My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (16 page)

Determined to keep his course, he nudged Glenmore in the ribs to get the man’s attention. It was a hard, satisfying jab. Glenmore lowered his lorgnette. What sort of self-respecting man used a lorgnette? Philip almost snorted. Of course Glenmore used one. He was a peacock, as Philip had told Jemma, and the man certainly wasn’t self-respecting.

“Miss Adair is a dazzling sight, wouldn’t you say?” gushed Philip.

“I prefer a less ostentatious lady,” Glenmore clipped.

Despite the fact that Glenmore’s irritated reaction to Jemma outshining him was the exact response Jemma wanted, a hefty dose of annoyance tightened Philip’s gut. Glenmore deserved a nice, hard facer on his snobbish aristocratic nose for his audacity in calling Jemma ostentatious. Philip knew he should let the comment pass.

Glenmore pinched his nose. “She needs to be taught not to be so willful,” he said.

There was no way Philip could keep silent now. He knew he should. Damned, but he couldn’t do it. He popped his knuckles one by one, imagining each snap to be a broken bone in Glenmore’s face. When he was finished, he stared at Glenmore for a long moment before speaking. “I’m almost at a loss for words that you, in all your purple pomp and ridiculousness, would dare to call Miss Adair ostentatious when she is, as any sane man would see, a vision. Nor do I think you have any right to say she needs a lesson in obedience.”

Jemma’s leg brushed his for the slightest second and claimed his attention. His gaze followed the silhouette of her leg, vaguely there, hidden by the fine gossamer silk of her gown, up, up, up over her tiny waist, voluptuous chest, and long, slender, beckoning neck. He swallowed the flare of desire her neck inspired in him. Good God, this was bad. If her neck made him ache with need, what would one taste of her lips do?

She licked those very lips and his mind went on a winding, whirling path of flashes of words to describe her mouth. He hadn’t felt so inspired since...since... Actually, he’d never felt such deep, soul-stirring inspiration to write due to the mere look of a woman. Mary had never inspired one poem in him until she’d left him. That should have been a sign.

Jemma offered him a warm smile and gave Glenmore a seemingly innocent one that Philip knew was spiked with scorn. “Lord Glenmore, ignore Lord Harthorne. He thinks he is being gallant, but I take your words as a compliment. I adore everyone looking at me, and I dress with such care to make it so. I always will. Why, one of my fondest wishes is to find a husband who wants to dwell in the shadow cast by my brilliance.”

Philip blinked. By the saints, the woman was a secret sorceress with words.
He
almost believed what she’d just said.

Glenmore’s face twisted as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I was under the impression you liked to dress rather simply.”

“Heavens no,” Jemma said. “Whyever would you think that?”

“Because of the simple white gown you were wearing when I met you.”

“
That
pathetic gown,” she said in a tone full of distaste that was worthy of the finest actress on the stage today, “was my grandfather’s doing. I’ll not wear any such as that again.”

“This is most unsettling,” Glenmore grumbled.

The music from the orchestra rose then, cutting off any further attempts to dishearten Glenmore for a while. Philip sat back and feigned interest in the play as long as he could before he found himself studying Jemma. Her brilliant eyes met his, and she grinned.

Well done,
she mouthed and touched the edge of her fingertips to his hand, which was beside his leg and hidden from anyone else’s view other than Jemma’s. The warmth of her skin was gone as fast as it had come, but his muscles tensed and twitched as if her hands were running up and down his legs, massaging and caressing. He tugged a hand through his hair and yanked on his cravat until it loosened and he no longer felt as if the heat she’d caused in his body would set him aflame.

By the time intermission came, Philip was in dire need of some fresh air to cool his lust and get his thoughts back under control, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to leave Jemma to the mercy of Glenmore. They strolled as a group to the lobby, meeting Frazier as they did so. The light that came into Jemma’s sister’s eyes when Frazier was near was unmistakable and reminded Philip of his other mission: to ascertain whether Frazier had honorable intentions toward Miss Anne. Philip doubted it, but he’d try not to judge the man without proof.

As to his other purpose here tonight—to help Jemma rid herself of Glenmore—Philip needed to continue his and Jemma’s plan. He knew that Glenmore held a disdain for artists, so perhaps Philip could give Jemma an opening to oppose the man or say something to make herself less appealing. “Tell me, ladies, what’s the most exciting thing you did today? I need inspiration for writing.”

“Writing is a waste of your time,” Glenmore interjected. “You are a nobleman and should act like one.”

“If that advice came from men I admired such as Wordsworth or Coleridge I might heed it,” Philip said in the most pleasant tone he could muster. “I’m of the opinion that a truly
noble
man does not need to pretend to be a certain way. His honor will remain, no matter what passions he pursues.”

“Brava, Lord Harthorne,” Miss Anne said. “I couldn’t agree more.” She was talking to Philip but staring adoringly at Frazier. The oddest surge of jealousy clenched Philip’s gut. Not for Miss Anne’s admiration. It wasn’t that at all. He simply wanted a woman to look at him with her eyes shining and full of love, just as Miss Anne’s were when looking at Frazier. In Philip’s current situation, especially given that he’d already scratched two debutantes off his list, he’d likely have to settle for a woman he could tolerate being married to for eternity.

“What do you think of Harthorne’s penchant for penning poetry, Miss Adair?” Glenmore asked.

Jemma smiled sweetly. “I don’t care to think much beyond fashion.”

Philip frowned. Clearly, Jemma could do better than that. He cleared his throat purposely to encourage her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I do so love to think on the weather, as well. Will it be cool tomorrow or warmer than usual? Will we have rain? The weather dictates what one wears, and one must always be prepared.”

Glenmore let out a derisive snort. “I’m sure you have other interests besides fashion and the weather.”

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Is there much more in life, Lord Glenmore? We have to dress every day to suit the weather. Are the two not joined?”

“There’s embroidery,” Philip interjected, feeling rather jovial.

“Oh, I do love embroidery,” Jemma practically purred. “The thread reminds me of fashion, and I am careful to embroider only things that will complement my wardrobe.”

“Surely, you jest,” Glenmore said.

“No.” Jemma shook her head, her eyes wide with false innocence. “I don’t make jokes. That would not be ladylike at all, and I strive to be a lady at all times.”

“Now I know you jest,” Glenmore snapped. “You’re a hoyden, through and through, which will suit my needs in
certain
circumstances.” His lips curled into a smirk.

A dark cloud passed over Jemma’s face and Philip half expected her to forget herself and slap Glenmore, but she simply narrowed her eyes. Philip balled his hand into a fist. Glenmore’s beady gaze was locked on Jemma, almost tauntingly.

Philip felt his own control slipping. “Apologize to the lady.”

“Why?” Glenmore demanded. “I’ve not said anything that isn’t true based on the rumors I’ve heard.”

“Should I believe all the rumors I’ve heard about you or only some of them?” Philip asked bluntly. Glenmore’s face turned red as a cherry, indicating the man knew exactly to what Philip was alluding. Some in the
ton
whispered that Glenmore was a sodomite. It was false as far as Philip knew. The other rumor—that Glenmore enjoyed torturing the women he slept with—Philip knew for a fact was true.

Philip raised one eyebrow as Glenmore glared in his direction. “Well, Glenmore?”

“I apologize,” the man bit out.

“That’s quite all right,” Jemma said in such a sweet voice that Philip would have guessed she wasn’t even bothered if he hadn’t seen the pulse beating on the side of her neck.

Mrs. Featherstone pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “This room is too hot. I feel quite dizzy. I need to sit.” She nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I need to sit.”

Philip was about to step forward and offer to help her but Jemma spoke, instead. “Dear Lord Glenmore, would you be so gallant as to escort Mrs. Featherstone back to the box? We shall all return momentarily.”

Philip struggled to restrain his grin. Jemma was quite a cunning woman.

Glenmore’s lips pressed together with obvious annoyance, but he jerked his head in agreement. “Of course.” He proffered his elbow to a flushed Mrs. Featherstone, and they disappeared into the crowd.

Frazier stepped forward and offered his escort to Miss Anne. “Allow me ta take ye back ta yer seat,” Frazier offered.

She took his elbow with obvious pleasure. Jemma moved to accompany them, but Anne shot her a look. “We will go straight to the box. No harm can come.”

Philip saw Jemma tense but she nodded, and Anne and Frazier also disappeared into the crowd. Jemma faced Philip, and her eyes held his for a long moment. “Thank you,” she finally said. The two words were simple, mundane, but filled with such a depth of trembling emotion that his chest tightened at the gratitude in her voice.

“There’s no need to thank me. Any gentleman would have done the same for you had you asked.”

She shook her head. “I don’t agree. But I’ll admit I could be wrong since I do believe you might possibly be the first true gentleman I’ve ever met.”

It was the single greatest compliment a woman had ever given him, and it made him like her more.
Too much more.
Far greater than was wise for either of them.

“Jemma, I—” Hell, how was he supposed to explain to her that he liked her, that his attraction to her was growing? He wanted to learn what made her laugh, cry, and cringe, and that scared the hell out of him. He wiped a hand down his face and tried to rid himself of the vision of taking her in his arms and capturing her mouth with his so he could hear a moan of true desire for him from her lips. These fantasies would never happen because he was in debt, and in order to protect his mother and cousin Eustice, he required a dowry. He couldn’t explain that to Jemma.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you worried I’ve forgotten your rake lessons?”

No.
“Yes.” His first outright lie. Now he really was a rake.

She tilted her head to the right, threw her head back, and laughed heartily and unexpectedly. A few heads swiveled their way as she smiled up at him as if he were the most fascinating man she’d ever met. Though he knew it was an act, he hardened instantly.

She licked her lips and batted her eyes. “Smile wolfishly,” she whispered. “And then reach for my face as if you want to touch it and can barely hold yourself back.”

He complied, immediately coming a hairbreadth from touching the delicate slope of her cheekbone. His entire body so ached with the need to touch her that his fingers trembled and he had to clench his hand into a fist in order to stop himself. He hissed as he snatched his hand back and pressed it to his side.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “That was utterly believable,” she said in low, hushed tones. “You are a very quick learner.”

Everything about her beckoned him in. “It’s easy to play the rake with a teacher as beautiful as you.” Hellfire. He was out of control. He had to compose himself and remember who he was, who she was, and what could never be.

“Still practicing?” she asked in a throaty voice.

No.
He nodded. He refused to speak any more lies. “I believe that’s enough of a show for now. Shall we join the others?”

She met his smile with a glorious one of her own and slipped her hand into the crook of his proffered arm, and for the first time since he’d known her, she leaned toward him as they walked side by side and not away, as if she trusted him to lead her. His chest expanded with the weight of her trust. He
would
be a good friend to her, even if that’s all he could be.

Philip guided Jemma through the crowd and back toward her grandfather’s box, but she paused near the steps that led into it and regarded him. “What sort of woman are you hoping to catch by playing the rake, Philip?”

“Why?” he choked out, his heart thudding in his chest.

Jemma crooked her mouth. “Well, I certainly plan to keep my side of our bargain and help you master being a rake, but it seems to me that any woman worthy of you would like you just the way you are. You should not have to pretend to be something you aren’t.”

“Maybe this is the act,” he said. When he thought about how he was going to pick a bride mostly because she had a large dowry, he didn’t think he knew himself anymore. He was not the sort of man who would have ever done that in the past. Desperation changed a man, he supposed.

She shook her head. “I don’t think I believe that.”

He clenched his jaw. He liked that she saw him as good. He liked it too damn much. But he wasn’t the paragon she was now creating in her mind. “Maybe you should believe it.” His voice came out harsh, and her eyes narrowed in response. Leave it to Jemma to become angry and not wither at his words as most females would have done. “Maybe I want ladies to think I’m good and kind, but deep down I’m bad...with a nefarious plan.”

“What would this nefarious plan be?” she demanded with a raised, haughty I-don’t-believe-you eyebrow.

He stilled. He’d promised himself if a lady ever asked if he needed to marry for money he would tell the truth. His conscience was screaming at him. Since Jemma was not a candidate, though, did he have to tell her?

“Harthorne!” a deep voice boomed from the top of the stairwell. “Mrs. Featherstone is becomin’ frantic that ye abducted Miss Adair,” Frazier said with a chuckle. “Cuid ye kindly bring the lassie up before her chaperone has a fit o’ th’ vapors?”