Chapter Eight

“ W hat has gotten into you, Gemma?” asked Veronica.

It was a fair question. Gemma had just upended her teacup across the breakfast table at Volk House. For the second time that morning.

Her sister gave her a sympathetic smile. “You really have not been yourself since Miss Henford's party.”

Gemma dabbed at the splotches of tea on the front of her day dress.

“I am quite all right,” she murmured. “Just feeling a little clumsy this morning.” She had no desire to revisit the chaos of the party.

Especially not with her grandmother at the breakfast table.

She had not breathed a word to anyone about what had happened between her and the Duke in the music room. And she intended to keep it that way.

In truth, she was anything but all right. Because today, they were to attend the wedding of Henrietta Henford and the Duke of Larsen.

Gemma was dreading the event with a passion she had not even thought she was capable of. And she hated that she felt that way. Why on earth should she care who the Duke married?

He and Miss Henford deserve each other.

But thoughts of the Duke had been swirling around her mind unbidden since the morning they had woken up in bed together.

His impossibly handsome face. His hungry lips.

Those rough hands that had drawn sounds and sensations from her that she had never before imagined.

In the two nights since their… encounter, Gemma had found herself lying sleepless in bed, all too aware of the heat between her thighs.

All too aware of a burning need to be touched.

Gemma had been deliberate in avoiding any mention of the Dowager Duchess, particularly in front of her grandmother. She blamed Her Grace for all that had happened and wondered what the Dowager Marchioness would think of it.

Would Grandmother be angry at her friend for using me as a pawn to break the betrothal of the Duke and Miss Larsen?

Something at the back of her mind told her it was not all the Dowager Duchess's doing.

Her Grace might have locked the two of them in the music room together, but everything else…

well, they had no one to blame but themselves.

The thought made her cheeks heat, and she reached hurriedly for her freshly filled teacup.

“Your sister is right,” said the Dowager Marchioness. “You really have not been yourself these last few days.”

“It's because the Duke of Larsen is getting married today,” said Jane with a teasing smile. “Gemma is dreadfully sad that she will no longer have the chance to write poetry with him.”

Gemma shot her sister a glare.

“Oh Jane,” the Dowager Marchioness sighed. “You really ought to keep such silly comments to yourself.” She flashed her youngest granddaughter a sly grin. “Although I do suspect you may be right.”

The shock of the comment caused Gemma to inhale the contents of her teacup and devolve into a frantic mess of coughing.

Veronica patted her on the back and handed her a glass of water. “Ignore them, Gemma. They are only teasing you.”

Gemma gulped down the water, grateful for the excuse not to speak.

How could her mind be so full of a scoundrel like the Duke of Larsen?

Perhaps for a moment, her thoughts on him had wavered, and she had begun to see a decent man behind the brazen facade.

But that decent man, she saw now, was the illusion.

More than once during the party, he had burned her with his hurtful words.

Reminded her of why she was so against finding a husband.

Now more than ever, she stood by her words that she would not marry the Duke of Larsen if he were the last man left on earth.

Of course, you won't. He is to marry Miss Henford. Today.

In spite of the Duke's doubts, they had received no word that the wedding was not going ahead.

And that, Gemma felt certain, was the best thing for everyone.

With the Duke and Miss Henford married, she could put him out of her mind once and for all.

And the Dowager Duchess of Larsen would have no choice but to cease this foolish little game she had been playing.

“Good morning, Father,” Veronica sang, as the Earl appeared in the doorway. “Did you sleep well?”

The Earl's graying hair was rumpled, his eyes dark with shadow. Nonetheless, Gemma was pleased he had made it to the breakfast table. Such a thing was becoming more and more of a rarity.

“Hard for a man to get any sleep at all,” he grunted, “what with the four of you making such a racket at the breakfast table.”

“Oh, Father.” Veronica leaned over to fill his teacup herself. “It's high time you were awake anyway. Have you forgotten we have a wedding to attend today?”

The Earl mumbled something incoherent, which Gemma took to mean he had forgotten about the wedding.

I wish I had that luxury…

She forced down a few mouthfuls of buttered toast, then got to her feet, asking to be excused. She could hear footsteps clicking behind her as she made her way upstairs. She did not need to turn around to know they belonged to her sister.

Veronica caught up with her as she reached the upstairs passage, and gently tugged Gemma into the sitting room. “Talk to me, Gemma,” she said, pulling her down to sit beside her on the settle. “Tell me what is bothering you. It is not Grandmother and Jane's teasing, is it?”

Gemma sighed. Veronica, with her warm eyes and gentle voice, had a way of coaxing even the deepest secrets out of people.

But these unbidden feelings she had developed for the Duke, they felt too foolish to put into words.

Even for the ears of her kind, non-judgmental sister.

She shook her head, unwilling to speak of it.

“Of course not,” she said. “I know they did not mean it.”

“Are you still embarrassed over the way you behaved at the party?” Veronica asked gently. When Gemma didn't answer, she said, “I am sure you needn't worry. Today all eyes will be on the bride and groom. No one will think to look twice at you.”

Though Veronica's words were spoken with the utmost kindness, Gemma's eyes filled with tears.

She blinked them away hurriedly. A part of her longed to open up to her sister, to tell her everything that had passed between her and the Duke while they had been locked in the music room.

But how could she admit to behaving in such a wanton and unladylike fashion?

She was hardly setting a good example for her younger sisters to follow.

Besides, Gemma prided herself on not letting her emotions carry her away.

She could see the look of alarm that had appeared on Veronica's face with her uncharacteristic tears.

And Gemma did not wish to burden her sister with troubles she had brought on herself.

She straightened her shoulders and swallowed hard.

“I am sure you're right. I am being foolish. I am sure no one will even notice I am there today.” She would wear her most dour, unassuming dress.

Ask her lady's maid to do her hair in the most simple and unflattering fashion. Wear not an ounce of jewelry or makeup.

All the things I did the night the Duke kissed me…

Gemma cursed herself inwardly. Would she ever get this cad out of her mind?

Veronica gave a hesitant smile, and Gemma could tell she was unconvinced. She patted her younger sister's wrist and tried to inject a little confidence into her voice. “Come on now. We ought to get ready.”

The heat of the day was not helping. It was barely ten o'clock, and already the sun was searing down on the churchyard and baking the stones of the old chapel.

Insects hissed in the grass between the headstones.

The ladies gathered outside the church were fanning themselves furiously, while the gentlemen, not relinquishing their top hats and spencer jackets, all looked pink in the face and desperate for a drink.

Has it ever been so hot in the history of London? I doubt it…

Gemma felt as though she was baking, inside and out. Because there, at the far end of the churchyard, was the Duke of Larsen.

He looked impossibly handsome, dressed in a navy suit and silver cravat, his dark hair neatly combed and trimmed to his collar.

At the sight of him, Gemma's body felt suddenly alive again.

Just one glimpse at the man, and she was imagining the way his hands had roamed over her curves.

The way his lips had so hungrily devoured hers.

The way his fingers had grazed over her skirts, teasing her most intimate of places.

“There's the groom,” said Veronica, nodding in the duke's direction. She looped her arm through Gemma's. “I must say, he has polished up rather well, don't you think?”

Gemma attempted a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.” She shuffled backward, trying to hide herself behind her sister.

Gemma was feeling far too conspicuous. She had deliberately avoided the gray dress she had worn at the party for the memories it conjured up, and her grandmother had flat-out refused to let her leave the house wearing brown.

The Dowager Marchioness had instructed Gemma's lady's maid to lace her mistress into a rather elaborate rose-colored gown and to not let her leave her bedchamber without a powdered face and pearls at her throat—which Gemma had surreptitiously removed in the carriage.

Nonetheless, blending into the crowd was feeling like an impossibility.

She could feel eyes on her, could hear the whispers—about her own behavior at the Henfords' party, and the behavior of her father, who had graced the event in his typically drunken way.

Veronica gave an airy laugh. “If I like that sort of thing? What is that supposed to mean?” A conspiratorial look came over her face and she lowered her voice. “Gemma,” she began, “did something… happen between you and the duke at the party?”