Chapter Four

“ F ather?” Gemma knocked tentatively on his bedchamber door.

The Earl's valet had assured her that her father was at least out of bed and dressed, but Gemma knew it was important that he make an appearance downstairs.

She had already done enough damage to her family's reputation last night.

Having her father spend the entire day locked away in his bedchamber with his cups was hardly the way to redeem themselves.

The Earl let out a muffled grunt that Gemma took as an invitation to enter. She opened the door and stepped inside hesitantly. “Good morning, Father.”

The Earl of Volk was slumped in an armchair by the window, the curtains drawn to keep out the bright morning sun.

Though he was fully dressed, his shirt was untucked and he had kicked off his shoes.

His eyes were drooping closed and his gray hair was uncombed.

He let out a faint murmur of acknowledgment as Gemma stepped into the room.

Despite expecting the sight that greeted her, Gemma's heart still lurched. Once upon a time, Mark Caster had been the best of fathers. Gemma had many precious memories of him reading her bedtime stories as a child; of him playing in the garden outside their house with her, Veronica, and Jane.

That had all changed when her father's older brother had died, and Mark had inherited the Earldom.

The sudden, unexpected responsibility had crushed him, and he had turned to the bottle for solace.

He had become cold and distant, and any attempts to get close to him were met with harsh words and anger.

The death of Gemma's mother, five years ago, had only hastened his decline.

These days, Gemma rarely saw him without a drink in his hand.

She approached his chair tentatively. She could still smell last night's liquor rising from his skin. She kneeled beside him, pressing a gentle hand to his wrist. “It is a beautiful day outside, Father,” she said. “Why not come outside? I am sure the fresh air would do you good.”

The Earl waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “Later, my dear. I am tired.”

Gemma sighed. In spite of herself, the sorry sight of her father reminded her of her own future.

Though she did not wish to marry a man out of desperation, or obligation, there was a part of her that feared what a life of spinsterhood would look like.

Would she become as lonely and distant as the Earl?

Beyond that concern was the uncomfortable knowledge of what her own failure to marry would mean for Veronica and Jane.

Kind, lively Veronica deserved to be a wife; deserved to find a husband who would keep her secure and make her happy.

Sunshine, they called her, for at times she seemed like the only source of positivity within the miserable walls of Volk House.

But Veronica finding a husband would become far less likely with a drunkard for a father, a spinster as an older sister, and a family home in disrepair.

And as for poor Jane, who was just ten-and-six, her future would be destroyed before she even made her debut.

Gemma closed her eyes, as the weight of the situation swung toward her. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the task at hand. “Father.” Her voice was firmer now. “Miss Henford's family were very kind in inviting us here to celebrate the wedding. The least you can do is show your face.”

At his daughter's sharpness, the Earl opened his eyes and sighed. “Ah, Gemma, you're right as usual.” He pulled his arm out from under her grasp and patted her hand. “I shall be down in an hour. I promise.”

“No, Father. You will come down now.”

A frown darkened Lord Volk's face, his voice rising to match her own. “Gemma. I said I will be down in an hour. Leave me be.”

With an enormous sigh, so her father could not mistake her dissatisfaction, Gemma stood. She did not bother to find parting words. Knew whatever she said would make no difference anyway.

She trudged downstairs, eyes darting lest she ran into Miss Henford, or worse, the Duke. She felt like a wild animal creeping through the forest in an attempt to avoid the hunter's arrow.

“In here, Gemma.” Veronica poked her head out of the sitting room and motioned for her sister to enter.

Gemma slipped through the door in relief.

The sight of her sisters and grandmother brought a much-needed smile to her face.

Their grandmother's short-legged terrier, Patch, was curled up beside her feet.

He raised his head and wagged his tail at Gemma, before quickly returning to sleep.

“Did you have any luck with Father?” asked Veronica, as Gemma sat on the settee beside her.

Gemma's smile disappeared. “He promised he would be down in an hour. But…” She did not bother to finish. They all knew how flimsy Mark Caster's promises were these days.

Their grandmother, Pippa Marlow, shook her head, letting out an enormous sigh.

“Honestly. That father of yours…” Just as it did each time she spoke of the Earl, her lip curled in distaste, and something hardened behind her eyes.

“Is it not enough that he ruined my poor daughter's life?

Must he seek to destroy his own children's as well?”

Gemma closed her eyes. Though she knew everything her grandmother said was right, she hated hearing her badmouth their father.

He well deserved it, of course, but some irrationally protective part of her railed against it, nonetheless.

“He is not destroying our lives, Grandmother.” Her voice came out softer than she had intended.

“He is certainly doing his best,” hissed the Dowager Marchioness. She scooped her dog into her arms and began to scratch him behind the ears. “And I do not know why you of all people are defending him, Gemma. If it weren't for his drunkenness and gambling, you would have been married long ago.”

Gemma said nothing. While she was well aware that the Earl had much to answer for, something in the back of her mind reminded her that her own coldness had likely contributed to her unmarried state. There were few men in the ton who went out of their way to seek out Lady Highbrow's company.

Except, it seems, the Duke of Larsen…

If what Veronica had told her was correct, the Duke had very much gone out of his way to be in her company last night, even if it was to argue with her, and compete in such ridiculous games. At the thought of the Duke, she felt her body heat inexplicably and her heart begin to quicken.

What in heaven's name is the matter with me?

“I do not think Gemma wishes to be married, Grandmother,” Jane giggled, clearly desperate to move past the conversation about their father. “After all, a husband would never allow her to hold a poetry contest with another gentleman!”

Gemma exchanged glances with Veronica. It was true—she did not wish to be married at all. But the only person she had ever confessed such a thing to was the older of her two sisters. She had never dared breathe a word of it to Jane.

I know it is an outlandish way to think, and I would hate for my youngest sister to come to share my views.

The Dowager Marchioness made a noise in her throat. “Nonsense. I am sure the right husband would never forbid Gemma to express herself in such a way.”

Gemma narrowly managed to hold back a disbelieving snort. She felt fairly certain that, had she had a husband, he would have thrown her over his shoulder and locked her in the wine cellar before he let her compete in a poetry contest with the Duke of Larsen.

No doubt that would have been for the best…

“Express herself!” Jane tossed her head back and laughed.

“Oh Gemma, you were so funny last night,” she giggled, twining a stray strand of brown hair around her finger.

“You got so furious at the poor Duke when he dared to suggest that women do not have the mind to grasp politics. I truly thought you might slap him!”

“Indeed,” said their grandmother. “You kept us all mightily entertained.”

The Dowager Marchioness seemed to be enjoying this far too much. Was she not even a little bit ashamed that Gemma had spent so much time in the Duke's company, given they were supposed to be celebrating his upcoming marriage to Miss Henford?

Gemma shook her head. “I suppose I can just be grateful that Father did not see it.”

“Well,” the Dowager Marchioness snapped, “I am glad you are grateful.” Gemma instantly regretted bringing the conversation back to her father.

“I myself was mortified,” her grandmother continued.

“The man disappeared off to the gambling tables the moment dinner was finished.” She snorted.

“To think, my dearest friend's grandson has invited us here to celebrate his wedding, and all your father can do is drink himself half to death.”

The Dowager Marchioness shook her head in disgust, turning to look at each of her granddaughters in turn.

“You listen to me, my dears. You make sure you marry a gentleman who will care for you. Do right by you. A man who will stay away from the drink and the gambling halls. Do not make the same mistake your poor dear mother did.”

Gemma had no intention of making the same mistake as her mother. Had no intention of going near men who lost themselves in drink and gambling. And the Duke of Larsen most certainly fell into that category. A fine man to keep her distance from.

So why was her body craving his nearness with every inch of its being?