Page 6 of Don’t Let Your Dukes Grow Up To Be Scoundrels (Dukes in Disguise #1)

Chapter Six

Gemma had never bungled a conversation so badly in her life.

It was as if Hal had annihilated every rational thought and response with the slick, sure glide of his tongue and the sheer overwhelming heat of his body.

And then he’d pulled away from her, with a terrible look on his face that reminded her so sharply of—but that was no excuse. He’d given her no real reason to lash out, but she’d been unforgivably rude anyway, and worse, she’d sounded like exactly the sort of snob who had made the year of Gemma’s debut such a misery.

There was nothing else for it. She would have to apologize.

Her mounting dread of that awkward conversation did not keep her from enjoying the simple but delicious breakfast Bess had set out in the bar room of the inn. As she chased the last spoonful of creamy porridge around her bowl, she marveled at the difference it made when one didn’t over boil the oats, and when one added embellishments like plump sultanas, wildflower honey, sweet cream, and a grating of fresh nutmeg. The plain nursery fare was transformed into something altogether delectable.

“First the stew last night, now this breakfast,” Gemma mused, licking her spoon thoughtfully. “At last, a bit of good luck.”

Beside her, Lucy was sprawled back in her chair leafing through the same set of newspapers and scandals sheets she’d brought with her from London. The corners were bent and the edges were beginning to look a bit frayed from repeated handling. “I mean, I am glad to know we’ll eat well for however long we’re stuck here, but I wouldn’t say it amounts to the kind of good luck that will do much beyond hopefully enhancing my figure.”

Gemma blinked at the hint of bitterness in her sister’s tone. “Your figure is lovely.”

“Certainly, if one is partial to wooden planks.” Lucy turned a page a little too vehemently, tearing it a bit. “Oh, blast. When is the next mail coach set to arrive? Marianne promised she’d send me a packet with all the latest news.”

“You’re not a wooden plank.”

Lucy sent her a look over the edge of her paper. “Next to you, everyone is a wooden plank.”

Gemma waved her spoon impatiently. “Give yourself a little time! Perhaps you’re merely a late bloomer.”

“That’s what Mama always says. I’m tired of waiting. Not that I want blooms as big as yours, necessarily,” Lucy muttered, sulky.

“Certainly not,” Gemma agreed. “More trouble than they’re worth, most of the time.”

After all, if she’d been less well endowed, she’d have been able to dress herself this morning, leave the room, and avoid the entire episode with Hal.

Instead, she had to live with the memory of a kiss that sent her soaring into the stratosphere—and the horrified regret in his eyes that had immediately brought her back down to earth with a thump.

Determined to focus, Gemma continued, “But if they help us out of our current difficulties, so much the better. And my chest is no longer all we have going for us!”

“What do you mean?”

“We have Bess.” Gemma leaned her elbows on the table and glanced around the empty bar room. The imagination she would have sworn she didn’t have sprang to life, filling in the vacant tables around them with guests and customers, talking and laughing and enjoying Bess’s flavorful dishes. Plunking down their coin for a night in a comfortable, well-appointed room and a delectable meal.

“She truly is an extraordinary cook. Why do you suppose no one has yet discovered this place, even though she’s been cooking here for ages?”

“Well, Little Kissington isn’t exactly a known stop along the Bath Road, though we’re no more than a five mile detour. If we can only convince people to go slightly off the beaten path, a reputation for delicious, filling food will be a true asset to an inn like this. We can build on that.”

“And a handsome bar man,” Lucy observed, folding her newspaper as carefully as if it were made of gossamer. “That will be a draw for the ladies.”

Gemma felt hot color scorch her cheeks and ears. “Yes. Quite. Look, all the world passes through a good coaching inn, sooner or later. So we need to make this place good .”

“It’s so unfair,” Lucy burst out, her face screwing up. “We should have been able to inherit! We shouldn’t have had to leave our home. We should have more options than to either sell ourselves into marriage or starve in the hedgerows.”

The fire inside Gemma’s breast burned a little brighter. Her sister would have more options, better options; Gemma would make sure of that. “No one is going to starve, in the hedgerows or elsewhere. And you will not have to marry for money. We will use the inn to lure in a good match for me, and you and Mama will be taken care of. But it will not be easy. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

Lucy straightened in her chair, a new light coming into her dark blue eyes. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, I promise. But I’m not sure we can count on Mama for much.”

Once Lucy had returned to help Gemma into her stays, they’d visited Henrietta and tried to tempt her downstairs for breakfast. But though she’d risen from bed and allowed herself to be dressed, Henrietta had insisted she wasn’t hungry. They’d left her sitting in the chair by the smudged, dirty window, looking out at the chilly spring morning with her hands lying listlessly in her lap.

Gemma pressed her lips together. “Mama will be fine. The journey was difficult for her, she needs rest. And goodness knows this place was a shock! But she will recover. In the meantime, I shall enlist more help this very morning.”

“Oh? From whom?” Lucy leaned in, batting her eyelashes. “Handsome Hal, the barman?”

“Hal can go to the devil,” Gemma said sharply. Damn it, she really did need to apologize. She would. She just had one thing to do first. “Remember that big manor house we passed on the road here, just outside of the village?”

Lucy nodded, and Gemma lifted her chin. “Well. We may have come down in the world somewhat, but I should think a country squire with a dozen hounds would still be happy to receive a duke’s daughter as a visitor. And if he’s rich enough, perhaps I’ll marry him.”

“Hmm. And even if he isn’t husband material, it would be good to get the local gentry on our side. That’s the first step in convincing the rest of the aristocracy that this place is worth a visit.”

“Exactly. You’ve a head for business as well as a nose for gossip.”

Lucy snorted, but her cheeks pinked a bit with pleasure. “Let’s go upstairs and find your most ravishing morning dress. Perhaps this country squire will be the answer to all our problems in one fell swoop. Can’t hurt to look your best.”

For the first time since conceiving of the plan, Gemma was struck by the reality of what she was trying to do. If she succeeded, if all went as well as it possibly could and she triumphed beyond imagining—she would have to marry a man who was currently a stranger, who might be of any age or disposition. Whom she might not love, or even like.

It was the way of the world, of course. Her world, the world of aristocratic titles and generational wealth and family legacy—but Gemma had been raised by parents in the throes of the most epic sort of romance, and her father, in particular, had been very clear that Gemma was absolutely not to marry for any reason other than love.

“Gemma, my girl,” he would say as he stood very still and let his valet tie his cravat while Gemma sat on the floor and watched. “There is nothing worse in this world than being forced to live out your days trapped in a loveless marriage. I will never give my blessing to a match for you unless you are both wild for one another.”

And, true to his word, he had never even hinted at a wish that she accept one of the gentlemen who occasionally sniffed about the skirts of a wealthy duke’s daughter. To be fair, Father had been quite wrapped up in his own whirl of parties, gambling, and merrymaking, as well as his undying passion for his second wife, but Gemma had always appreciated the sentiment. It had made her feel very special, to know that her fate would not be that of most girls of her class.

But then he’d overturned his curricle in a foolish, drunken race against one of his drunken fool friends, and now…Gemma was no longer special.

She would have to face the reality that most women faced, and make the best of it.

Marriage was a fairly straightforward business arrangement, after all: security and social standing for her; a body in his bed and a mother for his children for him.

For some reason, the prospect of a convenient business arrangement of a marriage had seemed simpler yesterday. She supposed it was easier to consider the prospect of a life without passion before she’d experienced passion for herself.

Standing up from the table so quickly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor, Gemma said, “All right. Help me get dressed to seduce your potential future brother-in-law. I have a call to pay.”

She couldn’t afford to waver or indulge in the sort of fantasy her mother had been lucky enough to live out, Gemma lectured herself firmly as she followed her sister upstairs.

Passion was all very well, but it wouldn’t save her family.

An hour later, Gemma did a slow twirl in front of Lucy, who clapped her hands. “I wish I had a looking glass,” Gemma fretted, patting at her hair.

Lucy, who’d proved surprisingly adept with a comb, surveyed her with a critical eye. “It’s not that different from braiding a horse’s tail. I think it looks all right, especially once you put the bonnet on.”

After quite a bit of deliberation, they’d selected a draped celadon muslin day dress embroidered at the hem with dainty tendrils and leaves of a slightly darker shade of green. The floaty fabric was so fine, it was necessary to wear a plain white underdress beneath. It gave the whole gown a dreamy, cloudlike air, as though a stiff wind might blow it away in a swirl of mist, leaving Gemma in her corset and drawers.

Tiny puffed sleeves hugged Gemma’s upper arms, their frills edged with satin ribbon of the same darker green. More of the ribbon threaded along the neckline of the bodice, which was fashionably low and straight across Gemma’s bosom. The ivory lace fichu tucked into her décolletage somehow served to draw attention to the soft curves of her breasts, rather than preserving whatever modesty she possessed.

It seemed a shame to cover it up with the forest green velvet spencer, but the air had enough of a nip in it to convince her.

Gemma surveyed herself critically. She thought she’d managed to strike a nice balance between fashionable sophistication and the sort of simplicity a country gentleman might prize.

“Shouldn’t I come with you?” Lucy asked. “It’s more the done thing, of course, but I’d only be in the way if you want to start a proper seduction.”

Gemma considered, then shook her head. “Rules are more relaxed in the country, and anyhow I’m getting to the age where it makes more sense for me to be a chaperone than to have one. Just don’t tell Mama.”

“I’m worried about her.” Lucy picked at the embroidery on her sleeve cuff. She was in another mourning gown, a dark blue printed cotton sprigged with the tiniest flecks of white flowers, and it jarred Gemma a bit to see her baby sister in such a grown-up dress. The dark colors of mourning suited her in a way that the whites and pastels worn by unmarried young ladies did not.

“Let us look in on her again and try to coax her out for a walk,” Gemma agreed, but when they descended on their mother and tried to convince her to join Lucy for a stroll through the village, Henrietta refused to leave her room.

“Oh, girls,” she sighed, the lace of her cap fluttering gently as she lay back in her chair by the window. The remains of her breakfast sat, the tray barely touched, on the spindly-legged table beside her. “I’m far too weary to stir out of doors at present. Perhaps tomorrow.”

She turned up her cheek for a kiss, and Gemma breathed in the powdery rose scent of her mother as she bent to bestow it. She hated to think of Henrietta languishing alone in this dreary room, but the reality was that there was nowhere else for her to go that would be much of an improvement.

Not yet, at least.

As they closed Henrietta’s door behind them and trooped down the stairs, Lucy said, “Do you know, I’m not certain that another day of rest is going to cure what ails Mama.”

Gemma sailed through the empty public room and out the front door of the inn, holding her diaphanous skirts high to keep them clear of the dirt. Chickens squawked and darted around their feet. She wrinkled her nose. “She’s overset by our change in circumstances. The sooner we can remove ourselves from this situation and return to our rightful place in London and society, the better.”

Behind her, Lucy muttered, “I don’t think that’s going to fix Mama either,” but she spoke quietly enough to allow Gemma to ignore it. Which she was determined to do, even as worry squeezed at her heart.

Mama would be well again. She had to be. Gemma would make sure of it.

“While I’m visiting,” she told Lucy, “I need you to put your predilection for gossip to good use. Find out everything you can about the local gentry, the most prosperous merchants in town, everyone who’s anyone in this little backwater. We need to make a splash, and we won’t do it by catering solely to common laborers and farmhands.”

“I meant to ask Bess about the manor house this morning at breakfast,” Lucy said regretfully.

“But you were too busy eating?”

“But Bess was too busy with her work to stop and chat,” Lucy retorted with great dignity. Then she grinned. “And also, I was too busy eating. Who knew porridge could taste like that?”

The sisters made their way through the arched entrance to the courtyard and out to the main thoroughfare of the village. The packed dirt road ran alongside the rolling village green, sloping down toward the pretty stone bridge that crossed Westcote Brook. Just beyond the bridge stood the cluster of buildings that made up the village of Little Kissington.

“I think I’ll start at the blacksmith’s,” Lucy mused, eyes thoughtful under the broad brim of her navy silk bonnet. “For some reason, they always seem to know everything that’s going on in a town.”

“You’re the gossip expert.” Gemma pressed her sister’s hand in farewell. “Find out what they’re saying about us—we need to know, so we can start to sway them to our side. And try not to get into any trouble.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.” Lucy arched a brow. “Of the two of us, who makes near-weekly appearances in the scandal sheets? Just remember this isn’t London—people here may not be ready for someone like you.”

“ Moi ?” Gemma placed a hand on her chest and contrived a quizzical ‘who me?’ expression. “Don’t worry, Luce. I can behave myself. I know the rules of propriety—I had to learn what they were before I could break them all!”

Ten minutes later, Gemma was still grinning a little as she made her way up the hill toward the woods. The footpath was narrow and winding, but clear enough to follow. It appeared to lead in the direction of the crenellated towers she’d glimpsed on the drive in, so Gemma kept going.

The day had become warm, almost unpleasantly so. As she trudged on, Gemma could feel beads of perspiration dampening her hairline and prickling under her corset. She wished she could remove her gloves. A pebble rolled under her foot, painfully discernible through the thin soles of her slippers, and she nearly stumbled. Grimly, she marched along.

A bug of some sort buzzed about her head, making her rear back in startlement and swat at it with her arms pinwheeling wildly. It flew off, completely harmless, and Gemma took a moment to compose herself.

Nothing to be embarrassed about, she realized. No one had seen her. There was no one around.

She was completely alone.

It occurred to her that it was the first time she could remember that she had been so alone. The sensation shivered through her oddly, novel and not entirely comfortable, but interesting.

In London, one was never alone. Not really. When out and about, there had been chaperones and governesses when she was young, then companions and friends when she came of age. Even alone in her rooms at Ashbourn House, there had been the certainty that the place teemed with humanity: her parents and sister living their own lives, maids and footmen bustling about. And in the street below and the neighborhoods beyond, countless other lives being lived, interweaving and flowing alongside hers, enfolding her into the larger life of the city itself.

Here, there was none of that. She’d climbed now high above the village, past even the church and whatever vestiges of civilization it might have offered. The manor house was still further up the hill, through the thick stands of trees. At the moment, she was utterly and completely alone.

A strange sense of freedom expanded in her chest. She could do whatever she liked; there was no one to see her, or hear her, or comment on her behavior one way or another.

She’d learned early not to care what anyone thought, and even to revel in the scandalized whispers and shocked glances, but it was work. It was exhausting to be the center of attention at all times. Here, she didn’t need to impress anyone. She didn’t need to attract anyone. She didn’t need to entertain anyone.

She didn’t need to be strong for anyone.

Even as the thought occurred to her, she felt grief reach up to clasp a fist around her throat, as though it had been lying in wait all this time. Panic and relief warred in her chest.

She hadn’t cried. Not in years, not even three months ago when her father died. She hadn’t had time. There had been one shock after another, her mother falling to pieces and their horrible half-brother cutting them off without a penny and having to arrange things for their journey, and through it all, Gemma had shed not one single tear.

Maybe now she finally could.

Dry eyes burning and head beginning to pound with tension, Gemma stood stock still in the middle of the forest and tried to cry.

She imagined the relief of it, the release, the unburdening of an emotion that felt too heavy to keep shouldering alone.

She thought about her debonair, charming father, always smiling or laughing or tossing her a kiss over his shoulder as he and Henrietta swept out the door, off to one of their many social engagements. His presence had filled Ashbourn House with verve and vitality; he may not have been welcomed back into the embrace of the highest ranks of the Ton after his second marriage, but he had been very popular amongst those in Society who valued their entertainments and pleasures over following the rigid rules of protocol.

Gemma remembered his advice, after that first, ill-fated ball of her first Season.

“Never you mind what they think, Gemma girl,” he’d said, sloshing brandy into a pair of cut crystal tumblers and handing her one. “Miserable, the lot of them. Be different. Do what you like. Make yourself happy. That’s all that matters in this life.”

Well, he had certainly lived by that code, and so had she, for a time. It was difficult not draw a connection between that reckless, neck-and-leather way of living and Father’s terrible—and utterly avoidable—carriage accident. It was sometimes quite difficult not to be angry with Father.

For leaving them with nothing, yes…but more than that, for leaving them at all.

Shuddering in a breath, Gemma clenched her fists and turned her face up to the canopy of gently rustling leaves and waited. Her temples throbbed and her eyes stung. Her throat ached.

But nothing happened.

The tears stubbornly refused to fall, the sobs stayed locked behind her clenched teeth. The grief wrung tighter and tighter until it was all but strangling her into silence.

Panting, Gemma squeezed her eyes shut and forced out a sharp scream of frustration that lanced through the quiet of the woods like a blade. Utterly defeated, she buried her face in her gloved hands.

“What’s wrong,” she heard a man’s voice call out.

Unable to believe her ears, Gemma looked up to see Hal bloody Deveril striding down the path toward her like an avenging angel in a worn, tan coat, ready to do battle. Gemma very nearly screamed again in frustration.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, perhaps a trifle hysterically. “Why are you always here, in the exact moment when I’m making a fool of myself?”

“Tell me where you’re hurt,” he clipped out, coming close enough to grasp her shoulders in those big, strong, capable hands.

Gemma shivered, then scowled, annoyed with herself, aggravated with him, and irritated with the entire world. It was too much to be borne. She covered her face with her hands, attempting to regain some scrap of composure.

“Are you crying?” Hal sounded alarmed.

Gemma snorted at the irony and dropped her gloved hands. “No. I’m not crying. I told you, I don’t cry. I’m not sure I even remember how.”

Confusion creased his forehead. “Are you injured in some way?”

She pulled away from him and immediately missed the warm, reassuring touch. “I’m not hurt. I’m perfectly well. Please go away.”

Hal’s hands hovered in the air for a moment, then dropped to his sides. He scowled back at her. “Then what the hell were you screaming at, you daft woman?”

She couldn’t say ‘my dead father’ so she improvised. “An insect. A large one. With far too many legs. But it’s gone now, and I have places to be, so good day to you, sir.”

Gemma gave him a short nod and set off up the path at a brisk trot. To her dismay, he turned and walked with her back the way he’d come, easily keeping pace. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his gaze boring through the brim of her bonnet to burn against her flushed cheek.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

When she glanced at him, he was raking her from head to toe with narrowed eyes, taking in every detail of her admittedly slightly risqué gown.

“None of your business,” she retorted, lifting her chin and unhooking the front panel of her spencer just to torment him. It was too warm out here for a velvet coat anyway.

Hal slid his hands into his pockets, but his jaw was as hard as stone as he watched her work her arms out of the long, tight sleeves. “Just out for a stroll in your flimsiest dress, I suppose. Hoping to impress the squirrels with the latest fashions from Paris?”

“Please.” Gemma folded her spencer over her arm and tipped her head high as she walked on. “I won’t take fashion critiques from a man who can’t even be bothered to put on a coat that fits.”

He looked down at himself as though surprised to find he was wearing a coat at all. “This coat fits!”

“That coat would fit two of you.” It was criminal, actually, how little that garment did to highlight Hal’s considerable assets.

Hal snorted. “Not if the two of me wanted to get any work done. I’m not some rich toff who spends his days lifting nothing heavier than a silver spoon.”

The pure venom in his voice stopped Gemma in her tracks. Hal paused too, turning to face her questioningly. She studied him. “You know, for such a salt of the earth, man of the people type, you’re quite well spoken. I didn’t mark it at first, being distracted by your general aura of infuriatingness, but how exactly does a common laborer come to speak like an educated gentleman?”

His answering glance was opaque, and Gemma got the clear sense that he was deciding how much to tell her. “I had some education,” was his gruff admission.

The hint of mystery tugged at Gemma, begging to be unraveled, but she resisted. Hal’s background could not matter less. She had no business delving further. Especially since every new piece of information she uncovered only served to make the enigma of Hal Deveril even more appealing.

“You don’t need to tell me where you’re going,” Hal said abruptly, changing the subject. “I can guess.”

Recalled to her mission, Gemma started walking again, gritting her teeth against the pain in her feet. These shoes were designed for traipsing from the settee to the tea table, not a rugged ramble through the woods.

“Perhaps you were correct before,” she suggested, hopping lightly over a muddy patch. “Perhaps I’m here to visit the woodland creatures.”

“This path only leads to one place. You’re going to Kissington Manor. But you may as well turn around now and head back to the inn, because no matter what you hope to find up at the big house, you’re destined for disappointment.”

Gemma’s heart sank. Not that she’d truly expected it to be as simple as marrying the first wealthy aristocrat she came across, but it would have been nice. “Ah. So he’s married then.”

“Who?”

“The lord of the manor!” Gemma gesticulated up the hill, toward the still-unseen house. “He must be already wed, or else he’s an ogre of some kind. But what kind, is the question—there are certain types of ogre one might be willing to put up with, if the compensation were large enough.”

An odd look had come over Hal’s face. He smoothed a hand over his beard, as though wiping away a bemused smile. “He’s not married, and not much more of an ogre than most men, I reckon.”

Interest sparked in Gemma’s blood. She felt like a hunting dog catching the scent of a rabbit. “What’s his name? Perhaps I know him already.”

Hal cleared his throat, but his voice still came out a bit choked. “John Montrose. Eighth Duke of Havilocke.”

“But that’s tremendous! I do know the Montroses!” Gemma exclaimed. “I met—I suppose it must be the previous Duke of Havilocke, at Lord Denbigh’s country house party several years ago. He had a bit of a reputation for pinching the serving girls, and anyone else who got too close to him, if I remember correctly. And his duchess, oof. Very haughty for a lady who was rumored to have more lovers than her rakehell of a husband. My friends and I avoided them both like the plague, and then I remember hearing recently that they died of some sort of fever or something, one right after the other. So the new duke must be the younger brother! How marvelous!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Hal cautioned her as the trees around them began to thin and the path meandered into a freshly turned field. “I told you to ready yourself for disappointment.”

“There is only so disappointing a duke can ever be,” Gemma quipped, shading her eyes against the mid-day sun to look for the house.

Beyond the fields stood yet more trees, but she could just about make out the sharp lines of a majestic roof and towers poking out over the top of the lush, leafy green. “And a young, unmarried duke? Practically a unicorn. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“That’s the disappointing part. He isn’t here.”

Gemma stopped walking. “Oh. Of course. Parliament is sitting, he must be in Town.”

Shrugging, Hal leaned a hip against a rough wooden fence post and said, “Couldn’t say. But the house is locked up tight, so you might as well?—”

“I’d still like to see it,” Gemma interrupted, making an abrupt decision. After all, she’d walked all this way already. “Is the house open to visitors? I shall apply to the housekeeper for a tour.”

Alarm flashed across his handsome features, there and gone again so quickly Gemma thought she might have imagined it. “No, the house isn’t open, and there’s no housekeeper either.”

“You know an awful lot about it,” Gemma observed, tilting her head to one side. “Now that I come to think of it, it’s something of an odd coincidence that you happened to come across me all the way up here. As you said, that path only leads to one place. What business would you have up at the manor house, if it’s all locked up and deserted?”

His brows lowered dangerously. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I hardly know,” Gemma shot back, “But you must admit that a country barkeep being at all familiar with the movements of a duke is unusual, to say the least.”

Anger flashed in those green-gold eyes but his deep voice was even and calm. “I’m not stealing the silver, if that’s what you’re implying. You may check my pockets if you like.”

Gemma arched a brow, refusing to be embarrassed. “Then what are you doing up at the manor, if I may be so bold?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “I am…somewhat acquainted with the family. The duke attended Oxford, as did I. He asked me to keep an eye on the house while they’re away, so I live there as a sort of…caretaker.”

Absorbing this extraordinary tidbit, Gemma tapped a gloved finger against her lower lip. Oxford. Hal had gone to a top university and hobnobbed with dukes.

Shaking herself, Gemma attempted to focus on her present task. She could turn this situation to her advantage. Indeed, a fresh idea was already beginning to take shape in her mind.

“But that’s perfect, then,” she said brightly. “ You can show me about the place.”

She set off at once, grimacing a bit as her slippers sank into the mud at the edge of the field. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at Hal’s impassive, arms-crossed stance.

“Come along,” she said briskly. “Or have you forgotten you promised to help me with my plans?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” was his low response, and the air between them suddenly roiled with tension.

Gemma swallowed hard. Bracing her shoulders back and her chin up, she forced herself to look Hal in the eye. He was watching her with the hooded gaze of a predator, missing nothing and giving away nothing, but somehow Gemma knew he was thinking about that kiss.

That kiss, and the terrible things she’d said afterward.

“I’m actually glad we encountered one another,” Gemma told him, remembered shame prickling her scalp and tightening her shoulders. “The truth is, I should have sought you out at once, but I was a bit of a coward and I didn’t. At any rate, fate has intervened and I suppose that means I must take the opportunity to say, well. I’m sorry.”

One brow lifted at a slightly sardonic angle was Hal’s only visible reaction to this admittedly inelegant speech. “What are you sorry for?”

Damnation. He was really going to make her say it.

Gritting her teeth, Gemma said, “For kissing you. For being unforgivably rude. For implying that you couldn’t have honor because you have no title—believe me, I do understand how little honor there is to be found among the highest ranking members of the Ton.”

She paused, feeling the back of her neck and tips of her ears get hot. “I believe that you are a man of honor, and I promise you I’m not here to cause trouble for anyone in this village, or to make anyone’s life harder. I only want to get my mother and sister and me out of here and back to London where we belong.”

Hal stepped closer, coming out from under the shade of the trees to stand with Gemma in the sun-washed field of tall, waving grass. A breeze rippled across the field like a wave rolling in to the shore. Sunlight glinted off the strands of copper, bronze and gold in Hal’s hair and sparked green fire in his eyes. He was so handsome, Gemma felt her breath catch and her blood pound through her veins as if her whole body had been startled awake by his nearness.

“Thank you for that very handsome apology,” Hal said gravely, his deep voice like velvet rubbing along Gemma’s skin. “I appreciate it. But there’s one thing you mentioned that you need never be sorry for.”

“Oh?” She stared up at him, too enthralled to be embarrassed by how breathless she sounded. “What’s that?”

Hal reached out one large, work-roughened hand and gently palmed the side of her throat to pull her in toward his body. Gemma felt every inch of herself yield to him. Her lips parted on a gasp.

When he bent his head low to speak into her ear, Gemma shivered in delight at the brush of his silky, close-cropped beard. His voice was a soft growl when he whispered, “Don’t ever apologize for kissing me.”

With a muffled moan, Gemma lifted up onto her toes, dropped her coat in favor of grasping his broad shoulders, and took him at his word.