“In any case, it is not as though I have a choice in the matter,” Gemma continued. “Marriage is what is expected of me, particularly given my father's situation.” She could hardly believe she was speaking of such things to the Duke. But there was something about his own openness and honesty that made her feel oddly comfortable in his presence.
What a strange thing, Gemma thought distantly,given after all that just passed between us.
“I am sorry you feel that way,” said the Duke. He got to his feet, folding his arms across his chest and peering down at Gemma. “This aversion to marriage. Would it have anything to do with your reputation?”
“My reputation?” Gemma repeated her voice hardening. “What exactly do you mean by that, Your Grace?”
Infuriatingly nonchalant, the Duke shrugged a shoulder. “Gentlemen in thetondo not seem towarmto you. I merely wondered if perhaps your disinterest in marriage was because, as far as the men in your circle are concerned, the feeling is mutual.”
Gemma clenched her jaw, that familiar anger at the Duke returning hurriedly. She glared at him.How could I have even considered opening up to him as I did? What was I thinking?
At once, all the empathy she felt toward him over his marriage to Miss Henford disintegrated. An arrogant, outspoken man like him deserved an unhappy life. Gemma stood, boldly taking a step toward him and tilting her head back to look him in the eye.He was almost a whole head taller than her, but she refused to let that rattle her.
“Do I have to remind you,” she began, forcing herself to keep her voice level, “thatyouseemed to warm to me? Very much, in fact.” Her ears grew hot as she spoke; she could hardly believe she was daring to put words to what had gone on between the two of them. Perhaps the Duke would protest that he had been too intoxicated to know what he was doing when he had climbed into bed with her. And that he had been merely playing with her when he had taken her in his arms just minutes ago. But Gemma knew better. She had felt his arousal. Had witnessed what the feel of her body had done to him. And she knew that not even a cocky, self-assured man like the Duke of Larsen could deny such things. She looked at him squarely. “I hardly think what you showed me could be classified asdisinterest.”
The Duke's lips parted, but no words escaped. Gemma could tell he was taken aback by her outburst, and there was something immensely satisfying about rendering him speechless.
“Well,” he said finally. His voice came out husky, trapped in his throat. “I—” He stopped speaking suddenly as the lock clicked and the door to the music room flew open.
Gemma exhaled in relief and rushed toward the door.
“What…?” Lord Anderson stepped into the room, a puzzled expression on his face at finding the two of them alone.
“Was this your doing, Anderson?” the Duke demanded, getting to his feet. “Did my grandmother put you up to it?”
The Baron glanced quickly over his shoulder into the corridor, then back at Gemma and the Duke. “What on earth are you talking about? And what on earth are you two doing in here?”
“Nothing.” Gemma shoved her way past him. “I am leaving.” And she was out the door before either man could respond.
Chapter Eight
“What has gotten into you, Gemma?” asked Veronica.
It was a fair question. Gemma had just upended her teacup across the breakfast table at Volk House. For the second time that morning.
Her sister gave her a sympathetic smile. “You really have not been yourself since Miss Henford's party.”
Gemma dabbed at the splotches of tea on the front of her day dress. “I am quite all right,” she murmured. “Just feeling a little clumsy this morning.” She had no desire to revisit the chaos of the party. Especially not with her grandmother at the breakfast table. She had not breathed a word to anyone about what had happened between her and the Duke in the music room. And she intended to keep it that way.
In truth, she was anything but all right. Because today, they were to attend the wedding of Henrietta Henford and the Duke of Larsen.
Gemma was dreading the event with a passion she had not even thought she was capable of. And she hated that she felt that way. Why on earth should she care who the Duke married?
He and Miss Henford deserve each other.
But thoughts of the Duke had been swirling around her mind unbidden since the morning they had woken up in bed together. His impossibly handsome face. His hungry lips. Those rough hands that had drawn sounds and sensations from her that she had never before imagined. In the two nights since their… encounter, Gemma had found herself lying sleepless in bed, all too aware of the heat between her thighs. All too aware of a burning need to be touched.
Gemma had been deliberate in avoiding any mention of the Dowager Duchess, particularly in front of her grandmother. She blamed Her Grace for all that had happened and wondered what the Dowager Marchioness would think of it.
Would Grandmother be angry at her friend for using me as a pawn to break the betrothal of the Duke and Miss Larsen?
Something at the back of her mind told her it was not all the Dowager Duchess's doing. Her Grace might have locked the two of them in the music room together, but everything else… well, they had no one to blame but themselves. The thought made her cheeks heat, and she reached hurriedly for her freshly filled teacup.
“Your sister is right,” said the Dowager Marchioness. “You really have not been yourself these last few days.”
“It's because the Duke of Larsen is getting married today,” said Jane with a teasing smile. “Gemma isdreadfullysad that she will no longer have the chance to write poetry with him.”
Gemma shot her sister a glare.
