Taming Wilde Page 8

  Yours, Mother

  No. It couldn’t be. She hadn’t even met the man. And there hadn’t been enough time to win Wilde back. And old? Her mother had said ‘the old fellow.’

  And Hawke was pleased.

  If only she could change Cook’s order to arsenic… she would eat the concoction herself.

  Gemma felt her legs give way, and she crumpled to the ground with a mournful wail.

  No.

  God, please. No.

  Somewhere deep in her soul a dam burst, and the tears flowed in torrents. The most excruciating despair she had ever known erupted from her innermost being in the form of unintelligible groans, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor and wept bitterly.

  How long she stayed that way, Gemma wasn’t certain, but when she finally rose and wiped her face, the sunlight from the window had shifted to the middle of the room. She had spent every ounce of her sorrow, and there was nothing left in her to cry.

  Gemma moved to the washbasin and used the cloth to wipe away the tearstains and soothe her red, puffy eyes.

  A glimmer of hope sprung to her heart.

  If her mother and father knew how she truly felt about this union, they would never force her to accept Bridgewater’s offer. Surely not. In spite of their firm doctrine of marrying within one’s station, they had her best interests at heart. They would want her to be happy.

  She could write to them — explain everything. They would understand. They would relent. A bargain, perhaps? They could give her a year to find another suitable match, someone they could approve of? Her parents would agree to that. They weren’t completely without hearts, after all.

  Yes. A letter.

  And if that didn’t work… there was always Cook’s special cod dish with mint arsenic sauce.

  Gemma sat at her desk and pulled out several sheets of the stationery her father had given her on her last birthday. The same stationery upon which she had written numerous missives to Colin. The missives he had callously disregarded when she had been exiled to Brookshire those long months.

  Never once had he responded.

  Never once had he traveled to meet her, even when she’d alerted him to her upcoming rare visits to the local villages, outlining for him the perfect place he might meet with her without her brother’s knowledge.

  Of course, she knew now. Hawke had intercepted all letters addressed to Gemma. He would have read them — after all, he’d even read the communication from her own parents. So Colin might have responded, but such a letter would never have made it into her hands.

  She arranged the sheets of lilac-scented stationery on her desk and reached for her quill. Brushing the soft feather against her lips for a moment, she closed her eyes and remembered Colin’s embrace. Her one moment of reckless joy in her otherwise perfectly proper life.

  No. Gemma couldn’t marry Bridgewater. She wouldn’t marry Bridgewater. Her heart belonged to Sir Colin Wilde, and her parents must be made to understand.

  She dipped the pen into the inkwell and brought the sharpened tip to her paper to begin her letter, but no ink followed the trail of her well-formed script. The well had run dry.

  Gemma searched her desk drawer for another bottle of ink, but there was none to be found. Her father kept a good supply of ink in his study.

  Hawke wouldn’t be in there. By now, Cook’s morning casserole had likely found its mark, and the marquess would be safely tucked away in his closet for several hours. A smug but pleasant grin played on Gemma’s lips. Oh, to have seen the look on his face when that dish had begun its work on his innards.

  As for the letter, if she sent Pearl for the ink, the girl would only report the tidbit to Hawke. Gemma would have to retrieve it herself.

  ****

  The ink was in one of the desk drawers. She remembered seeing her father putting the bottle in there after refilling his own inkwell long ago. One of the drawers on the left, she was almost certain.

  Rummaging through the drawers felt somewhat wrong, but Gemma had to have the ink. She resolved to put everything back as she had found it, so she took note of the state of the drawer when she opened it. A stack of contracts, a book for the accounts, a bundle of letters tied with a string…

  She set each item in turn on the desktop out of her way and knelt down to get a better look at the back of the drawer. When she did, she caught a whiff of lilacs. The same scent her personal stationery carried.

  Her gaze rose to the desktop where the package of letters was sitting at eye level, only inches away from her face.

  That was her stationery.

  She lifted the bundle to examine it more closely. Turning it over in her hands, she recognized her own handwriting. Sir Colin Wilde was inscribed across the back of the top letter. Her throat tightened around the lump that had instantly formed there.

  The string that held the letters together was tied in a tight knot. Gemma reached for the letter opener on the desk and cut the string. She lifted the top letter and looked beneath it.

  Sir Colin Wilde in broad strokes was etched across that one as well.

  Frantically, Gemma thumbed through the rest of the parcel. One after another of her letters — all addressed to Colin, each with a broken seal — stared up at her from the stack.

  So that was what Hawke had meant when he’d said he had dealt with Colin. She’d had no idea how far his sabotage had gone. But the evidence was there in her hands. The dozens of letters Gemma had written to Colin — every last one — praising him, professing her affection. He hadn’t received a single one.

  Then what had he received?

  She shuddered to think what damage Hawke might have done.

  Gemma had to speak with Bridget. She would know how to repair this.

  Hurriedly, she gathered the pile of letters, tied them with the cut string, shoved the other papers back into the drawer, and rushed into the hall.

  “Simmons!” She caught the old footman on his way up the stairs.

  “M’lady?” He stopped mid-step and turned to her.

  “Simmons, I wish to visit Lady Maddox at once. Order me a carriage, if you please, and arrange an escort straight away.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  That done, she hurried to her chamber to ready for the visitation.

  Chapter Twelve

  I despise women. At least that is what most women believe. For what type of man would pursue and seduce women as a sport? A rake, dear fellows. Never forget that a rake is first a hunter and second a lover. You must search out your prey carefully, and you must at all costs appear to despise those you seek. For women love nothing more than a man they cannot seem to obtain. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox

  Lord Maddox’s butler showed Gemma to the drawing room and offered her a seat, but she was far too upset to sit. She thanked him, and he left to inform his mistress of the visitor, while Gemma paced briskly through the center of the room, wringing the top of her reticule with both hands.

  Between the letter from her mother and finding the hidden stash of communications meant for Colin, Gemma was beside herself. She was not equipped for so many upsets in one day.

  The sound of the opening door interrupted her silent fretting.

  “Oh, Bridget! Thank goodness!” She rushed toward her friend, experiencing a mixture of relief and anxiety all at the same time.

  Gemma must have looked a fright, because Bridget’s brow furrowed with concern and she hurried to meet her, taking both of Gemma’s hands in her own.

  “My sweet Gemma, whatever is the matter?”

  When Gemma opened her mouth to respond, all her sorrows spilled out at once, along with a fresh batch of tears, though she’d thought she had none left. Her answer was no doubt unintelligible, as everything that had happened in the past few days swirled together in a torrential outburst of emotion.

  Somehow dear Bridget was able to wade through the mire to the matter at hand, though it took some time to unwind the tale.

  “Oh, Gemma!�
� she said at long last, when she came to a clear understanding. “Such a tangled web the marquess has woven!”

  “And I alone am captured in it,” Gemma added. She reached into her mangled reticule and produced the bundle of letters. “These letters. Every one I wrote to Sir Wilde. Hawke took them and hid them from me.”

  “Yet Sir Wilde was often groaning about the letters he received from you.”

  “But they are all here! How could he have?”

  “Perhaps your brother…”

  It was too terrible to even consider. It was one thing to intercept Gemma’s communication and refuse it to be delivered. It was quite another thing entirely to forge letters in her name, designed to destroy Colin’s regard for her.

  “What… what did he say about them?” She wasn’t altogether certain she wanted to know the answer to that question.

  “He didn’t say in my presence. But he was always crestfallen when he received one. Together with Lord Maddox, he would retire into the study to compose a response, hoping somehow to mend things between you.”

  Bridget reached for the stack of letters in Gemma’s hand and set them on the table beside her.

  “Do not worry, dear friend. We will come up with some strategy to repair this.” Bridget shifted in her seat and tilted her head as though she were weighing their options. But loud voices outside in the hall interrupted their thoughts.

  “Hawke!” Gemma rose abruptly from her seat. “What is he doing here?”

  “Oh dear, he had some business with Anthony!” Bridget rose with equal haste. “Does he know you are here?”

  “No. I left with some haste. He was… occupied.”

  Bridget went to the door and peeked out at the scene in the hall. When she turned, she seemed deep in thought. “Conrad has shown the marquess into the morning room.” She shook her head and her brow furrowed. “We have a narrow window of time to get you safely home again. Anthony cannot endure Lord Van Burge’s company for long.”

  Lord Maddox was not the only one.

  ****

  Colin burst into the Maddox townhome, ready to work off some of the aggression he felt at having to keep Gemma at arm’s length. Anthony had promised they would box at Gentleman Jackson’s until dawn, if that was what it took to purge thoughts of Gemma from Colin’s mind.

  It felt like an eternity since they had kissed. And no matter what he did, he could not rid his lips of the tingling sensation. He could not forget the way her touch had sent him to the heights of heaven.

  “Where is Lord Maddox?” he demanded of Anthony’s butler.

  “He will be with you shortly, sir. The lady of the house has set tea for you in the drawing room, if you’ll just follow me.” Conrad led him into the drawing room.

  Colin sat on the nearest chair and sighed heavily. “Did he say how long he would be?”

  The butler sighed and gave him a pointed look.

  “Right, I’ll just drink the blasted tea.” Colin didn’t want tea. He didn’t want food. All he wanted was Gemma.

  With a sigh, he stood and began pacing the room, most likely ruining the rug in the process. Perhaps if he wrote down what he was feeling? What if he had Lady Maddox deliver a note? So many things were not making sense. What exactly had Van Burge done?

  He sat in a different chair, the one nearest the fireplace, but something felt wrong about the seat. He twisted around a bit, then finally reached underneath the soft leather and pulled out a stack of letters.

  All addressed to him.

  What the devil?

  He opened the first one and read…

  Colin,

  I wish I could tell you how sorry I am. How much my heart aches every moment that I am not in your arms. I will find a way to fight Hawke. This I promise you. We will be together.

  I did not know he was sending me away. My only hope is that this letter finds you well, and that your heart isn’t saddened by my sudden retirement to the country.

  I love you. My heart, my soul, my body, everything is yours. That is, if you still desire it. How I wish I were not so uncertain! But distance has a way of toying with you, does it not?

  Yours,

  Gemma

  Colin exhaled and dropped the letter to the ground. Shaking, he ran his hands through his hair and cursed aloud, hoping it would relieve some of the growing anger he felt surging through him.

  She had not rejected him.

  But that still did not explain…

  This letter was a far cry from the letters he had received. Letters that spurned him and bid him to forget she existed, to think not on her again. Letters that demanded he wipe the memory of kissing her from his mind forever.

  Why had he not received this letter? Colin stooped to retrieve the letter. He opened it and scanned the contents again. Its lilac scent permeated his senses.

  The other letters had smelled of rose. And the script was different. There was no flourish on the G of Gemma’s signature.

  He grabbed another letter from the stack and opened it. Same writing as the first. Letter after letter, the same.

  Perhaps if he had not received her true letters, she did not—

  Of course.

  He was a fool.

  He grabbed all the letters, bundled them together, and slipped them into his coat pocket. With a grin and not so much as a word to the butler, he quit the house and walked purposefully toward Gemma’s.

  ****

  She wasn’t home.

  Nor was she at the park.

  Or down the street.

  Or at Gunther’s. Colin would know. He checked. An hour later, he was still wondering where the blazes she was, but he could not be late for that evening’s soiree hosted by Lady Edengreen. She would be furious if he did not show. After all, she was his great aunt and prone to throwing a great fuss if her nephew was not present at her events.

  Dejected, he went home to change into his evening attire. The minute he stepped into his townhome, his butler, Godfrey, handed him a letter from his solicitor.

  It would have to wait.

  “Apologies, Godfrey, I will be out all evening. I shall check my correspondence in the morning.”

  “But sir, this is the fourth letter and—”

  Colin held up his hand and shook his head. He felt a headache coming on. “I said, not now.”

  “Very well, sir.” Godfrey bowed and quit the hall.

  Colin took the stairs two at a time and called for his valet. Tonight was the night he would get answers. After greeting his aunt, he would find Gemma. He would locate her, and he would… What would he do? Apologize? Grovel? No, no. He was going to kiss her. Yes, that would be his first move.

  He grinned at his reflection in the mirror as the image of what he planned to do unfolded in his mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A rake must always be cautious with his first move. If he is too hasty in his advances, the woman may shy away like a timid lamb. If he is not hasty enough, then she shall laugh in his face. Gentlemen, if you do not understand the art of perfect timing when it comes to your first seduction, perhaps you should find a watch. Or a different dream. –The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox

  Gemma’s heart pounded as she took her seat at the pianoforte. The last time she had performed at an event, Colin had been there, smiling at her from the front row. She glanced around the room, searching the expectant faces.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  She tried to swallow the bitter disappointment. Though she had no reason to believe he would have stayed to listen to her play, Gemma couldn’t help but pine for him.

  Instead, in the same seat Colin had occupied last Season, her brother sat with his fiancée, wearing a triumphant smirk. And of course, he was surrounded by his horrid friends. The gentlemen he had been pushing on her since her return to Town — the oppressive Mr. Percival, and the foolish Mr. Sumner, closely attended by Lady Judith.

  Taking a deep breath, she set to playing a beautiful sonata, one she had practice
d during the months of her seclusion at Brookshire. Over and over she had played it. A sad, mournful piece she had chosen specifically because it matched the music her heart played when she thought of Colin. She had missed him so much when she’d been away, and now it felt as if he was lost to her forever.

  It was a long piece, and she easily lost herself in the somber melody drifting from the keys as she played. Gemma closed her eyes and felt her way through the song, forgetting where she was for the time being. She imagined Colin holding her as he had that day in Bridget’s morning room.

  The renewed sense of her loss brought thick emotion to her throat. Uninvited tears threatened to spill over onto her cheeks, but she pressed on to the final note, only then allowing a single tear to leave a moist trail down her face.

  There was complete silence when she struck the final key. Gemma opened her eyes slowly and lifted her gaze to the audience.

  Every person in the room sat staring at her. The ladies had their hands over their hearts, and not an eye was dry, including the frosty Lady Judith, who Gemma was certain had no heart, nor a taste for artistic beauty. Even the gentlemen sat in silent reverence.

  Gemma meant to rise, curtsy, and find her seat next to Bridget again, but when her eye caught a glimpse of a form leaning against a column near the entrance, she froze.

  Colin was there.

  He had heard her heart’s misery. And now he stood gazing at her with an inscrutable expression.

  Refusing to even breathe, Gemma waited for him to blink first.

  ****

  He blinked. Of course, he blinked. He had to be sure she was truly there. Truly sitting at the piano. The music she’d played was flawless; everything about her was as if conjured from a dream.

  Her eyes stayed trained on his.

  Colin offered a smile and then beckoned her with his hand.

  She turned around.