Page 7 of Her Notorious Rake (Courtships of Acceptance #2)

Gemma floated off the dance floor, hardly noticing where she walked. Her mind kept replaying those moments she’d rotated within inches of Lord Blakemore, his heated stare, his mouth open as he danced with her. Even his touch had sent comet-like sparks through her, and her head spun as she walked towards Prudence near the refreshment table. Before she could reach her friend, however, Aunt Philippa intercepted her, dragging her towards a quieter alcove.

“Aunt Philippa!” Gemma gasped in surprise. “Is something amiss?”

“I must beg you, my dear, to take heed to what I’m about to say. I understand how perfectly natural it is to be enchanted by a man like Lord Blakemore. But as I advised you the other night, Lord Blakemore is a…” and here her aunt glanced around, her eyes wide, before she lowered her voice even more, “…he is a rake. And I cannot stand by and let you, my dear niece, fall prey to his wiles. You would do well to guard yourself, to not only protect your heart but your repute as well. You have a promising season ahead of you, with your name, and your beauty to recommend you. But should you attach yourself to Blakemore, well…”

Aunt Philippa sighed heavily, shaking her head. “It would be a great pity, that is all I mean to say.”

Gemma took in a shaky breath. Aunt Philippa would know more about Blakemore and London gossip than she could even begin to comprehend. More than ever, mortification flooded her, a hot tide that left her almost sick to her stomach, her head reeling too fast. Lord Blakemore was a puzzle—no, more than a puzzle. He was like some blurry and indistinct star she caught in the sights of her telescope, who she couldn’t quite bring into focus. There was the rake he was supposed to be, according to Aunt Philippa. But then, there was the quiet man who danced with her, a deep sadness behind those eyes that piqued her curiosity.

“Yes, Aunt Philippa,” she whispered, setting her jaw. She was in no position to argue her aunt’s view on Lord Blakemore. She’d only met him twice.

It was unwise to think in such a manner of a man she’d only just met. But more than ever, she wanted to learn more about him.

“Understood, love?” Aunt Philippa asked in a soft but steely undertone.

Gemma dipped her chin in a brief nod. “Yes, Aunt Philippa,” she whispered.

“Very good.” Aunt Philippa patted her cheek. “Now, let us go and try some of that delicious French pasty they’re serving tonight. Lady Dunne is ardent about French food.”

Gemma trailed after her, joined by Prudence who leaned over and whispered, “You danced with Lord Blakemore? Have you heard what he’s called?”

Check to see that her aunt was occupied, Gemma and Prudence drifted to one of the big windows, affording themselves a bit more privacy.

“He is the rake of the Ton, of course,” Prudence whispered urgently. “Half the girls in London swoon over him.”

“Does he ever swoon over anyone?”

“Not that I know of. Presumably, he possesses a heart of ice. He leads ever so many girls into thinking he will court them, and yet he never does. What did the two of you speak of during the dance?”

“Astronomy,” she murmured.

“Astronomy? Do you mean, the study of the stars?”

“Yes.”

“Why should you and he speak of that?” Prudence furrowed her porcelain forehead, tilting her head.

“He knows about William Herschel.”

“Who?”

“Oh,” Gemma shook herself from her daze. “Nothing.”

“I just implore you to take care.”

Gemma smiled at her new friend. “And for that I truly thank you, Prudence.”

***

Dalton welcomed the cool air against his skin as he walked down the grassy bank to stare at the water. It sparkled in the moonlight, almost mesmerizing. But not enough so that he forgot about Gemma Hayesworth. He couldn’t remember experiencing this sort of mad, fluttering sensation bursting to life in his stomach. And he certainly couldn’t as of yet remember meeting a young woman who knew of William Herschel. Herschel was of course a popular member of the astrological community. But Dalton hardly expected the girl hailing from deep in the country to know much about such things.

He took a drag of his pipe, exhaling the smoke into the chilly air of the spring night. His own frosted breath melded with the smoke, rising up into the sky. It drew his attention to the stars there, only partially visible tonight. He tugged at his cravat, hoping to ease the tightness there. Despite the cool air, he was still sweating under his coat. Why, he couldn’t be certain.

Grimacing, he lowered onto the grass, sitting on his coattails as he listened to the nightingales singing in the trees and hedges all around.

He eased out a shaky breath and placed the pipe back in his mouth for more of the soothing haze. Maybe he ought to leave early. Join his friends for a night carousing. It had been a week since his last time—something of a record for him these days.

Perhaps this was his body’s way of protesting that. Theodore could say what he liked. The chap was something of a prude—always had been. Even in their school days.

But his mother wasn’t abed most days, letting her melancholy drain what was left of her health away. His father had not died under strange and disturbing circumstances. So he couldn’t possibly understand Dalton’s need for such diversion. It simply confounded Theodore, and that explained why he spoke of it in such a condemning manner.

Of course, Dalton used to be a prude as well, once upon a time. But as the years passed since his father’s death, he’d watched Mother plunge deeper and deeper into that despair and wondered how soon he would lose his only remaining parent. One night—he couldn’t recall exactly when, but he’d had one drink too many, and before he knew it, he’d been careening, lost and drifting.

He lowered his head into his clammy palm. He centered his attention on taking deep breaths and letting them out. That night—it still eluded him how it had all happened, but he must have been out of his senses. He just knew that he craved the numbness it brought him.

Gemma’s voice echoed through his head. This season’s William Herschel . This, with her eyes sparkling in the candelabra remained in his thoughts. Pink lips curved into a smile that wrenched him. Something so guileless and good in her eyes that he wanted to cry out. Untouched by man or life…

Dalton rose to his feet, flexing his hand at the memory of her fingers twining with his, before returning inside, to pay the required pleasantries to the hosts. His legs ached for a good walk. These days he walked some, but mostly rode—by horseback or carriage. He just needed to stretch his legs, maybe. If he so happened to end up at a place he should not, then so be it.

He needed to forget about Gemma Hayesworth. That was for certain. He tossed out the ashes remaining in his pipe and pocketed it, stamping the glowing sparks on the ground.

He trudged up the slope, pausing for a moment on the terrace to peer inside the room at the glowing faces, searching for a glimpse of that one face…

There.

His breath hitched, and he stepped forward. Through the sheen of gossamer curtains that hung over the windows, he watched Gemma laughing as she wove in and out of the other dancers, her eyes crinkled up, her hair clinging to her forehead in little delicate tendrils. Something about her…he felt himself drawn to her like a bee to honey.

He slipped inside, remaining along the edge of the room. He picked up a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray and took a long sip. His stomach knotted strangely as he watched Gemma get passed from one partner to the next, each one making it no secret that they found her alluring. Who wouldn’t, Dalton asked himself.

She was a newcomer amidst the seasoned circles of society, wholly unaccustomed to the intricacies and intrigues that awaited her and he feared they’d tear her to pieces with their gossip, their superficiality, their artifice. Why, they would taint her with it, stain her with their disparaging looks.

London could make even the most glorious hot-house flower wither. He took another sip of his drink, unable to tear his eyes from the girl, hazel eyes flashing into his. The rest of the room faded in that moment, a hazy backdrop against which they alone stood in sharp relief. The only thing he could think to do was tip his chin, lifting his glass in a tacit toast meant for her and her alone.

Her eyes remained locked with his, something in her gaze that stirred him. He managed a shaky smile, inhaling sharply. Forget Gemma Hayesworth? He could only hope it was possible.

When Gemma finished the reel, he slipped through the crowd, intercepting her before someone else could pull her into the next dance. For a moment, her eyes widened with surprise. And then a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped face.

“Lord Blakemore,” she let out a breathless laugh, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure of another dance?”

“I hoped to learn what else you knew of William Herschel. I confess myself rather astonished that you’ve heard of him.”

“Pray, why is that?” Gemma tilted her head as she passed him in the next dance, a minuet.

Dalton drew in a deep breath, circling round with her in the complicated steps. She performed them all nearly to perfection, with a fumble now and again. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, for a moment caught up in centering her attention on the steps. He fought a smile.

When he circled back to her side again, he replied. “My intrigue is owed to the fact that it is uncommon to meet a lady such as yourself…with a singular passion for the stars.”

“A lady such as myself?” her dark eyebrows rose. Good Lord, he was fumbling at this. Which was even more disturbing. What was it about her that left him so…discomposed? So at a loss? He could feel himself flushing.

“I mean—” he stammered. “I mean to say—” they parted again for several agonizing moments, Gemma’s brow furrowed, a thoughtful smile curving her lips. When she returned before him, he tried again. “I have been in London nearly my entire life. And only once or twice, I have come into acquaintance with only one or two members of the fairer sex who took such a…particular interest in astronomy. At least, of those I encountered who visited the salons. And I must confess, they were many years my senior, and their husbands had been scholars in the field. So, I can imagine that is from whence their interest commences.”

“Or perhaps, they truly delight in the study of the stars. That is too a possibility, is it not, Lord Blakemore?”

“Of course,” Dalton allowed. His face had to be crimson at this point.

She shifted the direction of the conversation then, to his relief, inquiring after the Royal Society salons around the city, most often held at Somerset House.

“You ought to attend. If you take pleasure in the study of astronomy, you will find a number of scholars who frequent Somerset House. I must warn you, however. They are eager to secure a patron for their studies. They may attempt to waylay you.”

“I shall have to keep that in mind,” Gemma replied, circling back around to take his hand. He led her forward, and then backwards, as the music floated around them softly. He knew the steps by heart, affording him the opportunity to watch Gemma dance, her laughter contagious as she misstepped once or twice.

Before he knew it, the dance was over. Two dances in one night. Usually, he avoided parties like these if he could help it. With Mother out of society these days, except for lately, he kept his distance from this part of London social life. He preferred the philosophical salons, the gentlemen’s clubs, or the fencing courts. He was hardly the same person he had been several years ago. Until Gemma had arrived in town, the world had been colorless, intolerably tedious. And now…

It had become a sparkling thing once again.