Just Another Viscount in Love Read online

  “A note?” Sam said with a hollow, incredulous laugh.

  Gemma didn’t know how to respond. He was far more upset than she could have suspected.

  “Mrs. Wortham, let us go to the breakfast room and let Samuel sort out this matter,” the marquess said, holding out his hand for his wife. “Miss Desmond, should you require anything, we shall be just down the hall.”

  She offered a nod, feeling a knot twisting inside her as she turned back to Sam. In all the years of studying other people, she had not witnessed this particular expression and wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “I never intended to anger you with my absence,” Gemma said once they were alone, hesitant to take a step toward him.

  “I’m not angry. Not really.” He expelled a hard breath, then pinned her with his stare. “Gemma, if our situations were reversed, and you expected to find me safe and exactly where I was supposed to be but then discovered that I had gone without leaving word, would that worry you?”

  The very thought of it caused a cold chill to sweep through her. “Well, of course. I would be beside my—oh.” She understood now that it wasn’t fury he was feeling but concern. And perhaps, even more than that. Though she dared not think what it could mean without fear of feeding a fruitless hope.

  She shuffled a half step closer, finding comfort in his nearness, even with the tangible barrier between them. “I apologize for leaving without a word. It was thoughtless of me.”

  This time, he released a slower breath, his shoulders relaxing. “No. I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve behaved beastly this morning. I’ve only experienced this sense of all-consuming panic once before, and I do not know how to reconcile myself with it.”

  Gemma guessed the answer in an instant. “Was it when your father was attacked by highwaymen?”

  “Yes,” he said, his expression curious. “How did you know?”

  “His lordship told me of it last night when he found me in the garden. In that same instant, I knew how terrible it was of me to let you believe that I’d stolen the brooch,” she confessed, and she noticed that his hands were no longer fisted at his side. Seeing those long, capable fingers and that broad palm made her hand feel empty. So she rolled her fingers inward and tried not to think about it. “Given the circumstances of my life, I wasn’t sure you’d trust me to tell you the truth. Regardless, I want you to know now that I would never steal. And if I wanted to exact revenge on Lady Tillmanshire, I would be far cleverer.”

  His mouth twitched in something of a grin. “I have no doubt of it.” Then, when he took a step closer, a tremble of longing coursed through her. “Gemma, I do not think you took the brooch. If you say it was put there by accident—”

  “It was no accident,” she said again, feeling the sting of her own temper.

  “—then I believe you.”

  Those words, said with such conviction, caused her breath to hitch. That strange, lopsided whirring started spiraling inside her lungs once more. Lifting her face, she studied him closely, wanting to believe it could be true. “But last night I did not think you were so certain.”

  “I confess that I was surprised. And though it is no excuse, my mind was not quick to process the alteration from a most pleasant series of events”—his gaze drifted to her lips—“to their sudden turn.”

  “I was taken off guard as well.”

  At the memory, her cheeks grew hot. How could it be that even hours later she could still feel his kiss, and his mouth on her throat as if he’d branded her? She felt tingly, aware of every pulse point and the small distance between them.

  Sam shifted closer and lifted his hand to her face. As soon as he touched her, the air inside the solarium seemed to simmer, thawing the frozen, desolate parts of her in a rush. His thumb swept across her lower lip. A jolt of pleasure sank deep, deep down into her center, causing something inside of her to clench sweetly.

  Then he cradled her face between both his hands, his eyes dark and intent. Bending his head, he grazed his lips over hers, drawing out a whimper of longing from her throat.

  “You like that,” he said without question, pressing nibbling kisses against the corners of her mouth. “You’re trembling.”

  Lifting her hands, she encircled his wrists, feeling the strength of him in the sinew, bone, and the blood coursing beneath her fingertips. She pressed her lips to his, seeking, wanting.

  When he took her mouth, it was as if they’d never been apart, with nothing—no brooch, no doubt—between them. He tilted her head back, the sensuous slide of his tongue over hers obliterating all thought. She was a taut bundle of need and desire, feeding on each deep, searing kiss as if it were their last.

  She was struck by the sense of time slipping away. A desperate, wanton mewl escaped her as she clung to him. His hand slid down her back, pressing her closer, fitting her against him.

  “Gemma,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away, his cheek pressed to hers, his hot, hard breaths slipping into the whorls of her ear. “Tell me that we have an understanding.”

  Her understanding was that they were quite good at this. Last night seemed like a mere nightmare, and now she was awake and in this perfect dream. Her hands were in his hair again. She wasn’t quite sure when that happened, but nevertheless . . . she used the position to angle his mouth back to hers.

  He gave in for a moment, claiming her mouth on a greedy growl. But then he pulled back again, using kisses to punctuate his next words. “I’ll speak to your aunt straightaway.”

  Because he was smiling, she couldn’t stop her own, and ended up pressing her lips to his lips as well as to his teeth and chin. “Why are you going to speak to my aunt?”

  “About our betrothal,” he said, a deep satisfied rumble vibrating from his chest to hers.

  It still took a moment before the words sunk in. When they finally did, she went stiff, breaking away from the kiss and turning her head. The painful truth tumbled out in a rush. “I cannot marry you.”

  He set her down on her feet in an instant and took a step back, withdrawing the warmth of his body. “You have given me every indication that you want”—he broke off and expelled a harsh breath—“that you are agreeable to the idea of marrying me.”

  Gemma closed her eyes as harsh reality seized her in its deathly cold grip. She wanted nothing else than to be his wife, but that would be a terrible betrayal to him. “I cannot escape the tarnish on my name and would not ruin yours with the association.”

  “You give Lady Tillmanshire too much power. I’m certain it is not as bad as you think.”

  The knot inside of her returned, now threaded with despair. “You do not understand. If it is not her, it will be someone else to take her place. And if I could, I would protect all whom I love from such slander.” Lifting her gaze, she laid her hand on his arm, hoping to tell him in this small gesture that she counted him among those. “I am able to see things that you cannot.”

  He flinched and shrugged away from her touch, taking a step apart from her. “It is no wonder that your only thought is to escape. You only see blocked paths and barred doors, Gemma. Not the open arms right in front of you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sam returned to Dunnock Park with the weight of a desperate task on his shoulders. How could he convince Gemma that whatever people might say of her didn’t matter to him?

  The answer to that question, and a dozen others born in the same vein, would have to wait, however, because the Dowager Duchess of Vale was standing directly ahead of him in the corridor, clutching the missive in her hands.

  “Have you seen her, Lord Ellery?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  He could not help but push his own ragged nerves aside and soothe hers. “I have, and she appears to be well. If it helps, she did not tell me otherwise.”

  Her fretful gaze darted over his shoulder in the direction of the garden. “She has asked me not to go to her but only to ready the carriage. Even with only a garden between us, essentially she has sep
arated herself from the people she is most fond of in the world.”

  Sam noted the error in her statement—people, instead of person—but did not speak it. Apparently, the dowager duchess was under the same misguided notion that he was. “What is in her heart, I cannot say. She refused my . . . invitation to return to the manor house. And I suspect she wishes to leave Dunnock Park altogether, as soon as possible.”

  When Sam saw that they were no longer alone in the corridor, he straightened his shoulders.

  “Pardon the intrusion, m’lord, but I thought you’d want to hear this immediately,” Mrs. Harkens said. “Lady Tillmanshire is above stairs and screeching about a lost brooch. And worse, she is blaming Miss Desmond, claiming to have found it in her bedchamber.”

  “Impossible,” both Sam and the dowager duchess exclaimed at once. He’d returned the brooch directly to the baroness’s room last night and placed it on the vanity beside her other jewelry. There was no way she could have missed it.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t reveal what he’d done without implicating Gemma.

  “No. No. No.” The dowager duchess shook her head. “I do not believe it for an instant. There is something dastardly afoot, to be sure.”

  Mrs. Harkens nodded in agreement and waved her hand for a chambermaid, who was lurking off to the side, to step forward. “It’s true, m’lord. Betsy confessed that she’d seen Miss Ashbury and Miss Leeds coming out of Miss Desmond’s bedchamber.”

  “Are you certain of it, Betsy?” Sam asked.

  The freckle-cheeked maid nodded. “I stayed in the shadow of the stairwell until they were gone, but it looked like they were up to no good, m’lord.”

  Fuming, Sam drew a breath between his teeth before responding. “Thank you both. I might require you to give this same testimony later this morning. Until then, send word to the stables to have Lady Tillmanshire’s and Lady Cantham’s carriages readied at once.”

  “Oh, my poor Gemma,” the dowager duchess said, casting a stern glance toward the ceiling above her, as if to send a bolt of lightning down upon her enemies. “She has already had to deal with so much, living with a father who’d kept her from her family for so many years. When she was old enough to understand about his business dealings, he began locking her in their apartments and reading her correspondences to make sure that none of his own illicit actions would be discovered. All she’d wanted to do was escape it. And now she must be confronted with this heinous accusation?”

  Sam was stunned. From their conversations, he knew that Gemma had had a less than conventional upbringing, but she’d never revealed to him how imprisoning it had been. Learning this, he could well understand her desire to flee. Who wouldn’t, in her circumstance? And to add this boundless accusation . . .

  He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth to keep from storming upstairs that instant. He thought he was angry before. Now he was enraged. How dare they!

  “No,” he said to the dowager duchess. “Miss Desmond will not have to worry. I will snuff this out once and for all.”

  She turned to leave but then hesitated and lifted her troubled gaze to him. “If my niece is determined to leave, I can only think of how that action will make it appear as if we are fleeing. The gossipmongers will not be kind to her.”

  “I will not allow that to happen,” he vowed without knowing how, but only that he would do anything for Gemma. “I will come up with a plan to ensure her reputation is safe from further harm.”

  The dowager duchess offered a decisive nod. “Then you’ll need time, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

  Sam stormed down the corridor toward his study, cursing Albert Desmond under his breath.

  Did that man even care about what Gemma would suffer because of his wrongdoings? Likely not. While Sam had been raised by the best of parents, she’d been left under the care of a self-serving criminal. And after all that, she still had to deal with the petty-mindedness of women like Lady Tillmanshire and Lady Cantham.

  Sam wasn’t pleased with his own behavior either. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. He should have held on to his patience. He should have fallen at her feet and begged her forgiveness.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holt stagger into the study after him.

  Sam was in a vile temper and not fit for company. “Isn’t it a bit early for you?”

  “Why are you not in high spirits this morning?” Holt asked, sinking down into the overstuffed chair by the hearth. “I’d thought after engineering last night, your nauseatingly romantic heart would be bursting out of your waistcoat and your servants rushing around to prepare for your wedding.”

  Picking up the quill pen on his desk, he unintentionally snapped it between his fingers. Well, better it than Lady Tillmanshire’s neck, he supposed. “Perhaps, if not for interference from another guest.”

  Sam withdrew another quill from the drawer and began to sharpen it with his penknife. It felt good to inflict violence on the tip, sending opaque shards scattering to the tidy surface of his desk.

  “Would that be the same guest who is now upstairs bellowing about how Miss Desmond robbed her?” Holt asked.

  Now this quill snapped too. Growling, he flicked a murderous gaze toward the ceiling. “That bitter baroness is attempting to sully Miss Desmond’s reputation by branding her as a thief in order to dissuade my interest in her.”

  “Is this your own supposition or”—Holt stood and smoothed his hands down the front of his gray waistcoat—“are you taking Miss Desmond’s word?”

  Sam tossed down the broken quill and rounded the desk. “Just what are you implying?”

  Holt shrugged in his usual indifferent manner, but his gaze was watchful. “During my sleepless hours, I finally remembered where I’d heard Miss Desmond’s name before. I cannot remember the details, per se, but it was in association with Lord Markham.”

  Sam took another step until he was within strangling distance. “If you value our friendship and any of your teeth, do not speak another word.”

  “You’re that sure of her character?” One dark brow lifted.

  “I am,” he said, with utter certainty pulsing through every vein.

  “It’s about bloody time.” Holt clapped him on the shoulder and flashed a grin. “This self-doubt of yours has grown wearisome. And, by the by, I knew right away where I’d heard her name. You see, there was a tiny rumor that during Miss Desmond’s first and, apparently, only attendance at a ball, Markham insulted her honor. Then, coincidentally, Markham broke both of his hands and fled London. No one knows for certain what happened. All I can say is that Miss Desmond must have friends. And any debutante who has a slew of people prepared to rally to her defense . . . well, she might be worthy of you.”

  Sam thought about the way he’d spoken to her this morning. It was unforgivable, especially after all that she had endured. “But am I worthy of her? When Gemma explained that she found Lady Tillmanshire’s brooch in her room, I should have marched up to the baroness, handed her the bauble, and ordered her to leave immediately.”

  “And have the biddy wondering how you knew the brooch was in Miss Desmond’s bedchamber?” Holt clucked his tongue but also waggled his eyebrows. “What happened to the brooch then?”

  “I returned it to Lady Tillmanshire’s chamber, of course. Then, this morning I learned from one of the chambermaids that Miss Ashbury and Miss Leeds were seen leaving Miss Desmond’s room last night.”

  “Ah. So the rumors regarding their dogged determination to wreak havoc all Season were not overly exaggerated.” He stopped with a quizzical arch of his brow. “What?”

  “You were touring the continent, and yet you’ve heard more about the Season than I have. And I was there.”

  “It is your own fault for trying so hard to catch a bride that you paid no heed to rumors. Even when I am away, I keep my ears tuned to the buzz of society. How else do you catch an heiress, after all?” Holt cast a glance out the open doorway and toward the stairs, as if he were thi
nking of someone who wasn’t quite an heiress but possessed a wealth of dimples. Then he shook his head, his expression resolute. “As for Miss Leeds and Miss Ashbury, apparently their alliance has sent many a tearful debutante rushing out of ballrooms and garden parties all Season.”

  “Then it’s high time they got what they deserve.” Suddenly Sam knew exactly what to do. Not only would it stop any chance that Lady Tillmanshire’s accusations would hold any merit, but it might even free Gemma from the overwhelming desire to escape. “If you are willing, I could use your assistance.”

  “I am at your disposal.”

  “Ill?” Gemma repeated, to the marquess and marchioness. With her packed satchel waiting in the foyer, she’d assumed that Lord and Lady Russford had called her into the parlor to bid her farewell, not to tell her about Aunt Edith’s sudden illness.

  Although, knowing her aunt’s tendency to believe herself a matchmaker, Gemma was skeptical. “In her note this morning, my aunt said she was prepared to depart at once.”

  Lady Russford shifted her eyes to her husband. “Yes, well, apparently her illness was rather sudden.”

  “But slight,” Lord Russford added carefully. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Just something that would make it uncomfortable to travel,” Lady Russford added, a little too brightly and received an encouraging nod from her husband.

  If Gemma were watching them at a gaming table, she’d believe they both had cards up their sleeves. Yet while her suspicions were on alert, she wasn’t certain what their intentions were.

  “Then I should go to her, I suppose.” Yet at the thought of returning to the manor house, where Sam was right this instant, her heart and stomach began to turn in opposite directions. She didn’t think she could face him.

  “No, no, no,” Lady Russford said quickly. “You mustn’t just yet. According to her maid, the dowager duchess wishes for no visitors at this time.”

  Lord Russford nodded agreement. “And of course you are more than welcome to stay here.”

  “In fact, we insist upon it.”