the ghost lady who’d sat listlessly by her window for days could not be more stark.
Bess had gotten her to leave her room, but it was the mere presence of these people, these vestiges of her happy past, that had brought her back to life.
Nothing else had served to do it.
As she watched, Henrietta threw back her head and laughed at some witty remark Thorne had made, the old, full-bodied laugh that had scandalized the most stiff-necked society matrons and had endeared her to her many friends on the fringes of the Ton.
Gemma could not afford to weaken. Her mother’s very health depended upon Gemma getting them back to London, back where they belonged. Whether it was what Gemma still wanted or not.
She pulled in a breath, sharp and painful, but it steadied her. She turned back to Hal, who was waiting with every outward sign of patience. Only the clench of his strong, tanned fist under his crossed arms gave away the fact that her answer meant anything to him.
Wishing she hadn’t seen that, Gemma forced herself to draw back her shoulders and lift her chin. Without wavering, she held his gaze as she picked up the tray.
“My plan will succeed,” she told him. “It has to. No matter what it costs me.”
A muscle worked in his jaw, visible even under the beard. But he said nothing.
It was just as well. Gemma couldn’t waste her strength arguing with Hal. She would need all of it for the evening ahead.
Holding her head high, she carried the tray of drinks over to her oldest, dearest friends—the friends who hadn’t written a note or paid a call or acknowledged her existence in any way once word got out that her half-brother had cut them off without a penny—and went to serve them with a smile that felt brittle enough to crack her cheeks.
No one seemed to notice. So that was good.
Having seen the dowager duchess happily ensconced at the table beside the Duke of Thornecliff, Bess bobbed a perfunctory yet elegant curtsey and escaped back to her kitchen with all due haste. The exalted ladies and gentleman barely seemed aware of her at all, but Gemma managed to catch Bess’s eye and mouth a quick thank you. She didn’t know what form of persuasion she’d used on Henrietta, but whatever it was, Gemma could only be grateful for it.
All the same, Henrietta would have fled back upstairs after only five seconds if it hadn’t been for these people. Who also happened to be the key to the rest of her plan.
This is what you wanted , Gemma reminded herself firmly as she transferred the tray of drinks to her left hand and stepped up to the table. The London guests blinked back at her with varying degrees of astonishment, clearly taken by surprise to see her with a serving tray in hand.
Gemma drew back her shoulders and brightened her expression, making sure to pop the dimple in her left cheek that made it look as if she was in on the joke. “The first round is on the house, ladies and gent! After that, if you want to get sloshed, I’ll be happy to sell you the whole bottle.”
“Oh Gem,” Lady Rosalie squealed, her hand fluttering up to her white throat. “Are you truly…a barmaid now?”
Beside her, Henrietta’s watery blue eyes went wide with distress, but before she could faint dead away at the very idea, Gemma blithely corrected her friend.
“More like landlady. My dear father, the duke, left us this place and we were just so vastly entertained when we found out, weren’t we, Mama? What a lark! Well of course we had to come and take possession of the place in person. And now that we’re here, we’ve decided we quite like it.”
The ladies tittered while the Duke of Thornecliff glanced around the taproom.
“Indeed.” Thorne’s voice was as bland as blancmange, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that Gemma didn’t altogether like. “Singular.”
“Perhaps the place is a bit rough around the edges,” Gemma replied breezily, setting down glasses and pouring a generous round of Bess’s best cooking sherry. Lord help her. “But I think it’s got lots of potential. As an investment, you know. Ever so much more fun than investing in a canal or some such boring venture! But enough about us, tell me, what’s been happening in Town?”
“Yes!” Henrietta cried, leaning forward and setting all the jet beads lining her shawl to clicking and dancing in the candlelight. “Do tell me about the latest fashions. It seems an age since we were in London, I am longing to hear of home!”
Seeming reassured by Henrietta’s referring to London as home, Lady Rosalie and Lady Lavinia put their heads together with Henrietta and began some long, convoluted story about a mutual acquaintance who had shown up to the Marquess of Maverton’s ball in a French-inspired gown so daring, the hostess had fainted dead away.
“Here’s your whiskey,” Gemma told Thorne, pouring out a dram of the amber liquid. The scent of peat-smoke and burnt sugar wafted subtly from the glass as he raised it in an ironic toast to her.
“Well, well. Little Gem, still sparkling here amongst the dull dirt and dust of the countryside. And I do mean dull.”
The way he looked down his long, straight nose as he casually judged the other patrons of the public room made Gemma frown. Before she could give him a firm set down, however, his deep-set dark eyes fastened on something behind her—something that made his entire, lounging form go still for an instant, a predator catching sight of its prey.
“Hello,” he said softly, one long finger tracing the rim of his glass before lifting to crook in a come-hither motion. “What have we here?”
With an itch of premonition between her shoulder blades, Gemma turned to see Lucy standing in the shadows by the stairs, all her considerable focus trained on the Duke of Thornecliff. At his imperious gesture, she startled but moved closer at once.
Gemma stopped herself from blocking Lucy with her entire body, but only barely. Gritting her teeth, she curled her hands into fists at her sides and manufactured a polite expression. It must not have been terribly convincing, because Lucy took one glance at Gemma’s face and faltered, her steps slowing.
Thorne lifted his chin, his enigmatic gaze watchful. “Come here, mouse. Don’t be shy.”
Both sisters whipped around.
“Do not give my sister pet names, if you please!”
“I’m not shy!”
Thorne sank back into his chair like a crocodile lowering itself beneath the surface of the Nile, momentary interest in his surroundings already waning. Gemma felt a cool wash of relief.
“The sister, yes. Of course.” He yawned delicately, a tiger in the sun, the back of one graceful hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Isn’t it a bit late for her to be awake? Surely Nanny ought to come put her to bed soon.”
Thank heavens he’d decided to see Lucy as a child rather than a potential conquest. Over Lucy’s mortally offended gasp, Gemma said, “Quite right, Thorne. Pay the girl no mind, she is retiring momentarily. Have another drink. Or might I offer you a slice of chicken and leek pie? It’s really quite exceptional.”
“Oh.” The wide, mobile mouth pursed into an exaggerated moue of disgust. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Watching your figure, are you?” Lucy stepped up beside Gemma, her nose in the air and red flags of emotional color flying high on her cheekbones. “I’ve noticed as men age, they begin to expand like hot air balloons.”
Gemma closed her eyes in despair. Lucy was trying to get under Thorne’s skin, to wound him as he’d wounded her with that remark about needing her nanny, but Thorne was impervious to insult. His arrogance and pride provided an armor that no sharp words could pierce. All that would happen now was…
“Oh, I like this one.” Thorne came to attention, eyes gleaming like black diamonds. He gave Lucy a slow smile. “Perhaps you are ready to join the adults, mouse. Come sit.”
Gemma caught Lucy by the arm before she could let fly with whatever response was causing her eyes to flash so dangerously. “That’s quite enough excitement for one evening, dearest, don’t you think? Mama is looking a bit peaked, I think twenty minutes of visiting has worn her out. Could you please take her upstairs and help her get settled? I would so appreciate it.”
That last was said through a clenched jaw, Gemma glaring daggers at her defiant sister until Lucy’s shoulders finally dropped in defeat.
“Fine,” she said, “I’ll go. Just promise me one thing, Gemma. Don’t marry this one. He might be a duke, but he’s not worth the trouble.”
Gemma wondered if it was possible for this night to get any more humiliating. She managed a surprised laugh. “Who, Thorne? Certainly not, Thorne will never marry. He’s declared it many times.”
“That’s ridiculous, he has a title to pass on,” Lucy argued. “Some poor woman is going to have to bear his children one day.”
“Well, it won’t be me,” Gemma replied firmly, taking Lucy’s elbow and gently steering her in their mother’s direction.
“Not to interrupt you ladies in your disposition of my assets,” Thorne drawled, “but I am curious to know about Lady Gemma’s impending nuptials. If I’m not to be the lucky groom, then who is?”
A pause ensued while Thorne stared at something over Gemma’s shoulder. His black demon eyes flicked back to her as he suggested gently, “Perhaps you have an understanding with that ruffian glowering at us from behind the bar?”
Gemma controlled her startled breath but could not control the flood of color to her face. Thorne observed her with evident interest before turning his attention back to Lucy. “And who will you wed, mouse? I am at your service, of course.”
“I will never wed,” Lucy shot back instantly, resisting Gemma’s subtle nudges. “I intend to become a journalist and make my own way in the world. I have already had a story accepted by the London Observator . But if I did marry someone, I’d choose better than you!”
“Nonsense. No one is better than me.”
“You are awful .”
“And you’re intriguing.”
Gemma bit her lip, trying to see Lucy through Thorne’s eyes. She was young, yes—a girl on the cusp of flowering into her full womanhood. Her features were elfin and arresting, her figure fashionably slim and tall in a way that still alternated between the grace that would come with age and the gawkiness of adolescence. But most of all, it was the spirit that shone from her that set her apart from the common run of young ladies.
If most young ladies looked as though lit from within by a single candle, Lucy appeared to have been stuffed full of firecrackers, Catherine’s wheels, and Roman candles, ready to be set off by the least little spark.
So of course Thorne had noticed her. But far worse than that; Lucy had defied him. This was the exact outcome Gemma had hoped to avoid.
For the most part, everyone in Thorne’s life told him exactly what he wished to hear. It was a combination of his supreme social standing, his extensive fortune and holdings, and his own charisma.
Consequently, he was greatly interested in people who managed to resist falling under his spell, in the manner of a naturalist encountering a never-before-seen specimen to study.
Gemma, herself, had always enjoyed a special place in Thorne’s circle of friends as one of very few women who had never fallen in love with him. She exercised the privilege of that special friendship now by giving Thorne a thoroughly quelling glare and telling him, “No.”
It was important to speak firmly, to not show the slightest hint of underbelly, or he would take immediate advantage.
“No?” he repeated, with some surprise. The word sounded as though it tasted bad in his mouth. Or at least unfamiliar. “Gem, moving to the country has turned you into a spoilsport. I won’t have it.”
“It’s not the country, the country is fine. Lucy is my sister, Thorne, she is off limits.”
“Lucy,” he said, rolling the name around his tongue in a way that suggested this one had a savor he approved of.
Gemma threw up her hands and looked to her sister. “Can you please? Take Mama and go upstairs? I’m begging you.”
“All right! I said I would, didn’t I?” With a flounce that looked more like a child stomping her foot than a young lady in a fit of pique, Lucy rounded the table to offer her arm to Henrietta, whose head had begun to list slightly to one side as whatever energy had propelled her down the stairs gave out.
Gemma and Thorne watched them go in silence. Beside him, his sister, Lady Rosalie and her friend had their perfectly coiffed heads together in intimate conference; Gemma could only assume they were chewing over whatever tripe Henrietta had been feeding them about Grand Romantic Gestures.
Lucy guided Henrietta up the stairs and never looked back once, not a single glance back at the table where Thorne sat staring after her, and Gemma had to shake her head in rueful admiration of the utter cheek of the girl.
Having done her level best to insult the Duke of Thornecliff without success, there was literally no more devastating a parting blow Lucy could land than to utterly ignore him as she left.
His face was unreadable when he finally glanced back at Gemma, but there was a cruel set to the shape of his lips that sent a chill through her. She recalled suddenly that defying Thorne was permissible—but it had a price.
“You’ve deprived me of my entertainment for the evening,” he said silkily, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “I certainly hope you have a plan to replace that entertainment, or we shall be forced to tell the world back in London to avoid this boring, dirty little backwater inn at all costs.”
The coyly delivered threat made Gemma’s heart pound a bit faster. Of course Thorne had worked out her plan here, and with his usual perception as an expert manipulator himself, he’d seen at once the role Gemma had in mind for him to play—that of walking advertisement to the rest of the Ton, encouraging any fashionable people on their way to Bath to stop off for refreshment at Five Mile House.
All her senses sharpened. She needed to be on her guard, or Thorne would have her dancing on the bar in nothing but her chemise to secure his cooperation.
Thinking of the bar made her think of Hal, standing there and watching this little farce unfold. She could only imagine what he thought of these people, her friends…her.
She didn’t need to look in his direction to know his eyes were on her. She could feel the heat and pressure of his stare like a touch, branding the skin of her back and shoulders.
Not helpful , she told herself. Focus on Thorne. If he thinks you’re ignoring him in favor of another man now, after the way Lucy gave him the cut direct on her way out, he will be beside himself.
And no one lashed out like an incredibly wealthy, entitled, spoiled duke.
Which Thorne proved with his next demand. “I say, sing for us, why don’t you, Little Gem? It’s been an age since we heard that sweet soprano of yours.”
Gemma hesitated. She’d never made much headway in any of the virtuous womanly arts like embroidery or sketching or the pianoforte. But she’d had vocal lessons from a young age, and had been known to sing for the company at a musicale or a small soiree among friends. Whenever Father hosted a gathering, she abruptly remembered, tight-throated, he’d used to cajole her to give his friends a song.
It had been a long time since Gemma had felt like singing.
To be honest, she didn’t much feel like it now, but from the implacable smile on Thorne’s handsome face and the added blandishments and encouragement from the ladies Rosalie and Lavinia, she wasn’t going to be given much of a choice.
The trouble was, what to sing? Unlike their resident songbird, young Flora Pickford, Gemma didn’t have a plethora of sprightly country airs at her fingertips. Most of the songs she’d learned with her singing master had been operatic arias in Italian or devilishly tricky pieces by Handel.
Looking around the public taproom of Five Mile House, Gemma tried to envision herself belting out “Se pietade avete” from Haydn’s Armida without any accompaniment, and quailed.
“Of course I’ll sing, if you like. I can do Robin Adair,” she said brightly, naming one of the most popular Irish airs that had been a favorite at musicales the past year. It wasn’t as bawdy or funny as Flora’s country ballads with their ill-disguised puns and broad humor, but it was jaunty enough, and most importantly, short.
Unfortunately for Gemma, the Duke of Thornecliff was in no humor to grant concessions. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze going heavy-lidded and slumbrous, dark with the indefinable malaise of the man who had everything.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Handel,” he said softly. “’Endless pleasure,’ perhaps.”
“’Endless pleasure.’ Right. Of course.”
Gemma swallowed hard against the rising of a knot of nerves in her throat. She couldn’t afford anything that compromised her vocal chords now.
Handel’s most famous aria from his opera Semele was among the most difficult pieces attempted by amateurs at the sort of salons and musical evenings Gemma had attended. The trills, the multitudes of grace notes dancing about the upper register, the extended final notes that were meant to hang on and on and on in an unending climax of passion—Heaven save her. At least it was in English.
Every part of Gemma’s body was beginning to feel cold, numb almost, with a slight tingling that she thought might mean she was about to swoon.
Heaving in a great, deep breath, Gemma did what she always did when someone dared her—she held her head high, swept a dramatic turn to take in her entire audience of a taproom full of roughly-dressed, work-weary farmers and shopkeepers, and resolved that making it through the song without collapsing was not enough. Oh no.
If she was going to do this, she would make such a performance out of it that people would still be talking of it years hence.
Holding her head high, Gemma began to sing.
At first, only Thorne and his two ladies paid any attention. He crossed his arms over his chest as he took in her theatrical performance, a reluctant glint of admiration in his black eyes. But soon, the high, fluting repetitions of the words “endless pleasure, endless love” and a few bits about reclining on her bosom, and the tables nearest them were beginning to take note.
Knowing this was not the sort of toe-tapping number most of this crowd was used to, Gemma threw herself into the drama of the lyrics, which were all about a woman who was thrilled at becoming the lover of a god.
She sighed her way to the top notes, and moaned through the low notes. Conversation around the room ceased. Her chest flushed. The taproom felt terribly warm and close now that it was quiet but for her singing.
Her voice trembled on a repetition, and without meaning to, she glanced over at Hal. He had come out from behind the bar to lean against it in that way that made his thick-thighed, strong legs look a mile long. The way he was watching her sent a delicious shiver all through her body.
He looked almost exactly as he had when they met, that first day here in the public room. But instead of an insolent stranger, his gaze held the memory of every searing, aching moment she’d spent in his arms.
Gaze locked on him and mind far off in a flowered meadow flooded with sunshine, Gemma didn’t register movement behind her until Hal’s attention turned to something happening over her shoulder.
Trying to keep it casual, still singing, Gemma turned to look. And she saw Thorne stalking back from the piano with something in his hands. She squinted in the dim light, trying to make it out.
It wasn’t until Thorne passed the object into the waiting hands of a farmer at one of the other tables, and Gemma heard the clink of coins hitting the bottom of the terra cotta jug that she realized what it was.
It was Flora’s tip jar, from earlier. The Duke of Thornecliff had sent around a tip jar…for Gemma.
No, don’t , she wanted to cry, as farmer after laborer after shopkeeper opened his purse and added his meager pennies to the pot. They had so little, but what they had, they shared. It was so kindly meant, and so terribly embarrassing all at once, Gemma nearly lost her footing.
Stop it, she wanted to say. I’m a fraud! You don’t need to!
Her voice thinned and quavered, but when Hal took a step toward her with clenched fists, clearly ready to challenge someone over something, Gemma rallied. She locked her knees and delivered her final notes strongly, with a steady pitch and a fluid cadence she was actually proud of.
As the final note trailed to an end, she looked back at her table of London guests. The ladies looked miffed. Likely they had expected her to play the fool, to perform badly and be laughed out of the room—and she no doubt would be the instant she set foot in a Mayfair ballroom now.
Unless she managed to land an exceptionally wealthy, well-heeled husband.
Thorne had returned to his seat, and as the last of the high, shivery notes died away and Gemma stood there catching her breath, the tip jar made its way back to his hands.
Without looking away from her, Thorne reached into a coat pocket embroidered with exotic butterflies and withdrew a leather purse. With two fingers, he plucked out a single gold guinea and carelessly tossed it into the jug on top of the pennies and ha’pennies.
The humiliation was exquisite. Gemma felt her soul shrivel. She was no better than an organ grinder’s monkey, set to dance for the amusement of the crowd. Who applauded sporadically, the air thick with tension.
Thorne stood, attention already wandering. “I believe it’s time to retire. Ladies?”
Crimson heat flooded Gemma’s face and chest then washed away again just as suddenly, leaving her clammy and chilled as the two women rose in a flutter of beribboned silk and followed him toward the stairs.
There was literally nothing in the world Gemma wanted less than to go with them. But she had to. She looked down at her feet, which seemed nailed to the rough-hewn wooden floor of the inn, and forced them to move.
She made her way through the maze of tables and chairs filled with mostly still-silent guests. When she reached the stairs, an itch between her shoulder blades made her look back at Hal, at his granite-hard jaw and thunderous brow, his white knuckles gripping the edge of the bar.
Gemma looked away. It was an extra twist of the thumbscrews to know that Hal had witnessed that little scene, and understood what was happening as clearly as she did.
Contorting her facial muscles into something unruffled took every ounce of control at Gemma’s disposal, but she managed it long enough to escort the Londoners to their rooms, making sure the fire were lit and the beds turned down and everything just so. Long enough to endure the grudging acceptance of the standard of accommodations, the surprise from the ladies at how comfortable the room seemed. Long enough to withstand the cool judgment of the duke as he surveyed the finest chamber in the inn, scoured ruthlessly clean and decorated lavishly with damask curtains and embroidered tapestries and a huge four-poster oak bed hung with watered silk drapes all pilfered from another duke’s home.
Thorne pronounced it “adequate” and shut the door in her face, so Gemma took a shaky breath and went back downstairs.
The place had mostly cleared out while she was tending to her overnight guests. Only a few stragglers remained at their tables, plunking down money to cover their bills and gathering up coats and scarves against the chilly spring night.
Every bone in Gemma’s body felt as though it had been replaced with marble. The muscles she’d strained that morning in the laundry pulled and ached now. Even the soles of her feet hurt.
Across the room, Hal was picking up chairs and upending them on the tables to make it easier to sweep and mop the floor. The casual, one-handed ease with which he lifted the heavy wooden chairs took Gemma’s breath away.
There was something about the way his body moved that spoke of a man who knew his own limits, because he lived in that body and pushed it every day to the edge of what it could achieve. He exuded a leashed power and banked strength that Gemma would have given anything to be able to lean on in this moment.
But she knew she couldn’t. If she betrayed even a moment of doubt, Hal would sense it and he would use it to make her abandon her plans.
So when she moved to the table next to him and picked up a three-legged stool, she did not flinch when Hal took it from her hands and clattered it roughly onto the table with a loud bang. The last of the customers hurried out, tipping his cap at her with a hesitant smile.
Gemma made herself look up at Hal, right into his furious eyes, and smile.
He expelled a noise between a growl and a grunt, then pointed at the stairs leading up to the bedchambers filled with every hope Gemma had for her family’s future.
Every tendon in his forearm stood out under the bronzed skin as he pointed again before turning and grasping the tip jug from the table.
Turning it over, he poured its clinking contents out onto the table into a small pile. The golden guinea shone like a miniature sun on top of the pile.
“That, Gemma?” Hal’s voice was harsh. “That’s what you want to get back to so badly?”
And Gemma looked him right in the face, the face that flooded her dreams and darkened her fantasies and brightened every day since she’d met him, and lied.
“Yes.”
That handsome face twisted for a moment in what almost looked like pain before he ground out, “I thought you were different, but you’re not. You’re just like all the rest of them. Spoiled, shallow, selfish, insincere…”
“I have never claimed to be other than what I am,” Gemma whispered, stung to the quick.
A lightning strike of strong emotion flickered in Hal’s eyes, but he squeezed them shut before she could read it. “You are correct, madam. I am the one who was wrong. About everything.”
Shoving away from the table so swiftly that he knocked a chair onto its side with a clatter, Hal swung around and threw the jug into the fireplace where it shattered into a hundred shards. Gemma flinched; Hal muttered a curse and strode from the inn.
She watched him go with a lump in her throat and a crack in her heart that threatened to widen into a crevice deep enough to lose herself in.
Gemma told herself it was fine if he never came back. She’d gotten all the help from Hal that she needed, between the furniture and the heavy repair jobs around the inn. They were ready; tonight’s surprise test run proved that.
And if it had also proved that this entire plan was going to be harder than Gemma had imagined, well. So be it.
Mama came downstairs tonight, she reminded herself fiercely. And Lucy—her run-in with Thorne confirmed that as matters stood, she would always be at a disadvantage in society. The same disadvantage that had dogged every step of Gemma’s debut, eventually consigning her to her fate as London’s Liveliest Lady.
She didn’t want that for Lucy, and if Gemma could marry well, it would add enough of a luster of respectability to Lucy’s connections to overcome the circumstances of her parents’ union. It would work. It had to.
Life would go on. And if that life no longer made Gemma as happy as she’d once assumed, well, that would just have to be her little secret.