Page 71 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

“Thank you for indulging my need for quiet,” Frederick murmured to Gemma a bit sheepishly. “It seems I can only tolerate these events in small doses.”

She gave him a playful smile, settling onto a leather armchair by the dimly lit window. “I think you might surprise yourself. You have managed four balls now without a single attempted escape. That is remarkable in itself.”

Tonight, at yet another ball, Gemma and Frederick found themselves engaged in conversation with a group of lords and ladies, the talk drifting from weather to politics and finally to the latest gossip.

After a while, Frederick had caught her eye and offered her a slight nod toward the doors. It was his signal to let her know that the crowd had grown too stifling for him.

She had only hesitated for a moment before she gracefully excused herself and slipped away from the conversation with Frederick by her side.

They had meandered through the manor’s candlelit hallways, and her shoulders had gradually relaxed once they’d left the din of voices behind.

They had found a quiet, tucked-away library lined with dark mahogany shelves, a refuge from the evening’s noises and demands.

Frederick laughed softly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It is only because you make it bearable.”

“Well, I am happy to hear that,” she said, her gaze turning briefly to the shelves around them.

After a beat, Frederick cleared his throat, his voice quiet and slightly hesitant. “Gemma… I realize I have learned far too little about you and I regret that.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… all this time, and I have hardly asked you anything about your life before… before all this. I would like to know more about you.”

Gemma bit her lip. When questions came from others it felt stifling, like a massive rock pressing on her chest, crushing herribs. Yet, when they came from Frederick, the same questions felt like a warm breeze, and she realized that she liked it when he asked her questions, even if they were about her past.

“It a strange story,” she said, looking down at her hands. “And probably not the most cheerful selection on such a lovely evening.”

“Then all the more reason to tell me,” he insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “No one needs a cheerful story all the time.”

God, how does he always know the perfect thing to say?

“My father… he was my entire world,” she began, her voice soft. “He was the Earl of Carrington, and… well, to put it simply, he adored me. He would take me out on adventures, teach me about constellations at night, tell me all the stories from the history books that he thought I would find interesting. He let me dream, he let me be free, even in my thoughts, despite all the rules I was supposed to follow.”

Frederick watched her intently and patiently.

“But my mother…”

Her face fell, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone. “She wanted nothing to do with me. I was merely an obligation…a duty she would have rather not fulfilled had the choice been left up to her.” She paused, swallowing. “When my father passed,she… she was the one who sent me away to St. Catherine’s when I was seven.”

“That is… inconceivably cruel.”

“She thought of it as a kindness, but she never clarified to whom that kindness was directed,” Gemma replied, her voice laden with irony. “She always reminded me that I was not ‘fit’ for society. In truth, it was her way of discarding me, of ridding herself of any ties to my father. She never answered a single letter I wrote to her. Eventually, I stopped writing altogether.”

A silence fell between them, one that Frederick felt almost compelled to break.

“I understand the ache that comes from that kind of loss,” he said softly, and Gemma was reminded that his own heart was burdened by the loss of his sister Helen. “And I know firsthand what being cast aside by those who are supposed to love you can do to a person.”

Gemma looked at him. “You mean your sister, do you not?”

He nodded, exhaling slowly. “Helen… she was everything good in my life, and when she fell in love with the wrong man—at least, in my father’s eyes—he sent her away. She died in that convent, alone and frightened, carrying a child that had no chance of being born.”

She reached across the space between them, resting one hand over his. “I am so sorry, Frederick. I cannot imagine how that must have felt.”

He gazed down at her hand upon his and felt a degree of comfort that he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “It was as if… as if the world had lost all its color. I left London and stayed at Blackridge, no longer able to tolerate society’s shallow talk and its hypocritical judgments.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared confessions hanging between them like a fragile bridge.

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