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Chapter Twenty-Seven

G emma hurried through the house and slipped out the back door into the garden, running across the wet grass into the shelter of the arbor.

Despite the rain, the air was warm, and the escape from the house gave her a little space to breathe.

Out here, the lamps at the front of the manor did little to light the darkness, and the music and laughter from the ball was a distant hum.

She sank onto the bench in the arbor. A few droplets of water drizzled in from between the ivy overhead, but Gemma did not care.

Let this cursed dress get ruined. She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to settle her anger.

Not that she had any desire to quell the rage she felt toward her husband, that arrogant, self-righteous…

rake. But she knew that if she was to manage this situation, and somehow get her father out of trouble, she would need a clear head.

A clear head. It was something Gemma had always prided herself on having. Sharp-minded and rational, with everything under her control. That was her.

But it felt like she had not had a clear head in weeks.

What has happened to me?

In the back of her mind, she knew exactly what had happened.

The cursed Duke of Larsen. He had begun to scramble her thoughts the moment she had found herself in bed with him at the Henfords' party.

Before Wyatt Felps, she had been content with a life of spinsterhood.

Content with never knowing the touch of a man.

But Wyatt had clouded her mind with desire.

With need. With a dizzying infatuation she had madly called love.

But all that foolishness ended now. Wyatt Felps had shown her who he really was: cold and unfeeling and far more obsessed with appearances than he had initially led on.

She had been blinded by her feelings for him for too long.

But now she saw with clarity: The Duke of Larsen was just like his mother.

The realization was utterly infuriating for so many reasons, not least the fact that Wyatt had spent years gallivanting around London drinking and whoring with anything he stumbled across.

With not a thought to how his behavior might reflect on his family name.

But when she had dared to suggest he might put himself on the line to help her father out of deep—and potentially life-threatening—trouble, suddenly protecting the Larsens' reputation was at the forefront of his mind.

Too late for that. Marrying one of the Volks has no doubt already done unspeakable damage to the Larsen name. The thought brought far more satisfaction than Gemma knew was proper. How could I have thought for a second that I was in love with him?

She felt tears prick her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they spilled before she could control them. For a moment, she had been foolish enough to believe she had found love. To believe she had married a man who truly cared for her.

But now she saw the truth. Her marriage was just like every other lady in Ton's: a business transaction, conducted with the sole purpose of securing an heir.

Well. Wyatt's visits to her bed would end now.

If she was already with child, then so be it.

She knew it was far from unlikely. Wyatt had visited her almost every night since their encounter in the library.

Even in broad daylight on more than one occasion.

If she was carrying his heir, it was too late to do anything about it.

But whatever happened, she would demand he send her to Devon so she would be free of him.

And he will be free of me and my shameful family.

She shook the painful thought away, aware she was doing a rather terrible job of straightening her thoughts.

From inside the house, she heard the orchestra strike up into a spirited gavotte. What a farce this was. This ball was thrown to show the ton how full of love and respect their marriage was.

I may as well just demand everyone leave right now. Surely they would have to do as I say. After all, there have to be some benefits to being the damn Duchess of Larsen…

Gemma swiped at a fresh rush of tears, more of Ivy's charcoal smearing across her hand.

She was not sure she had ever felt so wretched.

A deep ache had taken root in her chest, and it felt as if her heart were literally breaking.

This, she told herself, was why she had never meant to fall in love.

It was as though a part of her had known all along that it would end in such breath-taking pain.

Stop it! You did not come out here to think about him ! You came here to think about Father.

The thought steadied her somewhat. Yes, her father needed her. And so did her sisters. Now more than ever. And loafing about in the garden crying over a man would not help any of them.

Gemma drew in a breath and lifted her chin.

She stood up from the bench and smoothed her silky skirts.

She would go inside and ring for Ivy. Have her lady's maid help her change and pack her things, and then she would have the coachman take her, Veronica, and their grandmother back to Volk House.

What she would do after that, she had not quite determined yet.

All she knew was that she had to see her father.

And she had to be there when his creditors appeared at the door the next morning.

As she turned to go back into the house, a figure emerged from the darkness of the garden and Gemma let out a tiny scream.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to startle you.” The woman held up a hand in a gesture of peace.

Gemma let out her breath, pressing a hand to her chest to slow her racing heart. She recognized Henrietta Henford's mother.

“What are you doing out here, My Lady?” she demanded, breathless. She stepped out from beneath the arbor. The rain had begun to ease, she realized.

“I do apologize,” said Miss Henford's mother.

“I just needed a little fresh air. And the terrace was an utter fug of cigar smoke. I do not know how those gentleman can breathe it in all night.” Her words were crisp and unfeeling, and though there was not a trace of malice in them, Gemma could not help but feel on alert.

She felt the older woman looking her up and down, no doubt taking in her rain-splattered dress, the charcoal smudged beneath her eyes.

How was it, Gemma wondered, that she could feel so scrutinized when she had literally caught Miss Henford's mother creeping around their garden?

The woman was an exact image of her daughter, with the same overly expressive lips and heart-shaped face as Henrietta.

The same cold blue eyes that seemed to have the ability to bore into a person's soul.

But then her expression softened slightly, and she gave Gemma a smile that looked almost conspiratorial.

No doubt Henrietta's mother had heard her crying.

Perhaps even saw her racing out of the house in disarray.

But her look seemed to say that she was not about to tell the entire ballroom she had seen the scandalous Duchess of Larsen sobbing her heart out in the garden.

Instead, the look seemed to suggest that she was finding the ball as much of a struggle as Gemma was.

I am sure it cannot be easy for her. Her daughter was supposed to be the lady of this house. And now Henrietta's place had been taken by the shameful daughter of the Earl of Volk, who behaved so poorly at their party.

Gemma lifted her chin. This, she realized, was a chance to endear herself to one of the Henfords. Well, perhaps endear was a step too far. But perhaps she could manage a conversation that might not end with one of them on the verge of murder.

“Please feel free to stay out here as long as you wish,” she said. “The bench in the arbor is very comfortable. And dry. You are welcome to use it for as long as you need.”

Henrietta's mother gave her what looked to be a genuine smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. I appreciate it. Truly.” She gave a nod that Gemma took—perhaps too optimistically, she knew— as a sign she would not tell anyone she had seen the Duchess creeping around the garden.

Gemma hurried inside before she could give the encounter any more thought. She strode up to her bedchamber and rang for Ivy, focusing her thoughts back on her father. Right now, he was the only thing that mattered.

Wyatt slumped into the armchair in the corner of the library, scrubbing a hand wearily across his eyes. Why in the name of everything that was holy had he thought throwing a ball would be a good idea?

I ought to have listened to Jonah. And Gemma. And my mother. And everyone else who told me this was a dreadful idea.

More to point, why had he said all that he had about Gemma's father? Little wonder she had torn off into the night with a look in her eyes that said she wanted to tear him to pieces.

Wyatt had meant what he had said about not being willing to help Lord Volk.

Now he had a suspicion of theft to his name, aligning himself with the Earl—more than he already had by marrying his daughter—would do unspeakable things to the reputation of the Larsens.

If Wyatt was honest with himself, this ball had been an attempt to not only show the ton how happy he and Gemma were together, but also to show them he had risen above the shame that came from marrying into Volk's family.

Show them how happy Gemma and I are together…

What a joke. He found his eyes lingering on the stepladder that stood beside the mantel.

He thought of Gemma perched atop it in her robe, looking down at him with lust in her eyes.

He thought of picking up that book that had fallen at her feet and watching her cheeks redden as he read it out aloud.

And he thought of kissing her against the bookshelf, so fiercely it was as if she might save him from drowning. How distant those things seemed now.