Chapter Two
W yatt Felps, the Duke of Larsen, felt a tug of regret as he slipped down the passageway back to his bedchamber.
That last comment may have been a step too far. And more than a little unnecessary. And rude. What has gotten into me?
Because despite all her self-righteousness and uppity words, there was a part of him that found Gemma Caster more than a little desirable.
That soft brown hair that had tickled his skin as he slept, those soft pink lips, those delicate curves that he could just imagine his hands tracing the shape of…
There was a part of him that very much would like to slide into bed beside her again and feel those curious fingers roaming his body.
Wyatt shook the thought away quickly. He had no intention of putting an end to his rakish ways once he was married to Miss Henford, but Gemma Caster was certainly not someone he would intentionally go near.
In spite of where he had found himself this morning, the Earl of Volk's daughter was notoriously cold and unfeeling, and infuriatingly haughty.
How on earth did I end up in her bed?
The night was an utter blur. But the fierce pounding in Wyatt's head supplied some clue as to what might have happened.
Once he had cleaned himself up, he would seek out his best friend Jonah, Baron Anderson, and see if he could shed any light on what might have happened.
Wyatt knew he had to keep quiet about his night with Lady Gemma— I couldn't share any details even if I wanted— but he knew he could trust Jonah to keep his mouth shut.
That is not quite right , Wyatt thought to himself. There was one detail he could remember vividly. Waking up to the feel of her hand resting against him. He was rather surprised by how much he had enjoyed the feel of her.
He rubbed his eyes blearily as he pushed open the door of his bedchamber. Thankfully, the passage was empty, but he could hear bright voices coming from the breakfast table downstairs, his betrothed, Miss Henford's, among them.
Wyatt found his valet, Sampson, laying out a razor and shaving basin, as though he had heard him coming.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Sampson had been with Wyatt since his return home from Eton twelve years ago, and his lined face showed no surprise at the Duke's disheveled state—or the fact that he had spent the night in a bed other than his own.
Wyatt was grateful for the man's endless discretion, and what appeared to be a complete lack of interest in his master's less-than-admirable behavior.
“Tea,” he grunted. “Strong.”
“Yes, sir.” Sampson put down the razor and disappeared out the door, leaving Wyatt to the blessed silence of the bedroom.
It had to be a good thing, surely, that his mother, or grandmother—or worst of all, his wife-to-be—had not yet come charging up here demanding an explanation for his and Lady Gemma's behavior last night.
The silence suggested everyone was unaware they had spent the night together.
Nonetheless, Wyatt was dreading the breakfast table.
Perhaps it would be best if he did not show himself at all.
It was not as if he would have to feign an illness—his throat felt full of nails, and his stomach was rolling as if he were crossing a raging ocean in a dinghy.
He could barely fathom the thought of the eggs and bacon he could smell from downstairs.
Yes, he decided, keeping himself out of sight this morning was for the best. After breakfast, he would find Jonah and try and make sense of what had happened.
And why, in spite of everything, he could not pull his thoughts away from Gemma Caster.
Gemma sat at her dressing table, trying to conjure up the courage to face the breakfast room. Her lady's maid had pinned her hair and powdered her cheeks and helped her into a fresh lilac-colored gown, but Gemma still felt as though everything she had done last night was written across her face.
She closed her eyes, trying for the thousandth time to pull some fragment of the previous night from her memories. But the evening remained lost behind a thick haze.
Her heart was still thumping hard at the horror of finding the Duke in her bed, and the unexpected thrill that had come with his closeness. In spite of that thrill—or perhaps because of it—wild anger at him still burned beneath her skin.
How dare he say such things about my father? How dare he say such things about me? To imply that the night was my doing?!
Gemma stood suddenly and marched toward the door.
Though she remembered nothing of the night, she knew deep within herself that she was innocent in this.
How could she be anything but? She would never be so forward as to invite a man to her bed.
Would never do anything so underhand as try and trap a man into marriage.
No matter how desperately my family might need it.
Her memories might be hazy, but Gemma knew her own decency well enough to have no doubt about these matters. Meanwhile, the Duke of Larsen had the worst of reputations as an immoral, philandering rake. Gemma was certain he had crept uninvited into her room last night.
But why?
Trying to find answers would have to wait until later. The prospect of facing the Duke—and his betrothed—at the breakfast table was more than enough to contend with right now.
Gemma climbed downstairs with her heart beating hard.
She pushed open the door to the breakfast room.
Sunlight flooded in through the long windows, making her recoil against the light.
The smell of eggs, bacon, and strong tea was thick in the air.
The long breakfast table was filled with the Henfords and their party guests, among them the Martha, Duchess of Larsen and her mother-in-law, Sandra, the Dowager Duchess of Larsen, and Gemma's father, grandmother, and sisters.
She dared to step inside. The moment she did so, the chatter and clinking of cutlery against plates fell silent and all heads turned toward her. Gemma's heart lurched.
They know. They all know.
Poisonous looks flew her way from Miss Henford's brother and father. The Duke of Larsen's mother, a narrowed-faced lady with flinty eyes and her graying hair scraped back in a harsh bun, pierced her with an admonishing stare. Gemma lowered her eyes, unable to bear their scrutiny.
But when she dared catch her grandmother's eye from across the room, it was a warm smile that spread across the old woman's face, not a look of horror and shame. Surely if her grandmother knew she and the Duke had spent the night in bed together, she would not be greeting her with a smile.
The warmth in her grandmother's face gave Gemma the courage to approach the table. Her sister, Veronica, waved her over and Gemma slipped into the chair beside her, relieved when the room filled with chatter again. Miss Henford's brother shot her a final barbed glance, before pulling his eyes away.
Daring to scan the room, Gemma noticed Miss Henford was not yet at breakfast. The knot in her stomach tightened. Did her absence have anything to do with Gemma and the Duke's little… adventure last night? The horror was unthinkable.
Miss Henford was not the only notable absence.
There was the Duke, of course, although Gemma had no doubt his failure to show himself came from a determined attempt to avoid her.
And then there was her father. No doubt he had spent the night in his cups, as usual.
These days, the Earl of Volk missed breakfast more often than he attended it.
This morning at least, Gemma was grateful for his absence.
Veronica turned to her older sister with a conspiratorial smile. “I must say,” she began, her blue eyes shining, “you and His Grace did cause rather a stir last night.”
Gemma's stomach rolled. “We did?”
“Oh yes. Those games you were playing.” She laughed airily. “Honestly, I have never seen you like that before. If I did not know you better, I would have said you were wildly drunk.”
I feel as if I were wildly drunk…
But how was that possible? Not even so much as a mouthful of wine had passed her lips last night.
“I do not…” She rubbed her eyes, taking a mouthful of tea to steady herself.
“I do not remember anything of it.” Gemma was careful to keep her voice down.
She did not want her youngest sister Jane, who was sitting on Veronica's other side, to overhear.
Gemma had always prided herself on being a good role model for her two sisters, particularly since their mother's death five years ago.
But it seemed she had let that slip last night…
Veronica frowned. “What do you mean you do not remember anything of it? You were drinking nothing but lemonade all night.”
“I know.” Gemma's voice came out as a sharp whisper. “But I just cannot seem to recall…” She groaned. “Please, Veronica. Just put me out of my misery and tell me what happened.”
Veronica let out an airy laugh. “Oh goodness, Gemma. It is not that bad. You look positively horrified. You and His Grace just got into a heated argument about the position of women in society, and then you began to challenge one another to some contests.”
“Contests?” Gemma's mouth felt dry.
“Oh yes.” Veronica giggled again. “First you challenged him to a poetry-writing competition and some arithmetic puzzles. And then—” Veronica's voice began to rise with laughter and Gemma whacked her knee under the table to silence her.
“And then what ?” she whispered. “What did we do?”
Veronica's eyes were bright with mirth. “Well, the two of you wanted to go outside for a race around the garden. We all had to try very hard to prevent you from doing so. Her Grace, the Duchess, scolded you for being so unladylike.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2 (Reading here)
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
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