Susanne Dietze - The Reluctant Guardian

“Speaking of friendship.” His gaze met hers. “Sometimes a gentleman has...moments in life. Do you understand my meaning?”

She nodded. I do, I do.

“You and I have been friends for an age.”

“Forever.” Her mouth was dry as vellum, but their joined hands were slick with sweat.

“There has l-long been an informal understanding between our families that you and I would w-wed. Nothing binding, but expected.” He shifted. Did one knee lower a smidgen off the edge of the sofa? Gemma’s breath hitched.

“Gem.”

“Hugh.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“The time has come to—”

With the click of the latch and a swoosh, the drawing room door swung wide on its hinge. Hugh dropped her hands like they were used handkerchiefs and popped to his feet.

“Oh.” With a single syllable, the baritone voice of Tavin Knox conveyed surprise and, to Gemma’s frustration, amusement.

She didn’t need to turn to know their houseguest grinned. No doubt that left brow of his arched, too. He had seemed unable to contain either response whenever he’d seen her with Hugh this past week.

“May I assist you, Mr. Knox?”

“I was looking for your brother. Or Lord Wyling. But I, er, perceive they’re not in the room.”

She spun to face him. Sure enough, Mr. Knox’s eyebrow curved. So did the corners of his lips, prompting a dimple to wink in the curve of his cheek. Other ladies no doubt found the expression on his fine-looking face charming, but she was practically betrothed and had no business noticing such things, no matter how appealing.

Besides, he was no one to her. A friend of Wyling’s who’d tagged along with him to Hampshire. Something about having business, the nature of which he’d not shared with the ladies. No matter how subtly she had tried to ask.

“I cannot say where Lord Wyling might be found, but my brother is out shooting. You are welcome to borrow a horse and set out after him.” Preferably deep into the New Forest, taking his dimple with him.

He grinned. “Thank you. Pardon my interruption—”

“Nothing to interrupt.” Hugh’s serious expression from thirty seconds past vanished, replaced by his affable smile.

Gemma hopped up. “Hugh, we can walk in the garden if you—”

“Too wet for a stroll, Gem. I must be off, at any rate. I leave for London in the morning. Do stay, Mr. Knox, and keep my old neighbor company.”

Old neighbor?

Mr. Knox’s grin slipped.

“I’ll call on you after you’re settled at Amy and Wyling’s.”

Gemma licked her still-dry lips. For six years, she’d been confined by Cristobel in a cage of obligation. Hugh was the key to her escape. A sigh escaped her lips. Could she endure a fortnight more?

She forced a smile. “Until then, Hugh.”

He bowed. “Safe travels, Gem. Mr. Knox, I hope your business is tempered with pleasure while you visit Verity House.”

Mr. Knox stepped into the room so Hugh could exit. “My stay has been most productive. And entertaining, I assure you.”

Entertaining, indeed. Gemma’s lips compressed over clenched teeth as Hugh took his leave, her hopes trailing his pea-green coattails. And she had Mr. Knox to thank.

He couldn’t help his poor timing. But she could fault him his horrid manners.

She skewered him with a scowl. “I am delighted my private affairs offered you a moment of diversion.” She twirled to leave.

“Peace, Miss Lyfeld.” His fingers alit just above her elbow, searing her bare skin with heat. “My words did not come out as I wished. I am not known for making good company, I’m afraid. Forgive me?”

He stood as close as Hugh had, near enough that she could smell leather and horse clinging to his black coat—and something else. The scent provoked long-forgotten memories of freedom, sending her pulse fluttering. No cologne or soap. He smelled like the forest. Wood and water.

Words didn’t form, so she nodded and pulled from his light grasp, moving to the wide window, which afforded the best view in the house. Beyond the drive, where Hugh’s carriage toddled away, acres of heath and copses of trees led to the New Forest. Knolls of green, including their local landmark, Verity Hill, added texture to the prospect. But Gemma didn’t find the scenery picturesque today.

“Such gloom on your features. Am I truly forgiven?”

Since they had first met last week, he’d yet to look at her with such intensity, as if he truly cared what she thought. But of course he did not. What would he know—or care—of her plight, whose lone option was to go from one man’s household to another, provided her sister-in-law let her go and her intended groom worked up the courage to ask?

“I cannot hold a grudge when God forgave me, can I?”

His head tipped, sending a curl of rich brown hair onto his forehead like an upside-down question mark. “I see.”

Did he? No matter. “Pardon me, but I am needed elsewhere.”

With a nod, she left him leaning against the mantelpiece. She ascended the main stair with unladylike haste, entering Cristobel’s salon in a rush.

Two ladies, one fair-haired, the other with curls the light brown color of Gemma’s, perched on Chippendale chairs, a tea tray set on the table before them. At Gemma’s entrance, her sister, Amy, rose, curls bobbing against her cheeks. “Well?”

Their sister-in-law, Cristobel, grimaced. “Eight minutes, Gemma. And?”

“He did not propose.” The words tasted like bile.

Amy reached for Gemma’s hands. “I cannot believe it of Hugh.”

“I can.” Cristobel shrugged, making her blond hair bounce against her shoulders. “He’s too much a coward to admit he wants out after all these years.”

Gemma pulled away from her sister. “These years he’s been considerate, waiting while I was in mourning for Mama and Papa. And assisting you, Cristobel.” Through her nephews’ infancies, Gemma had nursed them in health and illness. It had taken Amy’s strong reminder of propriety—and her promise to cover all expenses—to persuade Peter and Cristobel to allow Gemma a come-out.

“Considerate? He’s left you dangling for ages. For all your talk about his decency, that dandy has had years to come up to scratch. Instead, he’s left you unavailable to other gentlemen while your youth crumbles away.”

“A betrothal was discussed.” Amy regained her seat.

“Between parents who were too foolish to do more than daydream about a match.” Cristobel twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Now the notion is long dead, like them.”

Gemma’s fingers clenched. “Six years may have passed, but there is nothing long dead in our grief.”

“Of course not.” Cristobel’s eyes widened. “The way your mama and papa perished—well, a tragedy like that would haunt the person responsible forever, not that anyone believes it’s your fault, Gemma dear.”

“Because it wasn’t my fault, Cristobel.” Gemma prayed her words were true. She turned to the door. “I require air.”

“Take the boys with you. They need exercise,” Cristobel called after her.

Amy followed her to her chamber. “You were not the cause of the fire at the dower house, Gemma. Everyone knows it.”

Gemma yanked a bonnet and her cherry wool cloak from the wardrobe. She’d heard it countless times, but it never helped. “Thank you.”

“Do you wish me to accompany you?”

“I prefer solitude. I know Cristobel asked me to take the boys, but they nap at this time.”

“If Cristobel ever visited the nursery, she’d know that.” Amy’s hand rested on Gemma’s arm, warming the same spot Mr. Knox had touched. Her eyes held a similar intensity, too. “You’re more of a mother to Petey and Eddie than she is.”