Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(31)

“Miss Gemma Reynolds, your grace. Apparently the late duke and Miss Reynolds’ father designed the match. It has been in place for quite some time. Her brother, who acts as her guardian in her parents’ absence, was notified of it just this morning.”

Colin smiled. No. To say he smiled would be like saying he was simply amused. He was enthusiastic. He was jubilant. He was… Colin laughed aloud. He was going to enjoy allowing Van Burge to pummel him, because in the end, he would still be the victor.

“Any questions?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes.” Colin stood. “Where do I sign?”





Chapter Sixteen


If you must get in a fight, at least have the decency to make it a good one. There are many blokes in the world who are bored to tears with their current companionship, or heaven forbid, their wives. Bloodshed, my friends, bloodshed. Give the fellows some entertainment. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox



From behind the closed door of Hawke’s study, Gemma heard Hawke enter the front hall. She sat paralyzed for a moment, holding her breath and praying he would not come in and catch her at the letter. When he had stormed out only an hour before, she’d thought he would be gone for the duration of the day. Though he hadn’t said where he’d been going, she knew without doubt it had been in search of Colin, but he hadn’t stopped long enough to gather his pistol.

She glanced at the mantel. The brace of pistols still sat in their box there, below the portrait of Gemma’s mother.

Her brother’s booming voice was clear even through the wall.

“I don’t care how she begs, Thomas. You are not to let her out of this house. Keep a wary eye on her until my return.”

“Is the lady receiving callers this afternoon, my lord?”

“One and none other. The Duke of Bridgewater.”

“What time shall we expect him?”

“The appointment is at two o’clock. Have everything prepared for his arrival by half the hour.”

“Very good, my lord,” Thomas answered. Gemma could hear his heels tapping a retreat toward the kitchen. There was no hope of help from him. He followed instructions as if his life depended on it. Her stomach turned.

She might convince one of the younger footmen to deliver the message, and if Colin replied in the way she hoped, she might slip out during the pandemonium of preparations for his grace’s arrival. The trick would be to make her own preparations without the interference of Pearl.

“My lord?” The treacherous girl’s faint voice filtered through the closed door.

“Ah, Pearl,” Hawke answered, though his voice sounded laced with impatience. “What is it?”

“Will you be requiring any… assistance this evening?”

Ugh. Gemma cringed. The girl had no shame.



“It may well be. Just now I have some haste. I have challenged the fool to a bout. A victory celebration, perhaps.”

“Yes, my lord.” Her giggle was nauseating. “I’ll just look for the signal, then.”

“Of course. Now, go about your duties. Keep an eye on the lady until my return.”

Pearl must have slinked away then, for it was quiet other than the sound of Hawke’s boots pounding up the stairs to his chamber.

Gemma released her breath. She finished her note with a flourish and blotted the ink. Gathering up her things, she put the desk back to rights, then slipped out the door to the front hall.

Her plan was to make her way into the morning room, then try to catch a stray footman through the window that looked onto the side street over the servants’ entrance. The hall was empty, so she hurried to the morning room and peeked in. Empty. Without wasting time she rushed to the window, threw back the drapes, then set to opening the window.

She didn’t get far.

“My lady?” It was Thomas.

“Yes?” Gemma turned abruptly before she realized it just made her look guilty.

“May I be of some assistance?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes. It is rather stuffy in here. I thought to get a bit of air, so I might do my needlepoint in comfort.” Even as it exited her mouth, she knew it was the worst possible excuse she could have made.

“Your needlepoint, my lady?”

Gemma despised needlepoint. All the servants knew it. Why hadn’t she said she was going to study her new sheet music? Why hadn’t she said the smell of the flowers on the table was making her eyes water?

She lifted her chin to salvage some dignity. He was the butler, after all. Not her brother.

“Yes. My needlepoint. This window seems to be stuck, Thomas. Open it, please.”

“Needlepoint indeed!” Hawke bellowed from the doorway. “She’s looking for an escape route.” He was dressed to kill.

Gemma swallowed the fear that threatened to overtake her and glared at him.

“Now, my dear sister, I shall take care of your precious knight once and for all. You shall marry the duke as our parents have mandated, and all shall be right with the world.”

“Hawke, please.” Her voice was a mere breath as she pleaded with her brother. “Please… don’t kill him.”

His lip curled into a vicious sneer. “Lock her in her room, Thomas. My business shouldn’t take long.”