Page 57 of Married to a Scandalous Spinster
He scanned the groups of guests gathering around the fringes of the dance floor with glasses in their hands. There were Lord Crockford and Lord Wilmington, who he and Jonah had been to Eton with, each their jewel-draped wife on their arms. His mother was flapping around the doorway, no doubt giving overly enthusiastic welcomes to each new guest—likely in an attempt to make up for what she saw as her daughter-in-law's complete lack of social skills. Jonah, it seemed, had been wrangled into a conversation with Miss Henford and her family. He was engaged in what seemed to be a rather heated discussion with her mother, complete with intense facial expressions and wild hand gestures. Wyatt smiled to himself.
I will save the poor fellow in a moment. But for now, let him suffer.
He deserved it, after all the inappropriate comments he had made about Gemma of late.
Wyatt went from group to group, greeting his guests with Gemma on his arm. Each time he introduced his wife to one of his acquaintances, he felt an immense swell of pride. He was aware he had a ridiculous smile on his face but had no thought of how to temper it.
After tonight, the only thing the gossip sheets will have to report is how the Duke of Larsen is hopelessly in love with his wife…
Wyatt led Gemma over to Crockford and Wilmington, introducing her to his old school friends and their wives.
“What a lovely evening this is,” twittered Lady Crockford, a fine-boned blonde lady who looked positively wraith-like on the arm of her bulky husband. At school, Lord Crockford had always excelled in the boxing ring. The faint bruise beneath his eye suggested that these days, he was not so adept at the sport. “It was such a nice surprise to receive your invitation in the mail.”
“Indeed.” Her husband chuckled and raised his whisky glass in Gemma and Wyatt's direction. “I imagined the two of you would be hiding away from prying eyes for all eternity after what happened at your wedding.”
Wyatt felt Gemma's fingers tense against his arm. He felt his own anger roiling up inside him. “The Duchess and I have nothing to hide,” he said, pinning his old friend with a hard expression. “Her Grace and I are extremely happy. In fact, I see the circumstances of our marriage as something of a blessing.”
That, of course, was the understatement of the century, but Wyatt knew he could go no further—at least not with the Henfords in attendance. In any case, his stern words seem to have broken through his friend's brassiness.
Crockford bowed his head in apology, the color in his ruddy cheeks intensifying. “Forgive me, Larsen.” He looked at Gemma. “Your Grace. You know I was only playing with you.”
Gemma nodded her acceptance and offered him a slight smile. Wyatt wished he had the same grace as her. He felt moments away from clocking his old school friend across the mouth. His eyes snapped from one member of the group to the next. “Does anyone else have any comments they wish to make about our marriage?”
A moment of awkward silence fell across the group.
“Do forgive my husband, Your Grace,” Lady Crockford piped up. “I think what he meant to say was, he never imagined you as the kind of man to find himself so satisfied in marriage.”
“Indeed,” Lord Crockford blustered. “That's exactly what I meant.”
Wyatt caught the faint smile on the edge of Gemma's lips. She patted his arm gently, as if telling him to calm down. Wyatt swallowed. Perhaps he had overreacted.
“Very good,” he said. “Now, Crockford, tell me about this new house in Mayfair you are eyeing off.”
As Lord Crockford spoke, Wyatt noticed Gemma's glance darting between the entrance to the ballroom, and the clock on the wall. “Are you all right?” he murmured.
Her gaze drifted over to the entrance again. “It is unlike my family to be late,” she murmured. “Grandmother is always so punctual. She always taught us how impolite it is to be tardy.” He noticed her fingers tensing around the stem of the champagne glass.
“I am sure there's a simple explanation for the delay,” Wyatt assured her. “You know the London traffic is often dreadful at this time of night. Likely they've just been delayed.”
“Yes.” Gemma's eyes drifted back to the door. “Perhaps.” But he could tell she was unconvinced. He reached for her hand and gave it a surreptitious squeeze. “I shall be back in a moment. It's high time I rescued poor Anderson from the lions' den.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“We thought to add a sun room to the back of the house,” Lord Crockford was saying, “made entirely of glass.”
“Well, notentirelyof glass, my dear,” his wife chirped. “After all, one must have a little privacy.”
“Yes, but one must also have plenty of sun, for it to be called asunroom. Wouldn't you agree?” Lord Crockford waved his whisky glass to punctuate his sentence, slopping a healthy dollop on the tiled ballroom floor.
Gemma's gaze drifted over towards the buffet table, where Wyatt was attempting to extricate Lord Anderson from what looked to be a fierce conversation with Miss Henford's mother. Thankfully, her daughter was nowhere in sight—no doubt she was off on another mission to secure herself an eligible nobleman. Not, Gemma thought, that her mother looked any less terrifying. She was spearing Wyatt with an expression that left no doubt about the fact that she was unhappy at being interrupted. Finally, Wyatt headed back towards the group with a befuddled-looking Lord Anderson in tow.
Gemma turned back to the conversation. Lord Crockford was now onto a detailed outline of the new property's numerous guest rooms. Gemma nodded along, barely listening. She darted another glance towards the door, in search of her family. Unease knotted her stomach.
Where could they be?
Perhaps Wyatt was right. Perhaps her family was merely caught in the notorious London traffic. Or perhaps there had been a flaw with the rundown Volk carriage that had needed fixing. Or Veronica had taken far too long to get ready, as she had been known to do. Gemma knew all these things were plausible explanations.
But she could not shake the concern that there was something else at play and could not shake the fear that somehow, her father was responsible for the delay. She imagined Veronica and her grandmother pacing the hallways as they waited for him to return home from the gambling halls. Imagined them pouring strong tea down his throat in an attempt to sober him up. Imagined his valet trying to knot his cravat around his throat while the Earl sank deeper and deeper into his arm chair, demanding another glass of whisky. What state would her father be in when he finally graced his daughter's ball with his presence? Gemma hardly dared to think about it.
