Page 5 of From Rakes to Riches

Lord Guy, whom she’d briefly met years ago when she’d been a nervous new bride at eighteen, hadn’t gazed at her tonight in shock, outrage, speculation, or outright craving. He’d grinned at her like a friend and talked to her.

Not at her, not around her, not through her.Toher.

It was an interesting sensation.

Also interesting was how the tension had receded from her at the sight of his smile, the warmth in his eyes. Even the rumble of his voice when he’d driven off Mr. Wakefield in the hall had comforted her. If Lord Guy did speculate on Gemma’s string of marriages, he’d hidden it well.

The clock gave a hiccupping wheeze and gently chimed the half hour. Gemma started. She must pay attention to the time. Five minutes, he’d said.

Five minutes to brood, pace the carpet, and wonder why the sparkle had rushed back into her life when Guy Lovell had risen from the chair at her entrance, why it had ebbed when he’d gone.

His costume—silver and black doublet with gashed red sleeves and red-orange breeches—had hugged a trim and muscular body. Lord Guy had no cause to be ashamed of what the tight costume outlined.

Gemma hadn’t admired a man’s form in a long time. Her last husband, Rupert Cooke, had been handsome, but not with the vigorous handsomeness of Guy. Rupert had been thin, with golden hair and an effervescence of a being not long for this earth. Which had proved true, when he’d let himself be shot in a duel. The lady he’d dueled over had not been Gemma.

She’d decided, after Rupert’s death, that she was finished with marriage, finished with gentlemen entirely. Gemma could help Sonia find a suitable husband to ensure her happiness and be content with that. John Broadbent, Sonia’s father, had been a good person. If he’d lived, Gemma might have found tranquility.

Now Guy Lovell had stolen the very air in the chamber and taken it with him when he’d gone.

The clock ticked relentlessly, marking off each minute until her allotted five was over. Gemma must now return to the ballroom and the crush, paste on a smile, and face the speculators.

But Guy would be downstairs to fend off gentlemen like Mr. Wakefield, acting the gallant swain his costume presented him to be. Even if Guy never spoke to her again, never looked at her, she’d use his upright, scarlet and silver form as an anchor, and finish the night with calm.

Gemma swallowed on her dry throat, squared her shoulders, and strode quickly from the room.

The upper reaches of the house were quiet. As Gemma descended the staircase, the noise from the lower floors flowed up to her, growing louder and louder, until it became a din she pressed against. Somewhere in the ballroom, musicians played, but the dancers must struggle to hear them.

Aunt Margot and Sonia would be wondering where on earth she’d gone to. Tristan, she did not worry so much about. He’d fled to a card room as soon as they’d entered, where he’d remain sequestered with fellow male sufferers until time to escort the ladies home.

The first person Gemma saw upon entering the overheated ballroom was Lord Guy.

Though plenty of revelers wore costumes equally as colorful as or even more fanciful than Guy’s, they faded into drab blurs, while Guy stood out like a beacon. He spoke with animation to the Duke of Ashford, a quiet, stern man the same age as Guy, but with a more forbidding demeanor.

His wife, the vivacious Helena, had gathered a crowd of matrons around her, her colorful headdress bobbing as shespoke animatedly. At least Helena’s chatter distracted the ladies from Gemma’s re-entrance.

As Gemma pried her gaze from Lord Guy and turned to make for Aunt Margot’s tall turban, she ran forcibly into a gentleman’s rather portly stomach.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed as she bounced from him. She’d been so focused on Guy she’d never seen the man. Silly, silly …

“My goodness.” The gentleman, chortling, brought up a quizzing glass to peer at her. “I do believe it is the very charming Mrs. Cooke, rushing about like a debutante. Dear, dear.”

Gemma realized in dismay that she’d dashed headlong into Sir Ronald Pugh, one of the greatest gossips in theton. Sir Ronald attended every ball, every soiree, musicale, supper, club, and racing meet in order to gather grist for his mill. He knew every bit of scandal on every person in London, and on many of those who’d fled to the Continent to escape such scandal, or their creditors, or both.

“Sir Ronald.” Gemma gave him a polite curtsy. It never did to offend Ronald Pugh, which was why he was invited everywhere. No one liked him, but everyone feared his very busy tongue.

“Now where did you pop from?” Sir Ronald’s glance turned sly. “I noticed the absence of Mr. Wakefield from the ballroom just now as well.”

Gemma pressed her fingers into her gloved palm and tried to imagine an iced-over river, cold rain, a biting wind—anything to keep from blushing. If Sir Ronald decided that Gemma had nipped out for a tête-à-tête with Hector Wakefield, it would be all over London by breakfast and penetrate the rest of the world by tomorrow teatime.

She opened her mouth to make some quip about Mr. Wakefield being free to wander about as he pleased, when a deeper voice brought forth the flush she’d striven to hide.

“Sir Ronald, have you nothing better to do than toss ladies aside as you plough through the ballroom? Though I admit it is a bit dense in here. One needs a scouting party and full armor.”

Guy Lovell had appeared beside Gemma as if by magic. Behind him was the Duke of Ashford, his mouth a firm line to Guy’s sardonic grin.

Sir Ronald caught Gemma’s heated blush, swiveled his gaze to Guy, and made his decision.

“Ah, the chivalrous Sir Guy. Come to rescue your lady? Oh, Your Grace.” He fawned. “I did not see you there. How are you, sir?”

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