Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (6 page)

“Because of your heart’s greatest yearning?” He lowered his head slightly shrinking the space between them. “Tell me, though, Gemma—”

“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”

Richard stroked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip and her mouth trembled at the faint caress. “I believe our kisses merit such familiarity.” His gruff baritone washed over her, dulling her senses, thickening her blood.

Oh, God, he is going to kiss me—again.
This man, more stranger than anything, whose name she’d only just gleaned, and yet who knew so very much about her. “Is your heart’s yearning a product of the desire for a future title of duchess or the marquess’ wealth?” She’d have to be deaf as a post to fail to hear the thread of mockery underscoring that question.

The momentary fog of desire he’d cloaked her in lifted. A growl of frustration worked up her throat. “You sir, are no gentleman,” she seethed and jabbed her finger into the hard wall of his chest. He didn’t so much as flinch. Not even a hint that he so much as noted her poke. She shoved her finger into his chest once more for good measure. “I’ll have you know that my love for Lord Westfield has nothing to do with the gentleman’s wealth or title.” Gemma ticked her chin up a notch. “Nor do I expect one such as you to know a jot about the emotion of love. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With head held high, Gemma swept past him, pulled the door open, and slipped into the hall.

Except, as she made her hasty flight down the blessedly empty corridors, she could not quell the panicky dread that this was not the last dealing she’d have with Mr. Richard Jonas and his wickedly sensual smile.

R
ichard hadn’t the slightest interest in attending a single morning meal with the Duke of Somerset’s carefully selected guests.

That was, until this particular morning. Now, as he strolled down the elegant carpet-lined corridors, an inexplicable anticipation filled him. After Eloise had wed his brother, he’d been filled with a jaded restlessness and ennui. In two brief meetings, however, he’d felt a remarkable vigor which, if he were being honest with himself, had everything to do with the spirited minx who’d boldly returned his kisses.

Richard entered the breakfast room and did a quick search. He took in the handful of guests seated and involuntarily flinched. Down the length of one entire end of the table, perched at the edge of their chairs were a row of young ladies and their mamas. There was only one particular young lady he particularly cared to see.

Disappointment filled him at finding Gemma Reed absent, which was, of course, madness. She, in her grasping, was no different than the white-ruffled ladies eying him disinterestedly. Those same ladies also sat staring at the doorway for sight of a certain marquess, no doubt, like rapacious predators.

Richard strode over to the sideboard and accepted the plate handed him by a footman. With a murmured thanks, Richard proceeded to pile sausage, eggs, and kippers onto his plate. The floorboards groaned and he paused mid-movement. Awareness tripped along his spine and he shot a look over his shoulder at the lady who now stood in the doorway. In a manner similar to his own from moments ago, she cast her gaze over the collection of guests assembled, when their stares collided. Her cheeks turned a crimson red to rival the most succulent summer berry. She eyed the path behind her. Did she search for Westfield? Or escape?

He’d wager the latter. Yet, when most other ladies would flee, she jutted her chin up and made her way to the sideboard. Richard resumed piling his plate with food. “It appeared you were looking for someone, Miss Reed,” he said in hushed tones for her ears alone.

“I was,” she said from the corner of her mouth, leaving that thought deliberately unfinished.

She added a piece of bread to her plate and then froze. “You cannot possibly be eating that, Mr. Jonas?”

He followed her horror struck gaze to the smoked kipper with a poached egg atop. Bristling, he added another kipper for good measure. “Have you ever had kippers, Miss Reed?”

She snorted. “Undoubtedly not.”

“And yet, given how little you truly know about the kipper, you’ve formed such an ardent feeling for it.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin slits of understanding. The spirit lighting their depths transformed her from an ordinary miss with brown hair and brown eyes into a feisty minx needing a third kiss, momentarily robbing him of thought. “I know quite a bit about the kipper,” she said tightly, angling so she directly faced him. “It is a whole herring and it is small, oily, found in fresh waters, and…” She wrinkled her nose. “They smell. Quite badly.”

Richard met her stare full on. “Those are very detailed pieces of information you have…” He gave her a meaningful look. “On the kippers. It
is,
however, information that can be gleaned by anyone.”

They stood, locked in a silent battle with their chests rising and falling—when the absolute silence registered.

A flush heated his neck and raced up to his ears as from the corner of his eye, he noted the gaping members of the peerage taking in his exchange with Gemma. The color of her skin turned red and if he weren’t close to yanking his cravat at the attention on him, he’d have looked with an even greater appreciation upon the splash of color on the skin exposed above her modest décolletage. Instead, his gaze snagged on the familiar figure in the doorway. And just like that, all the attention trained on a mere Mr. Richard Jonas and Miss Gemma Reed was forgotten at the sudden appearance of Westfield. A buzz went up about the room and Richard inclined his head. “Miss Reed, you might wish to try the kipper before they are claimed by all the other guests.”

Another spirited glimmer lit the lady’s eyes but then with the regal bearing of a queen, Gemma marched over to the table. A young footman pulled out a chair and she slid into the folds with a quiet thank you. Richard carried his dish beside her. She placed the crisp white napkin on her lap and then stilled “What are you doing?”

“Sitting,” he returned, and even as she opened her mouth, he claimed the mahogany chair.

As Westfield made his way to the sideboard, each young lady present and her mama, followed him with their eyes. Interestingly, all except the very one who’d risk her good name and ruin, who now occupied the chair next to his. The lady devoted her attention to her plate, moving the silver fork around the contents upon the white, gold-trimmed porcelain.

He studied her with renewed interest; the silenced magpie now sat huddled within herself, shoulders bent as though she sought to disappear within herself.

Westfield looked over the table a moment and then strode over. The young ladies present held their breaths, and then let out a collective sigh of disappointment as he came to a stop not at the head—but beside that brown-haired, silenced magpie. “May I claim this seat?” Westfield favored the top of Gemma’s head with a charming grin that was wasted on the young woman who still examined the toast on her plate as though she’d uncovered a new genus of flower.

Then her shoulders went straight and she looked about. Richard repressed a frown as the lady locked her gaze with Westfield’s. He searched for the excited ramblings or the clever words and, yet, the long case clock in the corner of the room ticked by the incredibly long stretch of awkward silence.

Richard took mercy. Under the table, he nudged his knee against Gemma’s and she jumped. He gave her a meaningful look and she blinked several times before saying, “Of course. That would be most permissible, my lord.” The lady swiftly returned her attention to that damnable piece of toast that she now set to buttering.

Most permissible? Richard furrowed his brow and stared openly at his friend who claimed the chair on Gemma’s opposite side. Who was this reserved, guarded creature? Why, she didn’t display a shadow of the spirited miss who’d kissed him with abandon and challenged him at the sideboard before a room full of guests.

Westfield leaned over and murmured something close to Gemma’s ear and a rush of the becoming color flooded her cheeks. The lady nodded, but her response was lost to Richard.

His frown deepened. Why, by the devil, Westfield was…
flirting
with the young lady. A little pebble of what felt like annoyance pitted in his belly. It was preposterous, unthinkable, it was… He gave his head a hard shake. Why in blazes should he care who the other man settled his attentions on? And he most assuredly should not care.

With zeal, Richard carved away at his kipper. Small and oily, indeed. He popped a piece into his mouth and the lady stole a sideways peek. He chewed and stared boldly back at her, daring her with his gaze to say something.

Gemma captured her lower lip between her teeth. She wished to say something about his choice of meal and there was something very oddly…intimate about knowing that about this lady.

Instead, she shifted her focus back to her plate and remained silent, and as much as Gemma Reed had grated on his last nerve, he also despised seeing her subdued as she was now. With an unexplainable need to draw her from the close-mouthed shell she’d crawled within, he leaned close to say something in her ear when loud voices sounded in the hallway, followed by exuberant tittering. At his side, Gemma jerked erect.

He glanced up as a pair of perfectly golden, undoubtedly flawless, young ladies filed into the room like noisy geese and rushed over to the open seat beside Westfield, quarreling publically over that empty chair.

Gemma slunk low within the folds of her seat and Richard’s intrigue with the lady redoubled. Who was Miss Gemma Reed, exactly? Bold, spirited minx? Or painfully shy, quiet miss?

And why did he have this sudden need to know?

*

Gemma was a bumbling, soundless fool, is what she was.

With Lady Thelma and Lady Constance, twin sisters and soon to be Diamonds of the First Water having settled on just which of them would claim the chair beside Lord Westfield, they proceeded to speak over one another in their bid to capture the young marquess’ attention. Where other ladies had the ability to fill voids of silence with clever banter and repartee, Gemma’s tongue became tied worse than a sailor’s knot.

The singular interest in the marquess and ability to capture his attention should have grated. She stole a sideways glance up at the other gentleman who occupied the chair next to hers. Yet, there was something…oddly reassuring in this near stranger’s company. Where she’d never been possessed of words around…well, really any gentleman, with this man she was comfortable in ways she’d never believed possible. He was aggravating and insufferable, and stirred her spirit with his high-handedness.

Why are you thinking of the Marquess of Westfield’s friend? Why, when you are seated beside Lord Westfield himself?
Giving her head a shake, and then a second one for good measure, she smoothed her hands over the arms of her chair.
I am capable of discourse.
Hadn’t she just blistered Richard Jonas’ ears at the buffet, handling her rebuttal to his cheeky charges with great aplomb?

“Do you ride, Lord Westfield?” As soon as the inquiry escaped her lips, she cringed; one of those inward and outward types for all to see. Of course he rode. It was rumored that he had one of the most distinguished stables in the kingdom.

The marquess looked to her with a gentle smile and she hated that smile. She would have preferred it to be slightly teasing or even greatly teasing, the way it would have been on a certain Richard Jonas. “I do. I actually have plans to ride following the morning meal.”

“I ride,” she blurted. Blast, now he’d think she was angling to accompany him. Mortification curled her toes. “Not that I wish to ride with you.”

A sound that might have been a strangled laugh escaped Richard at Gemma’s opposite side. Oh, the lout. Her neck heated. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I would certainly enjoy riding with you. I have always loved horses.” Horses and dogs were a good deal easier to speak to than the human sort. She cast a desperate look about for Beatrice. Alas, she’d long proven to keep late morning hours, and to avoid a gathering of dowry-seeking lords, at all costs.

Westfield settled back in his seat and layered his arms upon his chair. “You are knowledgeable of horses, then?” He directed that question to the top of her head and she followed his gaze to a stone-faced Richard.

“Oh, yes,” she said excitedly, returning her focus to the marquess. This was, after all, a conversation she was familiar with. From across the table, where her mother now sat, she gave her head a curt shake. Ignoring the pleading in her eyes, Gemma leaned forward in her chair. “Really quite fascinating creatures.” She gestured wildly with her hands as she spoke. “I once read you can tell a horse’s age by his teeth.”

“Is that so?” The marquess lifted a golden brow. “What other fascinating pieces do you know?”

“Well, not his precise age,” she clarified. “But rather a general estimate of it. They can live to over thirty and did you know…” She dropped her elbows on the table. “It takes over eleven months for a foal to develop inside a mare. And sometimes the foal will arrive early, but it can also arrive as long as four weeks longer. Can you imagine that? Twelve months of—”