reached inside the duke’s home with the door closed between them, did she search for a way to explain her relief at that parting.
Chapter 8
T he following morning, Richard stood at the edge of the Duke of Somerset’s property. His mount, Warrior, lazily munched on the thick brush. Sheltered by the thick copse of towering oaks and with flask in hand, Richard purposefully worked his gaze over the lords and ladies gathered on the well-manicured lawn.
In this next grand show for the guests invited to the duke’s summer party, archers’ targets had been set up. Various shaped bows in their hands, ladies angled those respective instruments, using them to show their figures off to advantage as they practiced taking aim upon an imaginary target. One of the things he’d singularly loved about Eloise had been her disinterest in the peerage. Oh, she’d gone on to wed an earl but she had not melded with the world of Polite Society. That had set her apart from all others. It made her unique…
He looked about for Gemma.
Or rather, it had made her unique. That was not the case, any longer.
…Women are paraded before noblemen. They are to fit within Society’s stiff expectations and excel in each ladylike skill deemed worthy…
With her words flitting through his mind, Richard took another drink. He settled his gaze briefly on Westfield at the center of the collected guests; the gentleman for whom Gemma intended to profess her love.
Just a step below royalty, Westfield’s coffers were vast enough to rival a small kingdom. Yet, when such wealth made other men pompous prigs, Westfield was the manner of man who’d befriend a viscount’s younger son, and throw his loyalty and support behind him. A gentleman who’d leave a recital hall in search of a young lady who’d fled in embarrassment.
From their first meeting, he’d questioned the lady’s motives where Westfield was concerned. Now, Richard acknowledged the truth: why should Gemma not love Westfield? The man was a bloody paragon.
He took another swill of his drink, absently studying a lady taking aim at the target and sending her arrow sailing. The distance muted the polite clapping, as the young woman stepped out of the way, allowing the next lady to come forward.
So why should it bother him that Westfield was a bloody paragon? Nay, it was not that Westfield was a paragon, but rather that Gemma Reed concurred and, as such, joined the fray of prancing, preening ladies.
The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips as he recalled her fluttering an imaginary fan before her face. Not that Gemma Reed would ever be one to fawn. There was such a raw honesty to the lady, missing in most of polite ton , that she was incapable of any such artifice. She was…
He squinted into the distance and did another sweep of the guests collected on the lawn.
Missing .
He frowned. Richard did another cursory look at the guests assembled. At the center of the bustling activity stood Westfield and, yet, even after her assurance to the contrary, the lady was conspicuously absent. Why would the lady seeking to cull the marquess’ notice fail to take part? Not unlike her quick flight from the patio upon Westfield’s appearance last evening, the lady did not seek to immerse herself in the fray of matchmaking.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of yellow fabric caught his notice. Richard froze and looked to the opposite end of the copse where…
He furrowed his brow.
Where…
Gemma stood surveying the guests assembled. She shifted something in her arm, revealing a flat bow. He slowly pocketed his flask and continued to study her furtive movements. What in blazes was the lady doing on the fringe of the morning amusements? Then, even with the distance between them, Richard noted the precise moment she locked her gaze on Westfield. Richard gritted his teeth. Westfield, the bloody paragon. Westfield…
Richard widened his eyes as she settled her bow on her shoulder.
Westfield the man she
Chapter 8
T he following morning, Richard stood at the edge of the Duke of Somerset’s property. His mount, Warrior, lazily munched on the thick brush. Sheltered by the thick copse of towering oaks and with flask in hand, Richard purposefully worked his gaze over the lords and ladies gathered on the well-manicured lawn.
In this next grand show for the guests invited to the duke’s summer party, archers’ targets had been set up. Various shaped bows in their hands, ladies angled those respective instruments, using them to show their figures off to advantage as they practiced taking aim upon an imaginary target. One of the things he’d singularly loved about Eloise had been her disinterest in the peerage. Oh, she’d gone on to wed an earl but she had not melded with the world of Polite Society. That had set her apart from all others. It made her unique…
He looked about for Gemma.
Or rather, it had made her unique. That was not the case, any longer.
…Women are paraded before noblemen. They are to fit within Society’s stiff expectations and excel in each ladylike skill deemed worthy…
With her words flitting through his mind, Richard took another drink. He settled his gaze briefly on Westfield at the center of the collected guests; the gentleman for whom Gemma intended to profess her love.
Just a step below royalty, Westfield’s coffers were vast enough to rival a small kingdom. Yet, when such wealth made other men pompous prigs, Westfield was the manner of man who’d befriend a viscount’s younger son, and throw his loyalty and support behind him. A gentleman who’d leave a recital hall in search of a young lady who’d fled in embarrassment.
From their first meeting, he’d questioned the lady’s motives where Westfield was concerned. Now, Richard acknowledged the truth: why should Gemma not love Westfield? The man was a bloody paragon.
He took another swill of his drink, absently studying a lady taking aim at the target and sending her arrow sailing. The distance muted the polite clapping, as the young woman stepped out of the way, allowing the next lady to come forward.
So why should it bother him that Westfield was a bloody paragon? Nay, it was not that Westfield was a paragon, but rather that Gemma Reed concurred and, as such, joined the fray of prancing, preening ladies.
The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips as he recalled her fluttering an imaginary fan before her face. Not that Gemma Reed would ever be one to fawn. There was such a raw honesty to the lady, missing in most of polite ton , that she was incapable of any such artifice. She was…
He squinted into the distance and did another sweep of the guests collected on the lawn.
Missing .
He frowned. Richard did another cursory look at the guests assembled. At the center of the bustling activity stood Westfield and, yet, even after her assurance to the contrary, the lady was conspicuously absent. Why would the lady seeking to cull the marquess’ notice fail to take part? Not unlike her quick flight from the patio upon Westfield’s appearance last evening, the lady did not seek to immerse herself in the fray of matchmaking.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of yellow fabric caught his notice. Richard froze and looked to the opposite end of the copse where…
He furrowed his brow.
Where…
Gemma stood surveying the guests assembled. She shifted something in her arm, revealing a flat bow. He slowly pocketed his flask and continued to study her furtive movements. What in blazes was the lady doing on the fringe of the morning amusements? Then, even with the distance between them, Richard noted the precise moment she locked her gaze on Westfield. Richard gritted his teeth. Westfield, the bloody paragon. Westfield…
Richard widened his eyes as she settled her bow on her shoulder.
Westfield the man she
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