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—”
“Gemma,” her mother’s sharp tone cut across Gemma’s telling.
And it was then that Gemma registered the gazes of each guest present turned on her as though she were an oddity on display and, in this instance, she was…a display of her own making, borne of topics that were never appropriate for the breakfast table, or any table, for that matter.
Gemma retrained her stare on the eggs on her plate and as the guests returned to topics that moved beyond horse gestation, she shoved her fork around the plate and contemplated it. She could not swallow a single bite. Her stomach churned in a painful knot as she prayed for this moment to end.
Richard leaned close in his chair and it groaned in slight protest. Gemma braced for his coolly mocking words. “Do you know what I also find interesting about horses, Gemma?”
She hesitated and then, not allowing him the triumph of his amusement with her displeasure, bit out, “What is that, Mr. Jonas?”
“Horses cannot vomit or breathe through their mouths.”
Gemma stared unblinking at her plate. Surely he hadn’t just…? Then she snapped her shoulders back and glared at him. The boiling anger within was far safer than the humiliated embarrassment of her impolite discourse this morning. “Tell me, Mr. Jonas, do you delight in tormenting all young ladies? Or is that pleasure reserved for me?”
A frown marred his lips. “I didn’t—”
She angled her body in a way that they were directly facing one another. “But I find nothing kind in your taking pleasure in another person’s discomfort.”
He opened his mouth. But wanting to hear a single other word from his lips about as much as she wanted to listen to the clever prattling of Lady Thelma who occupied the seat beside the marquess, Gemma shoved back her chair. “I bid you good morning, sir, and hope you find something else to occupy your time other than taunting and tormenting young, more than slightly awkward ladies.”
Giving a toss of her
“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—”
“Gemma,” her mother’s sharp tone cut across Gemma’s telling.
And it was then that Gemma registered the gazes of each guest present turned on her as though she were an oddity on display and, in this instance, she was…a display of her own making, borne of topics that were never appropriate for the breakfast table, or any table, for that matter.
Gemma retrained her stare on the eggs on her plate and as the guests returned to topics that moved beyond horse gestation, she shoved her fork around the plate and contemplated it. She could not swallow a single bite. Her stomach churned in a painful knot as she prayed for this moment to end.
Richard leaned close in his chair and it groaned in slight protest. Gemma braced for his coolly mocking words. “Do you know what I also find interesting about horses, Gemma?”
She hesitated and then, not allowing him the triumph of his amusement with her displeasure, bit out, “What is that, Mr. Jonas?”
“Horses cannot vomit or breathe through their mouths.”
Gemma stared unblinking at her plate. Surely he hadn’t just…? Then she snapped her shoulders back and glared at him. The boiling anger within was far safer than the humiliated embarrassment of her impolite discourse this morning. “Tell me, Mr. Jonas, do you delight in tormenting all young ladies? Or is that pleasure reserved for me?”
A frown marred his lips. “I didn’t—”
She angled her body in a way that they were directly facing one another. “But I find nothing kind in your taking pleasure in another person’s discomfort.”
He opened his mouth. But wanting to hear a single other word from his lips about as much as she wanted to listen to the clever prattling of Lady Thelma who occupied the seat beside the marquess, Gemma shoved back her chair. “I bid you good morning, sir, and hope you find something else to occupy your time other than taunting and tormenting young, more than slightly awkward ladies.”
Giving a toss of her
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