Page 10 of From Rakes to Riches

“Hundreds,” he said lightly. “Now, let us laugh and be uncaring, like the dear friends we are.”

Guy took her hand and sashayed her inside, holding her steadily as though worried about her wrenched foot. They swung to the end of a line of another country dance just beginning, joining in without missing a step.

The young lady in the couple they landed next to raised her brows, but the rest of the set accepted that they had simply rushed to the figure late.

Guy’s body hummed as though lighting flickered through it. The kiss with Gemma had seared fire through his body, lit excitement in his heart.

He danced with exuberance, trying to burn off the heat, but it stayed with him through that round, and the rest of the ball, and followed him all the way home to his empty bed in his lavish but lonely flat.

Guy arrivedthe next afternoon at the house in Grosvenor Square that Gemma Cooke called home. Left to her by her second husband, John Broadbent, for use for her lifetime—which her third husband had not been able to touch—it was a tall and elegant house with a fan-lighted door and neat rows of windows. Gemma lived here with her stepdaughter, Sonia, and Aunt Margot Spencer, Broadbent’s aunt. Very cozy.

Guy had found out these details from his sister-in-law, Alice, the Marchioness of Keeling, who knew everything about the lives of everyone in Mayfair.

Guy had no business calling upon Mrs. Cooke. After settling Gemma with Aunt Margot last night, he’d taken his obligatory dance with Lady Wilding’s daughter, Amelia, following Gemma’s advice to paste on a stiff smile and occasionally nod when it seemed safe to do so. Amelia had returned to her mother with the impression that Guy was a vapid and disappointing gentleman. Thank heavens.

Gemma and her family had departed just before Guy had finished the dance with Amelia, depriving him of the chance to take Gemma onto the floor once more and tell her that her advice had been sound.

No business calling on her except one friend inquiring about the well-being of another.

Naturally, he should inquire whether Mrs. Cooke’s feigned turned ankle was completely healed, should he not? Thetonwould praise him for his kindness.

Thus vindicating his stroll from Piccadilly to Grosvenor Square, Guy arrived at the correct time for calls and found that he’d been superseded by a few young ladies and half a dozen young men who’d come to pay their respects to Sonia. The requisite posies filled the hall, bouquets that were not so large as to be tasteless nor too small to show the proper esteem.

Guy’s entrance to the drawing room earned him a glare by several of the young pups who’d assumed he’d come to kneel at Sonia’s feet. Gemma was nowhere in sight.

“Mrs. Spencer.” Guy bowed to Aunt Margot upon being announced by a long-suffering footman. “How delightful to see you. I trust you are well. Miss Broadbent, I trust you too are well.”

“Of course, Lord Guy.” Sonia, who’d risen with all the ladies at his entrance, gave him a perfect curtsy. The other young ladies and Aunt Margot followed suit, while the gentlemen, having tostand because the ladies did, poorly hid their annoyance at Guy’s unanticipated entrance.

Aunt Margot stalked toward Guy with dignity, her interesting headgear wobbling with her gait. A band of wildly colored fabric had been wound around and around itself on her head, culminating in a tassel that draped down her neck.

Aunt Margot noticed his attention to it and sniffed, which made the tassel bob. “It is a turban, dear boy. That is what I claim. So pleased you have come, Lord Guy.”

In spite of her good-humored response, she looked a bit harried. The young men in the drawing room glowered at each other while Sonia and her friends, now restored to their seats, tried in vain to engage the gentlemen in conversation. None of the young men seemed inclined to speak, more interested in waiting each other out than actually speaking to Sonia.

“Was passing by,” Guy said to Aunt Margot, trying to sound offhand. “As I danced with Mrs. Cooke last evening, I thought I’d call and make certain I didn’t tread on her toes too much.”

Aunt Margot’s brows rose. “She seems to be walking without hindrance. Do sit, Lord Guy. Or … I have it. Regale us with a melody on the pianoforte. The Marchioness of Keeling says your playing has a light and pleasing touch.”

Silently cursing his sister-in-law, Guy politely agreed and made his way to the pianoforte as Aunt Margot returned to her chair.

He sat on the pianoforte’s stool and rested his hands on the ivory keys, reflecting that he only ever completely relaxed when sitting at the instrument. Now, what to give them? Something by Haydn? Too complex perhaps. There were the simple songs of the day that the young ladies might like, but Guy hadn’t come here to woo debutantes.

He hit upon a tune simply called a “Bagatelle” by its composer, pretty and sweet, but with a depth not found in many pieces.

Guy closed his eyes, the better to call the notes to mind, and began the six-eight rhythm. He swayed with the music, which let him shut out the room and think only of the soft pressure of Gemma’s lips upon his.

Gemma heardthe notes of the pianoforte float upstairs to her sitting room, where she’d sought a brief refuge from the understated drama in the drawing room. Usually, she was happy to sit with Sonia and her callers, taking it upon herself to revive the conversation when it flagged, and make certain that every young man—and woman—was able to contribute to the discussion.

Today, she’d been restless and easily distracted. She’d retreated when several gentlemen arrived who were not interested in Sonia but hinted at a desire to corner Gemma. She’d excused herself, citing a headache. Sure enough, the two gentlemen had departed in impatience.

Sitting alone had not helped her agitation. She’d lain awake most of the night reliving Guy’s kiss, the warmth of his touch, and strangely, the scent of him. Clean and male, something she’d never experienced. Her first husband’s odor had not been pleasant, and both Broadbent and especially Mr. Cooke, had loved to drench themselves in scent.

Guy’s skin had been pleasant to press her nose to. His lips even more pleasant to caress with her own.

His kiss had awakened something in her she hadn’t been aware had lain dormant. Since her third husband’s death, she’dretreated to a place of numbness, her first shock and grief giving way to a dull haze.

She’d gone through her days like an automaton, devoting herself to Sonia, being polite to those outside the family, but nothing beyond that. She had no children of her own to love and indulge—Gemma had concluded she was barren, as three marriages had produced no offspring—so she’d presided over Sonia’s debut, happy to help her dear stepdaughter and friend.

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