Chapter Seven

“ Y ou.” Gemma spat the word out as though it were poison. “What are you doing here?”

The Duke looked over his shoulder as the heavy door thumped closed behind him. “I just asked you the same thing. I am looking for Lord Anderson. I was told he was in here.”

“He is not,” Gemma said sharply. “And I am waiting for my sister. So please leave, Your Grace. And quickly. Before anyone sees us together in here.”

The Duke hesitated for a moment, lips parted.

His intense blue eyes seemed to pierce her.

“As you wish,” he said finally. He took a few steps, then turned back to face her.

“Before I leave,” he began, “I wish to apologize. For… last night. And for what I said to you this morning. I am sorry. Truly.”

Gemma kept her arms folded across her chest. “I see.”

The Duke raised his eyebrows. “That is all you have to say? 'I see?'“

“What exactly were you hoping for?” Gemma demanded. “Poetry ? ”

He shook his head in exasperation, then turned on his heel and headed for the door. He pushed hard against it. Nothing happened. “It's locked,” he said.

Gemma felt rage flare inside her. I have had far too much of this rake and his foolish games!

But as she stalked toward him in anger, she was all too aware of a heat beginning to simmer inside her.

That same inexplicable sensation she had felt when she found herself touching him this morning.

And the countless times she had—against every grain of sense in her body—replayed the incident in her mind since.

Doing her best to ignore it, she shoved hard on the door. The Duke was right. It was firmly locked.

She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Unlock it! This instant!”

He chuckled. “I do not have the key. Do you not think you might have seen me locking it, if this was my doing?”

Gemma gritted her teeth. He was right of course—but she remained certain that he was to blame.

Somehow. And for some inexplicable reason.

Perhaps he blamed her for last night and wished to embarrass her.

Perhaps she was being set up, and Miss Henford would open the door any second, and seek to ruin her.

She rapped hard on the door. “Help! Let me?—”

The Duke clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. “Hush! You know what people will think if they find us in here alone together!”

Gemma felt color rush to her cheeks. Whether out of anger, or embarrassment, or something else entirely, she could not be certain. She was suddenly aware of how close she was standing to the Duke, his body almost pressed against hers, and took a hurried step away. She looked up at him, seething.

“I am sure this was just an accident,” he said after a moment. “A misunderstanding…” He trailed off.

Gemma frowned. “What?”

The Duke began to pace back and forth, his shoes clicking rhythmically across the floorboards. A wry smile appeared in the corner of the Duke's mouth.

“What?” Gemma demanded.

The Duke sighed. “It was my grandmother who told me Lord Anderson was in here. I found it strange, but I… I fear she may have been trying to deceive me.”

“Deceive you?” Gemma repeated incredulously. “By locking you in a room with another lady?” She snorted. “Do not be so foolish. I hardly think your grandmother would do such a thing to you. Especially not on the eve of your wedding.”

“I can.”

Gemma raised her eyebrows at the Duke's words.

He sank onto the chaise longue on one side of the room, raking a hand through his hair.

“My grandmother does not wish me to marry Miss Henford,” he admitted.

“She and my mother have always argued over what is best for me.

My mother selected Miss Henford as my wife, in spite of my grandmother's, shall we say, rather heartfelt objections.”

“I see.” Gemma's words fell heavily into the silence. She hovered by the edge of the chaise, arms wrapped around herself in a gesture of self-preservation. “And you think she locked you in here with me so Miss Henford might change her mind about marrying you?”

The suggestion felt ludicrous, but the Duke said, “it's possible, yes. She just spent the last five minutes telling me how much of a mistake it would be if I married Miss Henford.”

“That's… terrible?” It came out as a question, and Gemma found herself studying the Duke's face for any hint of how he might feel about the matter.

A part of her was surprised that he was being so open with her.

Another part was stunned to find he had any kind of depth and emotion within him at all.

“I must admit,” his eyes were lowered, avoiding her gaze, “I may be beginning to see things from my grandmother's point of view.”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. Is he confessing to me that he does not wish to marry Miss Henford?

Her thoughts began to knock together, and all she could manage was, “Oh? Does that have anything to do with…”

The Duke sighed, leaning back against the chaise and looking up at the chandelier. “Earlier today, I overheard Miss Henford speaking to her friend, Miss Gardiner.”

Gemma nodded tentatively, slightly wary of where this conversation was headed. And why on earth was the Duke of Larsen confessing such things to her? They were not even friends.

“My mother chose Miss Henford as my wife because she believes her to be well-spoken and obedient. But I fear today I caught a glimpse of her true nature. I overheard her and Miss Gardiner speaking. Miss Henford spoke extremely harshly about my family. Spoke of ridding Larsen Manor of my mother and grandmother once we are married.”

“Goodness. How dreadful.” Gemma was surprised by a stab of sympathy for the Duke.

Not that she could claim to be surprised by Miss Henford's behavior.

She had had little to do with the Duke's betrothed beyond curt greetings and icy glares, but they had been more than enough to give Gemma a glimpse of who Henrietta Henford was.

She opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. It most certainly was not her place to say anything on the matter, especially not after the scene she had caused last night.

But the Duke said, “What? You have something to say.”

Gemma shook her head. “No, I?—”

“Come on now,” he said, an edge of challenge in his voice. “From what little I recall of last night, you are not usually one to hold back your opinion.”

At the mention of last night, Gemma's cheeks turned scarlet. But she said, “Very well. Since you asked, I was going to tell you that it is not too late to change your mind. You are a duke. No one can force you to marry Miss Henford if you truly do not wish to.”

The Duke shook his head. “I know. But I could not do that to her family,” he said. But there was a faraway look in his eyes, and Gemma could tell he was turning the prospect over in his mind.

“The rest of your life is at stake,” Gemma reminded him. “Is it not worth ensuring you are marrying a lady who will make you happy?”

“A lady who will make me happy?” A smile quirked on the Duke's lips. “That is rather a romantic notion, is it not? I am surprised to hear it come from someone like you. I had not imagined you the type to fantasize about a marriage of love.”

“Who said anything about love? I merely said you ought to find a wife who will make you happy. Someone who pleases you. Makes you think.” His eyes caught hers for a moment, and she could read the surprise in them.

“Not,” she said quickly, “that I am offering to take her place. If that was what you were thinking. I would never…”

The Duke chuckled. “I believe you protest a little too hard, Lady Gemma.”

Gemma snorted, quickly gathering her composure. “Please. I would not marry you if you were the last man left on earth.”

The Duke merely laughed again and got to his feet, taking a step toward her.

The seriousness that had fallen over him as he had spoken about Miss Henford seemed to evaporate.

“I must say,” he began, his blue eyes alight, “you seem to have come to such a conclusion rather hastily. After all, you and I barely know each other. If you forget what happened this morning, of course.”

Gemma almost laughed. There is no way I will ever forget what happened this morning.

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “I know you well enough, Your Grace. I know your type. You are arrogant, with little concern for anything except where you will find your next woman.”

The Duke shrugged. “Harsh. But probably fair. Although I do have a number of good qualities too, you know.” He was close to her now, so close she could feel his warm breath tickle her nose.

Close enough she could see the dark blue flecks in his eyes.

Half of her wanted to step away. The other half wanted to step closer.

She did neither, her feet keeping her rooted in place and her legs so weak she feared they might give way.

“Good qualities,” she repeated, forcing a harshness into her tone. “And what exactly might those be?”

Before she could make sense of what was happening, the Duke's lips found hers. Stunned, Gemma's first instinct was to back away, but he dug his hands into her hair, keeping her pinned to him. At once, the instinct to flee dissolved, replaced by something far more primal.

Gemma's body began to react as if it had a mind of its own. She felt her mouth open beneath his, felt her tongue tangling with his own, felt her fingers gripping his upper arms as though they might save her from drowning.

Without breaking the kiss, the Duke slid his hand down over her shoulders, finding the small of her back and tugging her closer. So close she could feel the firm plane of his chest pressing against her breasts.

The feel of him made her suddenly breathless. She felt her knees quake and felt heat blooming between her legs, the warmth that had ignited this morning in her bed suddenly bursting into flame.