Just Another Viscount in Love Page 6

  The instant the dowager duchess and Gemma arrived, he threw open the door to greet them. Then, once they crossed the threshold, he didn’t even give them a chance to settle into their bedchambers before he offered to give them a tour of the house.

  It was unforgivable, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help it. He wanted Gemma to fall in love with Dunnock Park.

  Much to his surprise and delight, Gemma immediately agreed to the tour.

  This alteration from her usual hesitancy gave him hope to imagine that he was not the only one who had been thunderstruck. Normally, he was terrible at interpreting a woman’s interest, as his past failures had clearly shown. But with Gemma, perhaps it would be different.

  When they reached the gallery, the dowager duchess chose to linger at one end of the long paneled room while Sam and Gemma continued toward the other. Their synchronous steps echoed on the hardwood floor and up to the vaulted ceiling, bringing attention to the fact that she wasn’t saying much. Still, he was beyond pleased to have her here. The urge to take her hand was so strong that he had to clasp his own behind his back like manacles.

  Gemma was an irresistible ray of sunshine in her buttercup yellow muslin, the sleeves and bodice embroidered with pale orange shells. The color of the thread reminded him of the string of coral she’d received from her aunt yesterday. He was now rather fond of that necklace.

  “You’re not wearing your aunt’s gift,” he said, his voice low. His gaze drifted to the dark wispy curls at her nape and his fingertips pulsed with the need to feel her skin again. “I would be more than glad to assist you.”

  She lifted her hand to the base of her throat. “No . . . I . . . it is too precious for me to wear every day.”

  He understood. Besides, he was distracted enough as it was, even without the visual reminder of their afternoon together. And perhaps she was distracted too. Often, when he looked over, he caught her plucking at a loose thread dangling from her gloves, her expression far too serious.

  “I hope you found the road from Banfern Glenn to Dunnock Park fair,” he said, trying to learn why she was unusually quiet. Could it be that she was nervous about being here?

  “Quite,” she offered, with another tug on that thread.

  Since that wasn’t much of a foundation for building a conversation, he tried again. “Last time I counted, there were forty-seven different varieties of trees along the way, leaves aplenty to examine under a microscope.”

  “Hmm.”

  He frowned, having expected a different response. Or really, any response at all. Was that thread so fascinating?

  Though perhaps she was simply overly tired from their outing. After all, she had been traveling for days, which tended to leave a person exhausted. That could be the reason, he thought. All he knew was that he’d give anything to see her smile. And inspiration struck when they arrived at the next portrait.

  “This fine fellow wearing a wig of such astounding glory is my four times great-grandfather,” he said, puffing out his chest. “As you can see, he was rather fond of spotted capes.”

  Even though the bow shape of her mouth gave her a look of sly amusement, her eyes remained pensive. “Surely he donned this attire in the style of King Charles and solely for the portrait. Look, he even has the king’s favorite spaniels by his side.”

  Sam shook his head, his expression a mask of severity. “Cats in costume. Great-grandfather hated dogs and merely had the artist take some liberties. Look, you can even see the curve of a cat’s tail at the bottom of the portrait.”

  When she peered closer, rising on her toes and squinting, the chuckle he’d meant to withhold slipped out. She turned on him with a gasp and wagged her finger. “You cad! You were teasing me?”

  He stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender. Here she was—the girl he’d been waiting to see. “I had to do something to make you smile.”

  “Cats in costume,” she muttered under her breath, even as—at last—her lips curled upward. “You are completely ridiculous.”

  Sam could not argue. For her smile, he would play the fool. “Shall I continue and tell you about his wife, Catriona?”

  But just as soon as he gestured to the next portrait, she looked down at her hands and tugged on that blasted thread again. “I have something I need to tell you, and I must do so before I lack the courage.”

  His elation was subdued instantly. “Yes, of course. Would you like to sit down first?”

  She shook her head and faced him. Then, after drawing in a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to his. “I cannot stay.”

  He blinked. Surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. “I do not understand.”

  “It is for the best that I leave Dunnock Park immediately.”

  No. He refused to believe it. There was so much more he wanted to show her—seven more generations of his family that he’d not introduced her to. He wanted to laugh about their elaborate costumes, knowing that Gemma would appreciate their historical significance. He wanted to talk to her about dozens of things that they’d barely had the opportunity to touch upon yesterday and the day before. And most important, he wanted her to meet his mother and father.

  As it stood, his parents had expressed a fervent wish not to attend the party until the very end, claiming that they did not want to influence his decision. But he was beyond their influence at this point. “Have my manners been too forward and disagreeable? If so, I shall remedy it this very instant.”

  “You are perfect,” she said earnestly, her gaze searching his. “The fault lies with me, in that I have not told you the entire truth behind the reason my aunt and I are traveling Surrey.”

  Now he truly was confused. Had he misread her smiles and laughter? “You said the holiday was for your enjoyment.”

  “That much was true. However, the full reason has more to do with my father. You see, when you did not recognize—”

  “Pardon me, m’lord,” the butler interrupted from the open archway, clearing his throat. “Two carriages have arrived. Do you still wish to greet your guests in the foyer? Or shall I have them wait in the parlor?”

  Glancing over his shoulder to Mr. Fentum, standing as stiff as a barrel and dressed in dark livery, Sam was torn. The uncertainty in Gemma’s eyes made him feel like he was running out of time, and he was desperate to grab hold of each moment with her. But it was like trying to capture the spear-shaped leaves of the willow in autumn before they reached the water.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Go. I should not keep you from your guests.”

  “I do not want you to leave,” he said with indisputable firmness, tamping down every impulse to reach out and haul her against him.

  The flesh around her eyes tightened, and two small, anxious furrows appeared between her brows. When she drew in a deep breath, he thought she would refuse him. But instead, she offered a patently reluctant nod.

  “Then, perhaps my aunt and I could tour the gardens, and I will speak with you when it is more convenient.”

  He wanted to feel relief, believing that he had another opportunity to convince her to stay. Yet a powerful swell of unease tripped through him. It was impossible to forget how his prior experiences had not turned out as he’d hoped. And now, he would have an agonizingly long wait ahead of him before he learned whatever news Gemma was about to impart.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A steady succession of guests arrived, as if they’d collectively planned to descend on Dunnock Park at once. Sam received them, one after the other, but without his usual attentiveness. At the moment, he was thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts of Gemma.

  What had she needed to tell him? From her worried expression, he knew it was not happy news. His worst fear was that she was promised to another. He seemed to have a knack for finding young women whose hearts were drawn to other men.

  “My lord,” Fentum said as he rushed back to the foyer, out of breath. After answering an urgent summons from the housekeeper, he looked somewhat haggard, his pomaded sal
t-and-pepper hair sticking out in places like a bird in molting season. “Lord Avery Hollander and Lord Bates Hollander insisted that their assigned bedchambers were inferior to each other’s. Yet even after I explained that both bedchambers were identical, other than the fact that one was blue and the other burgundy, they were still displeased. After much talk of who had the superior view of the stables, I took the liberty of permitting them to exchange chambers.”

  “Very good. And in the future, allow me to field their grievances,” Sam said, gritting his teeth. Leave it to the Hollander twins—or as he referred to them, One and Two—to wreak havoc among the servants just when Sam couldn’t afford to step away and handle the matter himself. His friends often put up a fuss for the sole purpose of causing mischief. Feeling impatient, he then asked, “Did you happen to take note of whether or not the Dowager Duchess of Vale and her niece were still in the garden?”

  Fentum smoothed an efficient gloved hand over his hair. “I believe I caught sight of a parasol as I passed the windows at the back of the house. Shall I send a maid to ask if they require refreshments?”

  “I’ll see to it,” Sam said with a swift glance down the long arched hallway toward a set of mahogany French doors that eventually led to the garden. The distance seemed to span miles instead of strides. “In fact, give my welcome to the rest of the guests who will be arriving and let them know that I will see them this afternoon for tea on the terrace.”

  Without delaying any longer, he slipped away and headed straight for the gardens.

  Once he reached the doorway, however, he stopped. Two other guests—in particular, Miss Ashbury and her mother, the Lady Tillmanshire—were sitting at a table on the terrace near a wall of white and yellow clematis. Not wanting to draw attention to his actions, Sam lingered out of sight while he scanned the extensive gardens.

  “I wonder when Miss Leeds will come down from her chamber. I daresay her tardiness is giving me the run of Dunnock Park,” Miss Ashbury said, likely not realizing she had an audience other than her mother.

  A smirk pulled at Sam’s mouth as he glanced over at the pair and saw Miss Ashbury touch her hand to the hat pinned at an angle over her coiffed auburn curls. While he liked women who bore a sense of inner confidence, he was never one for presumptive arrogance. Though from the audaciousness of her mother’s elaborate bird’s nest hat, he imagined the trait ran in the family.

  “All the better for you, I should think,” Lady Tillmanshire said in the round, superior tones of a student in elocution class. For a woman who’d only become a baroness last year after her merchant husband purchased his title, she’d adapted to society remarkably well. “Let the servants see how well you are suited for such a house and leave your dearest friend to fend for herself. Besides, she is likely plotting against you this very moment with that child of a stepmother, Lady Cantham. I do not like how they are always whispering to each other.”

  Miss Ashbury appeared unconcerned, her primary focus on using the tip of a fan to push an errant flower petal off the edge of the table, her face scrunched in disgust. “I have heard Miss Creighton and Miss Stapleton will also be in attendance.”

  “Mmm. Though it pains me to say it, I can see the appeal of Miss Stapleton. Not only is her father rich, but she is passably pretty with her country-cream complexion. Though her cheeks are too round, if you ask me. As for Miss Creighton”—the baroness tutted, the bird’s nest teetering slightly—“well, one must account for an invitation out of pity.”

  Miss Ashbury nodded. “Indeed, she is quite as plain as a brown egg. And I don’t believe her father has much of a fortune.”

  “Some young women, you will find, were simply born to become spinsters. I’ve heard she is a bluestocking as well,” Lady Tillmanshire continued. “Fortunately, you need never be accused of such unseemly intelligence, and you will make a better match because of it.”

  “Perhaps even Lord Ellery.”

  “Just so,” Lady Tillmanshire agreed, then continued in a hushed voice. “And as soon as we dispatch that foolish agreement your father made with that uncouth Lord Haggerty, all the better for us. I do not know what came over him to think of aligning our family with that man.”

  Sam frowned. He’d heard about the courtship agreement between Lord Haggerty and Miss Ashbury, but he’d been assured by Lord Tillmanshire himself that the matter had already been settled. If Sam had known that Miss Ashbury was still in an agreement with another man, he never would have invited her.

  The only reason he considered Miss Ashbury for his guest list had been due to her professed interest in horticulture, but from the look of her discomfort from a mere petal, he wondered if that had been a falsehood as well.

  The realization made him all the more thankful for Gemma. From all that he knew about her, she was not the least bit deceitful.

  Attempting to tune out the rest of the petty conversation, Sam turned his gaze back to the garden, skimming past the roses, then followed the curvy border of the asters to the boxwood hedge.

  When, after scanning the entire garden, he still could not find her, panic began to fill him. Surely Gemma wouldn’t have gone without telling him first.

  Then he spotted a familiar lace parasol at the back of the gardens, and he exhaled in relief. As long as she was still here, he had a chance to convince her to stay.

  “The sooner the better,” Miss Ashbury continued, “for my maid informed me moments after the bedchamber door closed that Lord Ellery invited another young woman and her aunt to join the party. Apparently, the servants are in a dither over their master’s sudden fascination with this mystery debutante.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Lady Tillmanshire added, “for men are just as apt to fall out of fascination when someone far superior is within reach. Though, since my own maid was busy pressing our clothes for this evening, I had not heard this development. Did yours give the name of this unexpected rival?”

  “She did not and only said that this woman arrived before any of us and was seen heading toward the gardens.”

  “Ah. That is the reason you required fresh air. My clever girl.”

  “I do believe that parasol must be attached to our quarry,” Miss Ashbury said with a distinctly sharp edge to her voice.

  Yet for Sam, their conversation droned on like the buzz of a pair of fat bumblebees nearby. His primary focus was on the white finial top of the parasol as it moved along the hedgerow. Anticipation thrummed in his pulse, and he took a moment to steel himself before he strode out into the garden.

  Before he could, she appeared beneath the stone archway, looking slightly disheveled, beautiful, and perfectly at home. He grinned at the thought. Carrying her straw bonnet loosely in her hand, she let the sun caress her face and shoulders, her skin possessing a golden glow. She was not the type to preen for approval but was elegant in her own way, her limbs fluid and graceful. She paused to admire the flowers and plants, openly adoring them with an upward tilt to her lips and a brush of her fingertips over the leaves.

  His own fingers tingled from the memory of her touch the day he’d picked the woodbines. He’d wanted to kiss her so much that he’d hardly been able to breathe. In fact, he wanted to do so right now—simply walk straight to her, pull her in his arms, and press his lips to hers.

  Answering that inexorable urge, his body took an automatic step out onto the terrace. But when the breeze caught her pale yellow muslin, briefly molding the dress against her lithe form, caressing the curve of her hip and the feminine cradle between her slender thighs, he went stock still. Every beat of Sam’s heart descended lower in thick succession as he struggled to fight a surge of intense arousal that was not proper for midday in the garden with guests nearby. And this time, he did not have a hat or a picnic basket to hide the evidence stirring beneath the fall front of his trousers.

  “Do you know them, Mother?” Miss Ashbury asked, thankfully still unaware of his presence.

  “Hmm. There is something familiar in the stature and gate
of the elder woman with the parasol. If only I had my lorgnettes and then surely—no.”

  “What is it?” Miss Ashbury asked, more intrigued than startled.

  “It cannot be, but it looks very like the Dowager Duchess of Vale.”

  “Oh, piffle, that is not all bad. Earning her approval would be a fine feather in my cap, after all.”

  “You misunderstand. That could only mean the young woman at her side is the scandalous Miss Desmond. Surely Lord Ellery would not think to invite someone of such bad blood to this gathering of superior haute ton.” Lady Tillmanshire sniffed with clear disdain. “Why, if word got out, we could all be tainted by her mere presence.”

  While the distractions of Gemma’s shape slipped into a different corner of Sam’s mind, his attention fixed on the words scandalous and bad blood. Instantly, he knew that this had something to do with whatever Gemma had wanted to tell him.

  Abruptly, a dire warning clambered through him. Had he allowed an impulse to cloud his judgment?

  His uncertainty only increased when Gemma drew near and stepped out from beneath the rose arbor. At first, her gaze flared to life, brightening when she saw him. But that quickly changed when she glanced to the people at the table, and her expression fell, turning blank and colorless.

  “Good day, Lady Tillmanshire,” the dowager duchess said with a hauteur he hadn’t heard before. The low tone sounded more like a warning than a greeting. “Miss Ashbury.”

  In a furor of feathers, the baroness rose from the table and straightened her shoulders. With a snap of her hand against her side, she bid her daughter to do the same. “And to you, Your Grace.”

  Then, without a word of greeting to Gemma, Lady Tillmanshire and Miss Ashbury turned on their heels to leave. Yet they stopped short when they saw Sam standing near the doorway.

  “Lord Ellery,” Lady Tillmanshire said, her expression altering from disdain to something just short of fawning, leaving her features in a confused, crooked state. “Please forgive our rapid departure from the terrace. My daughter has a sudden headache. Though I wonder if you might escort us back to our chambers?”