Page 7 of From Rakes to Riches

Gemma found herself smiling, her heart beating faster with the pace and excitement. Guy was an excellent dancer, moving with grace, splendid to watch. His costume showed off his legs, muscles playing as he glided with the music. He never missed a step, was as courteous to his secondary partner as he was to Gemma, and full of tasteful quips for the gentleman.

In short, he was well-mannered and gallant, the very epitome of what a gentleman should be.

Gemma admitted to herself it wasn’t Guy’s politeness that caught her interest. It was the way he swayed in the dance, his solid hand on hers, arm guiding her when needed so she never lost her footing. She found herself wondering what it would be like to try more scandalous dances with him, something she could never do at a prominent society ball.

Dancing made Gemma forget the stares, the raised lorgnettes, the whispers behind fans. She saw these things out of the corner of her eye as she whirled back and forth, sashaying up and down the line, but they seemed distant and unimportant. She joyously smiled at her partners, her feet moving in perfect time with the music.

All too soon, the dance came to an end. Guy held out his arm to lead her away, Gemma laughing and breathless.

“Oh no.” Guy’s step faltered halfway to the chairs at the edge of the ballroom.

“I say, there you are Mrs. Cooke.” Mr. Wakefield, who had clearly not left the ball for the hells of St. James’s, sauntered to them. “Thank you for finding her for me, Lovell, old thing.” He held out a hand to Gemma. “Fancy a caper, madam?”

“Mrs. Cooke has wrenched her foot and must sit down,” Guy said before Gemma could open her mouth.

Thank heavens for Guy, because no excuse had sprung to Gemma’s mind, and she could not refuse without being considered rude—one more thing for the guests to talk about.

Wakefield did not move. “Oh, bad show. I am happy to escort you to a seat and bestow lemonade and ices on you, dear Mrs. Cooke.”

“I have already offered such services and been accepted,” Guy said in a voice that held warning. “Better luck elsewhere, my friend.”

Wakefield peered at Guy with bloodshot eyes. “Good Lord, Lovell. Are you saying you’re potty about Mrs. Cooke?” He sniggered. “How riveting.”

“Go soak yourself, Wakefield. In something other than port, in which you obviously have immersed yourself already.”

“Do watch your tone, Lovell.” Wakefield’s amusement died into sourness. “You’ll find yourself on the wrong end of a dueling pistol.”

“I’ve seen you shoot,” Guy said mildly. “I have little to worry about. Come along, Mrs. Cooke. A turn in the cool air of the terrace will be just the thing. We’ll settle you, and I’ll fetch lemonade and your aunt.”

Wakefield glanced across the ballroom in alarm. Most people knew Margot Spencer, nee Margot Broadbent, and few wished to cross swords with her. Mr. Wakefield made a hasty bow.

“Pleased to have spoken with you, Mrs. Cooke. I must dash. I’ll give you the cut direct later, Lovell.”

“I look forward to it.” Guy made him the exaggerated bow of a sixteenth-century courtier as Wakefield tottered away. When Guy rose, he tightened his grip on Gemma’s arm. “Come along. Before another mad swain tries to cut in.”

Gemma quickened her steps to match his as they made for the terrace door. They hadn’t moved more than five yards before a matron, her face rouged to cherry red, stepped in front of them.

“Young Lord Guy,” she sang. Her lorgnette waved as she curtsied, her skirts swaying like a galleon in a wind. “Mydaughter, Amelia, is in danger of being a wallflower tonight. Do take pity on her, won’t you?”

“I must settle Mrs. Cooke first, Lady Wilding. The poor thing has turned her ankle.”

“Dear, dear.” The lady tutted. “Mrs. Cooke, your aunt is parading your stepdaughter about something dreadful. Young Sonia must be careful not to mar her reputation.” She stared at Guy blatantly, then Gemma, and frowned formidably. “My heavens, do I guess that there is amatchin the making?”

“Between me and Mrs. Cooke?” Guy sent her an incredulous look. “Good lady, can a gentleman not escort a young woman to a chair without rushing her to the altar the next day?”

“I did not mean you and Mrs. Cooke, silly boy. I meant you and Miss Sonia Broadbent.”

Gemma stifled a gasp. “Not at all, Lady Wilding. I promise you, Lord Guy is simply being polite to me. After all, I finagled a dance from him.”

“Did you?” The words were a pronouncement. Up came the lorgnette. “It is sweet of you to remove my scrutiny from him, Mrs. Cooke. I shall simply have to ask Margot.”

Lady Wilding lowered her lorgnette and sailed past. Guy hastened Gemma toward the terrace doors—Gemma made certain to limp.

“Good Lord.” Guy collapsed upon a stone bench in the darkness of the terrace, pulling Gemma down beside him. “She’s as bad as Sir Ronald. Possibly worse, and they’re cronies.”

“Indeed, between the two of them they could write an entire opera about us, complete with dastardly villains and tragically lovelorn heroes.” Gemma stifled the urge to laugh.

Guy spread his hands, broad in his gloves. “What is to be done? Oh, the trials of being young, beautiful, and unwed. You are the beautiful one, of course.”

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