Page 7 of The Gentleman's Confession
The ladies stood a moment after him. Jemma, however, didn’t quite make it to her feet. She tripped on either her gown or the leg of her chair—Miles couldn’t be sure—and with a high-pitched squeak, she stumbled to the floor.
He stared. Jemma was not clumsy, so he was certain she was hurt.
“I’m all right!” she said quickly, bounding up into a sitting position.
Despite her reassurance, Miles hurried to her and extended his hand. When she reached for him, he couldn’t help but whisper, “Could this be a sign? Should I send him away?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I tripped,” she hissed. Taking his hand, she climbed to her feet, hesitating before fully straightening.She dropped his hand and reached behind her back. “Good heavens!” she hissed under her breath.
“Are you hurt?”
“Worse!” She waved him closer.
Miles stole a glance at Mr. Bentley over his shoulder, who was waiting to be invited in. At least he was a gentleman—even if he was about to steal the woman of Miles’s dreams.
“It’s my gown. I ripped it.”
He took the measure of her lavender gown with puffed sleeves and waistline that dropped slightly lower than an empire cut. It was likely made from one of Jemma’s own designs. He didn’t see anything wrong with it beside its being new and in the height of fashion. She had a flair for adding beauty wherever she went, but her passion had always been in clothing. Knowing she would dress up for Mr. Bentley made Miles’s stomach turn. “I don’t see anything.”
Her whisper came out higher and more frantic. “It’s in the back! If I ruined this dress for a man ... Oh, do something!”
“Are you certain you aren’t hurt?” Lady Kellen said, taking a step toward them.
“No, not hurt,” Jemma clarified loudly, stopping Lady Kellen’s progression. “I just need a minute!” She dropped her voice again. “He’s going to think I am a clumsy idiot!”
“If this is a bad time,” Mr. Bentley called from the door, “I can return on the morrow.”
Miles straightened. “I think it would be best, Mr.—oof!” Jemma had kicked him in the shin. “I mean, please, come in.” He glared at Jemma. What was wrong with her? She was acting completely mad. Granted, it was not his house, to invite guests in or dismiss them, but clearly, this was not the best time.
“Help me stand!” she whispered, ever the stubborn one.
Was she hoping to entertain with her gown falling off her back? He bent over again and offered her hand once more. She claspedit this time, and he gave a tug, aiding her the rest of the way to her feet.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Bentley.” Jemma waved him into the room.
“How bad is it?” she said into his ear as she stepped to Miles’s side.
Did she really want him to look? “Shouldn’t Lady Kellen—”
“Just look,” she muttered under her breath.
Good heavens. He was a vicar, not a lady’s maid. He reluctantly leaned over her shoulder, bracing himself for the worst. The stitching on the back of the waistline had come undone a good five inches across, exposing her white ... er, underthings. His cheeks were shading red, he knew it.
Mr. Bentley crept closer, his smug smile now quite hesitant. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You must forgive me.”
“It’s the gown, not you,” Jemma answered as if nothing were amiss in the world. With how readily she masked her situation and adopted her poise, one would think her royalty. “It requires a shorter hem, but I was too impatient to wear it.” Her laugh that followed was not at all natural, but only those closest to her would notice the obvious strain.
“It is exquisite, so I do not blame you for wanting to wear it.” Mr. Bentley’s words, while complimentary, rubbed Miles wrong. Did he have to mention her gown at all? It was crass coming from a man who had not even been properly introduced. But, of course, Miles couldn’t fault him for the unusual situation.
“Lady Kellen,” Miles said, “will you do the honors of introducing us?”
“Pardon my manners.” Lady Kellen stepped forward. “Miss Fielding, this is Mr. Bentley, our new neighbor.” She pointed to Miles. “And this is our vicar, Mr. Jackson, who has come to greet you, Mr. Bentley.”
Mr. Bentley dipped his head, and Jemma bobbed a curtsy. As she did, Miles reflexively put his hand on her back to hide the gap there. If complimenting a stranger’s gown was improper, this had to be much worse.
Mr. Bentley raised his brow, and Miles gave him the best innocent face he could muster. He’d done his fair share of acting as a Rebel, so he wasn’t exactly the most pious of laymen, but he wasn’t sure what his role was supposed to be here. It certainly wasn’t to send Mr. Bentley running for the hills, even if it was what he wanted to do.
“Tea, Mr. Bentley?” Jemma pointed to the tea things.
