Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(24)

“How thoughtful.” Gemma could imagine how Pearl had come to be privy to these orders. Though she wished she could scrub the image from her mind. She closed her eyes in hopes that would work.

No such good fortune.

“Pearl,” Gemma said, lifting the envelope from her desk.

“Yes, m’lady?”

“Please have Cook make the marquess a special breakfast. Let her know he had a long night, and I insist he be treated to Cook’s delightful morning casserole. She’ll know the one I mean.”

Whatever she already had cooking, seasoned with a generous dose of castor oil.

Though Hawke had all the housemaids wrapped around his aristocratic fingers, he had long since burned bridges with Cook. A terrible mistake on his part, and one Gemma was only too happy to capitalize on. Cook and she had a common bond, and they had often schemed together for ways to make Hawke’s life miserable — or at least ways to keep him occupied in his closet a large portion of the day.

Gemma couldn’t help but laugh. He would never know what hit him.

“Yes, m’lady. Straight away.” Pearl scurried from the room, as though life itself depended on her haste.

Turning the letter over in her hands, she noted the seal had already been broken. There was no doubt Hawke already knew the contents of the missive. It must have pleased him, or he wouldn’t have bothered her so early. And if it pleased him…

Oh, no.

Gemma lifted the letter. She couldn’t keep her hands from trembling as she opened it and scanned the message. Her stomach dropped like a millstone to her knees as she read:



Dearest Daughter Gemma,

We have the most wonderful news for you. Your father has entered negotiations for your betrothal to the heir to the Bridgewater dukedom. A duke! Can you imagine such a prize? I can’t wait to describe to you what the old fellow has done for the sake of your hand!

Though I can say your father was so pleased with Bridgewater’s title and fortune, the man hardly needed to go to such extremes.

I will write again soon, my dear, with a detailed account. For now, your father awaits me for our visit to the Taj Mahal.

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.