Just Another Viscount in Love Read online

  A sudden rush of heat stumbled through her, flushing her cheeks for all to see. Embarrassed, she reached for her cup and drank the cool tisane at the same time that Sam drained his own.

  “I had a coral necklace, but I recently seem to have misplaced it,” Miss Leeds said, her s’s rushing together in something of a hiss.

  Gemma felt, rather than saw, Aunt Edith stiffen beside her. Several gazes were now on her coral necklace.

  “But that is the problem with indistinct jewelry,” Lady Tillmanshire interjected. “Take this cabochon ruby brooch, for instance, Lord Ellery. There isn’t a single other one like it.”

  The moment Lady Tillmanshire gained his attention, she slid Gemma a sly glance, a malicious smile on her dromedary lips.

  CHAPTER NINE

  From the stables, Sam growled at the dark clouds rolling in to eclipse the red-tinted sunset. His guests were supposed to be busy later, enjoying a fireworks spectacle. But the coming storm had obliterated his plans for the evening.

  Thankfully, Holt and Hollander One and Two had helped him gather up the fireworks display before they could get wet, while Lord Stapleton played host in Sam’s absence. So at least there was a chance to see this through tomorrow. But waiting another night felt like an eternity.

  “Well, that should just about do it,” One announced from the outer corner of the empty horse stall. He released the crate early, nearly causing his younger twin to drop the other end, and dusted his hands together.

  “Watch it, you!” Two shouted as he shuffled back, keeping his boot-clad feet out of harm’s way.

  The elder brother raked a careless hand over his widow’s peak of sandy brown hair, ignoring the outburst, a wicked gleam in his jade green eyes. “I managed to pack up the fireworks and carry them back down the hill.”

  “Standing with your arms crossed, nitpicking the placement of every cylinder is hardly doing the work yourself,” Two said, pantomiming with comical exaggeration, earning a tight-lipped sneer from his twin. “Additionally, I’m the one who carried the brunt of the weight since your arms are nothing more than spindly twigs beneath your shirtsleeves.”

  One absently brushed a piece of straw from shirtsleeves. “I am the elder brother, ergo the overseer.”

  “The quarter hour that separates us does not make you my lord and master.”

  “Of course not. Superiority in every other way does that for me.”

  Two’s face split into a slow grin. “Well, at least I’m not the one who just stepped in horse shite.”

  The elder Hollander looked down and cursed.

  With a shake of his head, Sam moved to the open doors where Holt was smoking a cheroot, his back resting against the weathered fieldstone wall. He took a long drag before flicking his ash in the water bucket at his feet.

  “I suppose tonight will be cards again,” Sam said without any interest. “I don’t think I could stand another round of charades with Lady Tillmanshire and her shouting as if every puzzle were a horse race.”

  Holt chuckled. “I imagine it is a race to her. Rumor has it that the money her husband inherited—the same money that purchased his title and their home—is all but gone. Now, she is in desperate straits to find a well-situated husband for her daughter before anyone learns of their altered circumstances.”

  “Truly?” Sam wondered if that was the reason for their near frantic attempts to claim his attention. “Quite honestly, I took pity on them. I thought that since they’d been labeled as new money, they were not being received properly within the ton. I wanted to give them a fair chance.”

  “A lesson for us all is to be wary of a woman in need of a fortune and a good name to save her,” Holt said wryly. “Thankfully, I shall never have that problem. You, however, will have terrifying creatures to contend with until you finally marry.”

  Sam clenched his teeth and eyed his friend shrewdly. “I hope you are only referring to Lady Tillmanshire and Miss Ashbury with that comment.”

  “Of course. Who else would I—” Holt frowned, his cheroot paused midlift. “Ah. You thought I might also be referring to a certain Miss Desmond, whose ‘surname is that of a criminal’s.’ It must be difficult to know that her father is very like the men who nearly took your father’s life.”

  Sam’s fists tightened. “Tread carefully, my friend. She is not like her father.”

  Unconsciously, his mind conjured an image of Gemma wearing a dark cloak, the lower half of her face hidden by a highwayman’s scarf. A tormented shudder washed through him.

  Quickly, he shook off the unsettling image. Gemma was no more of a thief and deceiver than he was, he assured himself.

  Holt appraised him with an arched brow, then turned his attention to the sky. Drawing on his cheroot, he slowly released a thin, curling stream of smoke. “Does it bother you—her need of a good name to wipe the tarnish off her own?”

  “No, what bothers me is the mean and unfounded censure she has endured.”

  “And as a result,” Holt added, “she might assume that any offer of marriage she received would be out of sympathy and not realize you were already half in love with her.”

  Sam’s fists relaxed in an instant. He drew in a deep breath sweetly scented with rain and tobacco. Like Gemma, Holt knew how to read people effectively. It was a trait Sam envied, now more than ever. “Yes, perhaps that too.”

  “And does she share your feelings?”

  “You know very well that I’ve failed miserably in gauging a woman’s interest before,” Sam said, frustrated. “I would do better to ask you.”

  Holt flicked his ashes into the bucket. “While Miss Desmond looks at you as much you do her, she is rather cautious about revealing her thoughts in her expressions. So, from an outsider’s perspective, it is difficult to tell. Though surely her kiss has told you all you need to know.”

  A sardonic laugh rumbled in Sam’s throat. “That was the whole reason for the fireworks this evening.”

  He looked up to the house, a fireball sun reflected in the glass of Gemma’s bedchamber window. Having her here, beneath his roof, should have made it much easier to spend time with her. And of course, he saw her far more frequently than he would have if they were in town. In their stolen moments, he’d come to know her better within the space of a week than he’d known any of the debutantes during the entire London Season.

  Yet the problem was, he wanted to be alone with Gemma, talking without interruption, touching without the need to hide, and kissing without reason to stop.

  He needed to know if he was foolishly risking his heart.

  “You haven’t kissed her yet? I’ve spent agonizing minutes in Lady Tillmanshire’s and her daughter’s company every night after dinner, solely to give you time alone in the library with Miss Desmond, and all for naught?”

  “Perhaps if you’d told me of your plan to keep Lady Tillmanshire and her daughter occupied, we would not be having this discussion.” Sam glared at his friend. “Besides, a man simply does not walk up to a woman and begin kissing her without a word.”

  “Not true. Some women happen to like that.”

  “Well, Gemma deserves more. She deserves respect and honor. From what I know of her life, she has seldom been asked what she would choose, and I would never forgive myself if I put my own desires above hers.”

  Though he had to confess, every moment he could get away with it, he touched her, stood close to her. She never once balked. In fact, she seemed receptive, enthrallingly so, her hand curling around his with the combined pleasure of new awareness and the ease of long-time intimacy. And that’s exactly what he wanted—long, endless hours of intimacy. He was beginning to go mad with yearning. Even watching her from across the room—or a few blankets over in the apple orchard—and he’d become unbearably aroused.

  “You are such a romantic,” Holt said with combined pity and disgust. His cheroot dropped with a sizzle and a plunk as it hit the water. “Tell me, were you planning to embrace her beneath a shower of sparks for a
ll your guests to see? Or were you naively hoping that no one would notice your absence while you wooed your possible bride-to-be?”

  Sam swallowed. “The latter.”

  “And what? Were you going to trust the twins not to fire them off all at once and have the entire spectacle over in less than five minutes?” He clucked his tongue, looking over his shoulder to where One and Two were fencing with hayforks.

  Hmm . . . that would pose a problem. “You have a point.”

  Holt faced him and clutched his shoulder. “We are going to need a grand production, my friend. Something to span at least . . . oh . . . thirty minutes. You need utter certainty, after all.”

  Until this moment, Sam never knew how indispensable a good friend could be.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The following evening, Gemma rushed through the garden. The firework spectacle was about to begin, and she didn’t want to be late. Even more than that, she didn’t want the party to be eaten by insects. Therefore, she needed to find lemongrass.

  She’d seen it here, somewhere. Thankfully, with torches lit all around to mark the path down to the open park where everyone else was gathered, she had enough light to search. Now, if only her memory would guide her.

  Trying to orient herself, she stopped for a moment only to discover that she was not the sole occupant of the garden. As luck would have it, the gardener she’d spied on a few occasions appeared through an arch near the hedgerow. Though, this was the first time during her stay that she’d seen him without his large straw hat and pruning shears.

  He stopped on the path when he saw her, his blue eyes round until recognition creased them at the corners with his smile. “Why, Miss Desmond, shouldn’t you be with the others, waiting eagerly for the firework spectacle?”

  “You have no idea how happy I am to find you here,” she said, feeling less anxious than before.

  “You are not lost, are you?”

  “Not exactly. I am in search of lemongrass. From what I understand, the scent deters biting insects, and after last night’s rain, there promises to be a feast of human flesh unless we have some assistance. I know Lord Ellery wishes for everything to be perfect this evening.”

  He seemed to consider this, his head tilting in study of her. “And how do you know this?”

  “Well, the truth of the matter is, I overheard him saying those words to Lord Holt only a few minutes ago. I sent my aunt with the rest of the party, promising to join her posthaste, but now I find myself wishing I could remember where I last saw the lemongrass.”

  “Right this way.” With a knowing wink, he shuffled off the path, finding a narrow break between the slumbering foxglove and poppies. After a few steps they arrived at a small pebbled bird basin, surrounded by the lemongrass. Immediately, he withdrew his pruning tool from some unseen pocket and began to snip the fronds. “You are kind to think of everyone’s comfort.”

  “It is only a kindness repaid to his lordship. He has selflessly ensured our enjoyment and even our contentment each day.”

  “He is a dutiful host.”

  “And the finest of men,” she whispered, closing her hands over the offered bundle. Then, seeing the discerning expression on the gardener’s face, she felt her cheeks grow hot. “I should go.”

  “If you had a ribbon in your hair or around your neck, I could tie those into fans for you.”

  “A fan! Oh dear, my aunt asked me to fetch one for her, and I forgot. She simply despises the scent of lemongrass, preferring to shoo away the insects instead.” She peered over her shoulder to the house, wondering if she still had time.

  The gardener took the fronds from her hands. “Go. I left a spool of twine under the bench beneath the arbor. I’ll have these tied in proper bundles by the time you return.”

  “Thank you so very much.” On impulse, she pressed a kiss to his papery cheek and then rushed back into the house.

  Guided by the light from the sconce in the hall, Gemma went to her own chamber since it was closer than Aunt Edith’s. Once inside, she walked toward the vanity where she kept her fan and grasped it before turning to leave. Yet when she spotted her jewelry box, she thought about the coral necklace.

  Hmm . . . Sam looked at her rather warmly whenever she wore it, and she certainly wouldn’t mind if he looked at her the same way this evening.

  Making a quick decision, she placed the fan down and set her hand on the carved lid of the bleached wood box that stood on four shiny brass claws. A wealth of memories returned to her.

  She’d been eleven years old when she’d first spotted it in a basket of wares in an Egyptian market, and she’d fallen instantly in love. Unfortunately, all she’d had were the few coins her father had given her to buy his snuff and her food. But given the fact that she’d had little guidance in money management up to that point—as her father always found a way to acquire whatever he wanted—she’d carelessly bartered away her entire fortune. She’d squandered every para, failing to gain a fair price because she hadn’t concealed her desire for the box from the tajir.

  As expected, her father had punished her. But not with a firm reprimand. He hadn’t locked her in her room as he usually had, sent her to bed without supper, or even throttled her backside. No, instead he inflicted a far more severe and lasting penalty. He’d forced her to barter off every piece of her mother’s jewelry.

  Gemma had been six when her mother had died. The shape of her face, the sound of her laugh, and the scent of her hair had already begun to fade from Gemma’s memory, leaving only faint traces behind. Those precious baubles had been the only things that were tangible, the only things that were left of her mother.

  She remembered standing in the market that day, the heat of the sun bearing down on the scorched top of her head, drying the endless flow of tears on her cheeks. She’d wept pitifully, clutching each piece in her hand, refusing to sell because the people didn’t understand that, to her, they were all priceless. No amount of money could take their place. But the offers only increased, and her father had been delighted to take their money.

  When it was all over, and she was left with nothing but an empty jewelry box, her father had wiped away one tear from her cheek and held his glistening fingertip up for her study. “Now this is what makes something valuable. If you are selling, show them your reluctance to part with this precious trinket. And if you are buying, show them your indifference to it.”

  Indeed, Gemma had learned a valuable lesson—that a great number of people were inherently selfish. And she had to battle them all by herself.

  Pushing those thoughts back into the past where they belonged, she lifted the lid to find her necklace. Then she frowned, momentarily confused. The few pieces she possessed were out of order. However, lying in the center was none other than Lady Tillmanshire’s ruby brooch.

  Gemma’s heart slowed, and she stared at the crimson cluster for a beat or two, as if it were a deadly Buthridas scorpion. Then her pulse began to pound in her ears, her blood heating with anger as she realized what this meant.

  The blasted four were trying to make Gemma out to be a thief.

  Curling her hand over the cabochon gems, she felt the pin in the back prick her palm. Without waiting another moment, she strode out of her chamber, prepared to put it back in Lady Tillmanshire’s room. But halfway down the hall, she paused.

  What if Lady Tillmanshire had a maid waiting on her to do just that, waiting to catch her in the act? Gemma wouldn’t put it past the conniving baroness.

  The only way to avoid any consequence would be to return the brooch without her awareness. Perhaps a little sleight of hand would work. Gemma was out of practice, but she could find a way to slip it into the baroness’s reticule. Better yet, she could pin the bloody thing on Lady Tillmanshire’s frock—then let her try to accuse Gemma of stealing it.

  Mind made up, Gemma stormed down the hall and toward the wide staircase.

  Much to her surprise, she found Sam on his way up. They stopped simultaneously on the b
rocade runner, both out of breath. Though it was unlikely that Sam had an incriminating brooch burning the palm of his hand.

  “There you are,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “I was told you returned to fetch a fan. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost.”

  She glanced down at her empty hand, realizing she left the fan behind. Hesitating, she wondered if she should tell him about the brooch, or if it would be better to handle this matter on her own. But what if he didn’t believe her claim?

  She didn’t think she could live with seeing doubt in his expression.

  “I couldn’t find it.” She swallowed, tasting the lie at the back of her throat. “I thought it would be better to join the others as quickly as possible. I would not wish to miss the fireworks.”

  He held out his hand. “Then come, for I have a surprise for you.”

  Descending the stairs, she slipped her free hand into his and allowed the comfort of his grasp to ease some of her nerves.

  Sam guided her down to the first floor, and while they walked along the corridor, she tried to tuck the brooch away. Unfortunately, she hadn’t sewn pockets into her dress. Under her sash seemed too risky. It could fall and land with a clatter on the hardwood floors. Her only option was to slip it covertly into her bodice, securing the warmed metal between her breasts, low enough to be concealed and nestled firmly in her short stays. And she was just in time too, because Sam stopped suddenly at the end of the hall.

  “I thought we might watch the fireworks from here,” he said, opening one of a pair of double-arched doors leading to the ballroom. “That is . . . unless you’d prefer to join the others.”

  Inside was dark, absent of the golden sconce light in the hall. Through an expanse of crystal-clear mullioned windows, the beauty of the night sky was laid bare. And at the prospect of being alone with him, a jolt of anticipation zinged through Gemma, causing her hand to squeeze his tightly. “I’d like to stay.”