Page 4 of From Rakes to Riches

Gemma’s trepidation returned. “Do you mind terribly? I hate to ask you.”

“Do I mind?” Guy executed a bow. “I am a gallant gentleman from the sixteenth century. I remove my cloak so my lady may walk on it across a muddy street. I travel the world to fetch a stalk of an exotic flower to present it to my one true love. What is walking downstairs to toss aside a fool of a man to clear your path?”

Gemma’s eyes glowed with good humor. “Your lady is lucky indeed.”

“Alas, she is nonexistent. I am a humble bachelor. My friends invite me to their gatherings solely because I can entertain the children.”

“Now, I know that is not true, Lord Guy. I am friends with Helena Ashford.”

“Ah.” Helena, lovely and lively-tongued, was now the Duchess of Ashford, having married Guy’s friend Ash. “My true self is revealed.”

“She says nothing but good about you. But do take care.” Gemma’s mouth quirked. “Helena is an avowed matchmaker.”

“So she is.” Guy thumped his hand to his chest. “ThoughIhad something to do with her marriage to Ash. I will take all credit for it, in any case.”

The smile grew. “She also said you were an incorrigible braggart.”

Guy sighed dramatically. “So I am. Now, dear lady, you wait here while I scout. If I do not return, then all is safe. If I rush back and bid you hide under the nearest table, then it means Wakefield has not made himself scarce.”

Gemma nodded, her eyes like diamonds. “I will wait.”

“Excellent. Five minutes.” Guy pointed to the gold clock, which was still quietly ticking away. Strange, it sounded more lively now. “That is all I should need.”

“Of course.”

There was no reason Guy should remain in this room any longer. He must put his words to action and clear the way as he’d promised.

The fact that he’d much rather stay in the little chamber and converse with Mrs. Cooke for the rest of the night should not matter. She wished to return to her stepdaughter, and Guy would make certain she could.

Then why did his feet drag? Why did he make excuses to himself to turn and make another ridiculous bow?

Before he left the room, Guy let himself absorb the vision of Gemma Cooke once more. Her gold and silver ensemble shimmered in the candlelight, giving her dark hair a rich sheen. Her blue eyes held a depth he wanted to gaze into from much closer than across the room.

Guy had the sudden longing to rush to her, rest his hand on her arm, tilt her chin up, and after studying her face for a time, lean and kiss her …

What the devil was the matter with him? Guy jerked himself from the incline he’d began toward her, his heart thudding unpleasantly. Hiding his unease, he gave her a smart salute and turned to the door.

It was so very hard to open the thing, but he finally made himself do it and step out into the hall. One final glance at Gemma, poised near the screen, red lips parted, almost had him dashing back inside, a fool to the end.

Guy tightened his grip on the handle, nodded to Gemma again, and forced himself to close the door.

He stood outside the room for a long time, his breathing unsteady, before a chiming clock on the landing reminded him of his errand. If Gemma rushed out after her allotted five minutes and found him still there …

She’d crash into him in the fragrant softness of woman, and Guy would be lost.

He dragged in a breath, turned, and marched for the stairs.

“Oh,chrysanthemums,”he muttered with feeling.

2

The luxuriousness of the room faded with Lord Guy’s departure. The clock did not gleam as much, the vibrant colors of the gilded and painted ceiling dimmed, and the crystal chandelier lost its luster.

Gemma let out a breath as his footsteps faded into the distance, finding herself trembling. She’d been holding herself tightly since she’d entered this grand house, Sonia in tow, Aunt Margot leading the way like an advance guard. Tristan, her first husband’s son, four years older than Gemma, had escorted them to stave off scandal.

Scandal.Ha.Too much of it in Gemma’s life. Even now, the ladies downstairs whispered about her behind fans. Had Mrs. Cooke hastened her husbands to their various demises? How dare she parade about, attracting gazes from all the gentlemen? No wonder her stepson Tristan bore such a stern scowl.

Gemma could have told them that a scowl was Tristan’s usual expression. Annoyed or elated, Tristan wore the same forbidding frown. He, like his father, simply had a dour face, behind which lay an affable if unambitious man.

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