Free Tempted by a Lady’s Smile by Christi Caldwell Page B

wave of sadness ran through him. A little over two years ago, his own father had died so, with pain, and desiring to see closure to his time on earth. For his suffering, and the freedom death had brought to that suffering, the loss was still sharp. It reminded one of the brevity of life and the foolishness of wasting one’s time with these inane events. He turned to go when Gemma picked her head up. She angled her neck and did a quick search of the room.
    He stood transfixed as her deep, brown eyes went to Westfield. The other man said something that brought color to her cheeks and an unpleasant knot tightened in Richard’s belly. Something that felt…he blinked…why, remarkably like jealousy. Which was utter madness. The lady didn’t much like him. He frowned. That wasn’t altogether true. Not any longer. Not following their lakeside meeting in which the lady had dashed his every negative misconception of a woman desiring a title of duchess.
    Gemma slid her gaze away from Westfield and, from across the makeshift auditorium, their stares collided. He lifted his head in silent greeting and an unabashed smile turned her lips. It was one of those sincere, joyous expressions not commonly evinced by ladies of the ton and it momentarily froze him.
    Her brother again said something and, with a slowness hinting at reluctance, she returned her attention to the gentleman at her side. That jerked Richard into motion. He walked to the left of the grand gold parlor and claimed the furthest left seat in the entire room.
    Adjusting the tails of his jacket, he slid into the chair preparing to endure the torture of the evening’s performances by those ladies in attendance. Except, as Lady Beatrice took her place at the grand piano at the center of the room, Richard’s attention remained solely focused on one small, slender form shifting back and forth in her seat.
    What was the lady thinking?
    *
    In her readings of scientific books deemed inappropriate by Mother, Gemma had come across a fascinating natural phenomenon in the Americas in which the earth shook with such ferocity that for months after, those aftershocks were still felt. Just then, with her mother casting glances her way, Gemma quite knew the only thing saving her from subjecting herself to the self-torture of performing this evening was one of those sizeable events.
    Beatrice’s soaring lyric soprano filled the room—crisp, clear, beautiful. In short, everything Gemma was not. Oh, she was not so envious that she’d begrudge her friend that talent. Nor did she even wish for a great deal of that aptitude for her own. Why, Gemma would settle for her voice not cracking while she sang. If that was what one truly wished to call it.
    As Beatrice brought her song to an impressive finish, the room erupted into more than polite clapping. Gemma ignored the way her mother leaned forward in her chair and gave Gemma a meaningful look. You are going to perform … She held her breath but then saints love her friend, Beatrice launched into another song. Through her flawless playing and singing, Gemma shot her gaze about the parlor.
    Perhaps she didn’t truly need a natural disaster such as the earth quaking. She could very well feign a megrim, or…she chewed her lower lip. Why, she could swoon from her seat. She sighed. Then, she’d never been the elegant, graceful swooning sorts. Where other skilled ladies had long practiced and perfected that not-quite-an-art faint, Gemma had attempted it once as a girl. All she’d received was a bloodied nose for her efforts. In this moment, however, the whole swooning business would prove a remarkably handy, certainly beneficial, skill.
    Or she could… Or… Blast. She’d not a single worthy scheme to get her out of this inevitable humiliation. Gemma shifted in her seat and discreetly angled her head back, eying the path of escape.
    Yes, she was only looking to the doorway. And most assuredly not for…
    Richard .
    He sat in the last row of