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
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
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