Free Tempted by a Lady’s Smile by Christi Caldwell

stared at the contents, the more he appreciated that if one studied the French liquor in just the right way, it bore a remarkable similarity to Gemma Reed’s eyes.
    With a strangled sound, Richard swilled the remaining spirits.
    Footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up just as Westfield pushed the door open and stepped inside. He took in the snifter in Richard’s hands and closed the door behind him. “I suspected I might find you closeted away with my well-stocked sideboard,” he said, not breaking his stride as he made his way over to that very mahogany piece of furniture.
    Seated in the folds of the leather winged back chair, Richard shifted in his seat. His friend spoke as though Richard was one of those drink-indulgent carousers.
    Westfield touched the edge of the bottle to his glass and the clink of crystal hitting crystal filled the room. “Will you attend the evening recital?”
    Once again, Richard stared at those nearly brown droplets clinging to his glass. What manner of singing voice would Miss Gemma Reed possess? He’d wager she sung with a gusto and passion…but then his smile slipped. I prefer the company of horses and dogs…
    But then, a lady treated so unkindly by Society, a woman who would bury her gaze in her plate and stammer through discourse, was one who’d not sing with such abandon. Not on display, as was expected of ladies of the ton . When alone, however, she no doubt sang with great zeal and a carefree, unbridled passion…
    Westfield cleared his throat.
    She would be the manner of lady who secretly rode astride and galloped through the countryside with the wind whipping at that same belligerent brown tress and—
    Westfield again made a clearing sound.
    Richard stared unblinkingly at his glass and then raised his gaze to where his friend stood eying him perplexedly. Fighting the urge to tug at his cravat, Richard set his glass aside. “I will join your recital.”
    His friend snorted. “It is hardly my recital.” Then he rolled his glass between his fingers. “Just an event by which the young ladies assembled by my father can be presented to display the worth of their candidacy as future duchess.” His lips pulled in a cynical, humorless smile.
    Gemma flitted through his thoughts. Richard drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. Given the heartbreak Westfield had suffered at another woman’s hands, he’d celebrate a pairing that saw the young marquess happy. So what was this selfish yearning to have Westfield choose another rather than the clever Gemma Reed? “Tell me. Is there a certain young lady who might, indeed, fit that role of future duchess?” He infused a deliberate boredom into his tone. After all, it wouldn’t do to seem interested in whether a certain lady with brown hair and brown eyes had, indeed, garnered Westfield’s notice.
    “There is—”
    Whatever there was or was not, Richard would never know because the door was thrown open and Lady Beatrice spilled into the room. Both men promptly came to their feet.
    “Robert, there you are,” she said, slightly breathless, and her heaving chest hinted at the quick pace the lady had no doubt set for herself. “The recital is set to begin and I…” She staggered to a stop and looked between Richard and her brother. “Oh, Mr. Jonas,” she said and dropped her gaze demurely.
    “Lady Beatrice,” he said politely and dropped a bow.
    She smiled. “Forgive me, it was not my intention to interrupt your meeting. The recital will begin shortly, and…” She returned her attention to her brother. “I thought you might join me in the recital hall and sit beside Gemma and me.”
    The marquess downed the contents of his glass. “Of course,” he said with the brotherly devotion he’d demonstrated to the young lady through the years.
    Richard lowered his eyebrows at the lady’s less than subtle attempt at matchmaking. Were her efforts a result of her own attempts or did she work on behalf of Gemma Reed? And