Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (14 page)

“Your shot,” he said gruffly as Westfield’s ball rested closest to the baulk cushion.

A thick silence descended. With an unsuspecting Westfield examining his shot, Richard studied the other man. He’d known the Marquess of Westfield for more than twenty years. In the course of their friendship, the other man had proven loyal, unwavering, un-pompous, and more brother than friend.

It spoke a good deal about the manner of lousy friend and dishonorable bastard
Richard
was. For playing billiards, with Westfield casually eying his shot, he wanted to knock the other man on his bloody arse. And it also forced him into a moment to confront the irrational, but now obvious, truth.

I want Gemma.

He slid his eyes closed a moment. He wanted her in all the ways a man could know a woman. With her clever wit, unapologetic honesty, and endearing ability to tease, she was the lady he’d spend the rest of his life with. A strangled laugh clogged his throat. The great irony of this moment did not escape him. Gemma, a woman who’d never want anything more with him, had shown him the truth of his feelings for Eloise, opening his eyes to nothing more than the lifelong friendship that had existed.

In the quiet of the room, he studied Westfield as the other man walked a bored path around the red baize table, hating him, even as he had no right. Hating him for having secured the affections of a woman who was real and honest and who, for those reasons, would make him a bloody perfect duchess. “Are you going to take your goddamn shot?” he snapped.

His friend blinked several times and then glanced about. He furrowed his brow in abject confusion. Not unlike the way he’d blinked like a besotted sop when Gemma had broken the kiss.

“I said are you going to take your goddamn shot.” Yes, he wanted to do more than knock Westfield on his arse. He wanted to knock him bloody senseless.

“You are in a rotted temper,” the other man said with a slight frown.

That slight rebuke gave Richard pause and he silently cursed. He tossed aside his stick and crossed over to the sideboard. Where once, avoiding Eloise and Lucien’s presence had seemed tantamount to his sanity, now remaining at the duke’s goddamn matchmaking summer party threatened his very survival. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. He picked up the nearest crystal decanter and then froze.

…He assuredly does not carry a flask in his pocket and drink with a staggering frequency…

With another growl, Richard slammed the bottle down hard. Drink with a staggering frequency, did he?

I carry a goddamn flask in my pocket.

“I say, Jonas, are you all right?”

“Fine,” he bit out, ignoring the concern underscoring his friend’s tone. “Fine,” he forced himself to say again. “I am just…” Except, by God he didn’t know just what he was. All he knew was that in just a handful of days, Gemma Reed had made him question everything he’d carried in his heart. First, she’d challenged his regard for Eloise; innocently remarking on his musings from long, long ago, and not borne of the now.

Then she’d bloody well kissed Westfield. Another snarl hovered on his lips and he tamped down the unfair expression. “Forgive me.” He forced the tension away and returned reluctantly to the side of the pool table, just as the other man took his shot. The crack of Westfield’s cue ball hitting his red target echoed in the room and snapped Richard from whatever maddening haze Gemma Reed had cast.

Guilt crept steadily in, driving back his irrational jealousy. Westfield’s father was at the end of his life, suffering not unlike Richard’s own father had years earlier. What did it say about Richard that he’d begrudge the other man any happiness—even if it was in Gemma’s arms?

“Have you selected a bride from the guests assembled?” He didn’t realize he held his breath until Westfield spoke.

“Hardly,” he mumbled. “My father would have me wed Lady Diana Verney.” He grimaced. “Not even eighteen years of age, but entirely
suitable
given her father’s connection to mine.”

Of course. A fellow duke’s daughter, the lady was proper, pretty, and polite. The manner of young woman who would never bumble her way endearingly through a song or sneak about her host’s country estate to boldly declare her love. “She would make you a perfect bride.” As soon as the words left him, Richard realized the depth of the bastard he was. He’d encourage Westfield’s suit with that woman for entirely selfish reasons. “That is, unless there is another lady who’s earned your regard?”

“None,” Westfield muttered. “I’m not fool enough to give my heart a second time.” He took a sip of his drink.

None was the perfect answer. Or it should be for what it signified. Gemma’s regard was unreturned. There should be a selfish elation at that discovery. So why did thinking of Gemma professing her feelings to Westfield only to be rebuffed cause this dull throbbing in his chest? Because he knew the pain of that rejection and would spare her from that, even if it was at the expense of his own happiness.

“Come,” he said gruffly. “Surely there is one lady who has earned your favor?” He pressed. Not just for Gemma, but also for Westfield who deserved more than the flawless Lady Diana.

The marquess froze, bent over the table, examining his next shot. “There is one,” he said under his breath.

Richard’s heart slowed to a stop. Perhaps there was another young lady. Perhaps it was someone who would bring happiness to Westfield, and… He curled his hands into fists. But then, that would also mean Gemma’s misery. “Oh?” He infused as much boredom as he could into that single syllable utterance.

“Miss Gemma Reed.” He let his stick fly and then gave a pleased nod as he struck his intended target. A dry grin formed on his lips. “She is not what I’d consider a beauty by any stretch of the imagination.”

Rage twisted and turned inside Richard. Now, he wanted to hit the other man for entirely different reasons.
Didn’t you, at your first meeting, see Gemma as a dull, unmemorable figure?
He again briefly closed his eyes. How had he not realized the depth of her dark beauty from the start?

Westfield looked over the top of his snifter at him. “Do you know the lady?” Richard managed a movement that was not quite a shake and not quite a nod. “There is something intriguing about her.”

And Richard really didn’t wish to know any more. Nausea settled like a pebble in his belly. “Is there?” How did he manage to force out those words? Only, he already knew the answer—there was everything intriguing about the young lady. “Enough that you’d offer her marriage?” The muscles of his stomach clenched reflexively.

“I haven’t yet decided.” Some of the tension eased. Then… “I may.” That was it. Those were two simple words. But those words were inconclusive affirmation, which really should matter not at all. So how did he explain the pressure tightening his chest? With a casualness that set Richard’s teeth on edge, the marquess cracked his knuckles. “Then, if I must marry someone, I might as well spend my days with someone, at the very least, interesting.”

His patience snapped. “Did you ever stop to consider that the lady deserves more from a husband than that?”

A knife could cut the thick tension in the room. Lord Westfield puzzled his brow.

An awkward pall fell over the room as Richard stood there clenching and unclenching his fists.

Yet…

It was what Westfield
possibly
wanted. And it was what Gemma absolutely wanted.

It just also happened to be what Richard detested to his core. “Indeed, you are correct, though,” he said half-heartedly, his tone hollow to his own ears. His ears burning, Richard randomly thrust his cue. His shot went wide. “I am leaving tomorrow,” he said sharply and abruptly set his stick on the edge of the table. He could not remain here any longer. Not when it would mean self-torture at the inevitable joining of Gemma with his closest friend. “I am not myself at these affairs.” Or any
ton
events. Nor had Richard ever enjoyed, welcomed, or reveled in the inanity of the affairs. He enjoyed them a good deal less when he had to consider witnessing the future Duke of Somerset’s courtship of Gemma Reed.

Westfield frowned. “I understand there are places you’d rather be than at a matchmaking party assembled by my father,” Westfield said, returning his attention to his cue ball. “If I could leave, I certainly would. But,” he thrust his stick forward, “never tell me you intend to leave on the morn?” Consternation rang in his friend’s words.

Confirmation rested on Richard’s lips. Except the moment he left, all he’d shared with Gemma would cease to be. The next time he’d see her would, no doubt, be on the arm of Westfield, either married or betrothed. “I will stay through to tomorrow’s entertainments.” Partially because he was a glutton for self-torture, but more, because he’d see her one more time before he rode off and left her to her heart’s
greatest yearning
. Bile climbed up his throat and threatened to choke him. This was so much worse than anything he’d ever known with Eloise’s decision to wed his brother. This was a rusted blade of jealousy raking his skin. This was burning regret and ugly resentment. It turned him into a person he detested. “If you’ll excuse me?” He sketched a short bow. “I am going to seek out my rooms.” Not allowing Westfield to waylay his efforts, he marched from the room.

T
he lit chandeliers in the Duke of Somerset’s ballroom doused the room in artificial light cast by thousands of glowing candles. Shadows danced upon the gold, satin wallpaper.

From her vantage at the corner of the ballroom, Gemma trailed her fingertips along the smooth, soft, cool to the touch surface. All the while, she eyed the gathering of guests. Charged excitement layered the air. Eager matchmaking mamas and their desperate-to-wed-a-duke daughters flicked frantic gazes about the room in search of the respective gentleman.

Unbidden, her gaze sought out Mama who stood speaking with another one of the distinguished mamas gathered, pretending to pay attention. All the while, she shifted her stare about the ballroom. Shame curled Gemma’s toes. For, as much as she loved her mother, and as much as she knew her mother loved her in return, it was a painful moment to realize that her last living parent was not unlike the other grasping guests present.

“I always suspected you were a wallflower by choice.”

She gasped as her brother’s gently spoken words brought her around. Drat. She’d been discovered. Slamming a hand to her breast, she pasted a smile on. “Emery.”

The orchestra struck up the next set—a quadrille and she welcomed the distraction of their enthusiastic playing. Her brother sipped from his champagne. “I am surprised.”

He dangled that like bait. As someone who’d risen to far too many of those lures through the years, she recognized it, just as he knew that she could not indulge him. “What are you surprised at?”

Crystal flute in hand, Emery gave a slight wave. “That after all these years of pining for Westfield, and the sea of vultures descending upon him, that you’d not find the gumption to tell him.”

She blinked and then searched about for possible interlopers. Alas, the collected guests would have to note the ever-ordinary Gemma hovering behind the great Doric column.
“…You are a remarkable young woman…”

“Hmm? Nothing to say?” At her brother’s pointed look, she dragged forward a suitable reply relevant to his mention of the marquess. For as much as Emery saw, or rather, as much as he thought he saw, he could not know, even now, another occupied her thoughts, that Richard Jonas had stolen her heart. The air left her on a slow exhale.
I love him.
She slid her eyes closed. All these years, she’d hung on to the dream of one man, only to find the reality of Richard Jonas so much more meaningful, in ways that stirred equal parts wonder and terror in her breast.

“Gemma?” The concerned question in her brother’s tone brought her eyes open.

“This is hardly the place to speak on it,” she said at last, owing her brother some response. She made a show of studying the partners circling in the steps of the quadrille. All the while, panic built inside, threatening to consume her. With a rapidity that defied the logic she’d long prided herself on, Gemma had gone and fallen in love with a man who loved another. How could she
ever
compete with the unattainable paragon that Richard had known for the better part of his life?

“So you’ll not deny your feelings for the man?”

Trapped.

She sighed. He’d always managed the upper hand. But then, wasn’t that the way of elder brothers? Promptly snapping her lips into an uncooperative line, Gemma peeked around the pillar.

“There are certainly worse gentlemen you could find yourself married to,” he spoke in such hushed tones she strained to hear. “He is a rogue but he is not a rake. He is a loyal son and brother. And, of course, he possesses one of the fattest purses in the kingdom.”

She shot him a frown. Did he think she was the manner of lady who desired material wealth?

“Not that you require a fat purse,” he said quickly.

That was the manner of man Lord Westfield was. As Emery said, a good son and brother, yet for her brother’s observations about that distinguished lord, she could not help but feel…empty at the prospect of life with the marquess. Her brother enumerated all Lord Westfield’s outstanding attributes and, yet, his perfunctory list felt more an indictment against the gentleman than anything.

A commotion at the front of the ballroom called the crowd’s attention and a buzz of loud whispers echoed from the walls. Absently, Gemma looked to the front of the room. The orchestra drew the lively quadrille to a rousing finish and absolute silence met the future Duke of Somerset’s arrival.

He had arrived.

Lord Westfield stood at the top of the stairwell. Beatrice on his arm, he eyed the ballroom like a medieval knight upon his dais surveying his people. Then, these were his people. These were the lords and ladies called together by a dying duke with the express intention of marrying off his children. The marquess made his way down the marble staircase and said something to his sister that earned a laugh.