On Bended Knee, page 21
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
Everywhere Gemma looked, she saw dale folk arriving up the hillside clad in their best, with cakes and pies, herding their children before them. All her people, the broken bones and the summer colds and the aching joints walked forward with smiles and happy greetings on their careworn faces.
"For you," Lysander told her firmly.
Gemma smiled sideways at him. "Those are my roses."
He nodded unrepentantly. "Every last bloom. Roses like cutting."
A man who knew his roses. Oh my. Gemma shook her head with a trembling little laugh. "This is astonishing, Mr. Worthington."
"My family calls me Zander. I like it when you say Lysander."
Gemma blushed, feeling like a giddy girl with her first beau. "Lysander," she repeated shyly.
I am ridiculous.
I am ridiculously happy too.
And why shouldn't she be? She wore a beautiful gown, had a handsome man on her arm, and all her friends and neighbors were here to celebrate with her.
She was well aware that she was disregarding her duty to remain uninvolved. Yet, in some indefinable way, Lysander seemed to have stepped through an invisible wall. He seemed less lost and more direct. She had the oddest sense that he'd come to some sort of decision.
She wondered what it could have been. Whatever it was, it had clearly helped him turn some sort of corner. Look at this assembly he'd created.
For me.
For all the women of the dale.
Are you sure you aren't simply rationalizing your wish to involve yourself with him?
She wasn't at all confident of her own motivations, but with all the folk of the dale approaching, what could she do but participate wholeheartedly? All would be well, she was sure.
For how long?
Gemma squashed the little warning voice. She refused to think about tomorrow, or next week, or next year.
Tonight she intended to dance with Lysander.
STEPPING THROUGH THE ROSE arch on Lysander's arm was one of the single most romantic moments of Gemma's life.
I truly believed I was beyond all this.
Yet her heart sped when she moved closer to him in order to pass through it together. His big body was warm and solid against her side and the heat from him seeped into her very blood, a tingling warmth running through her veins.
The heady, splendid scent of the massed roses sent some long-buried girlish part of her spinning sideways in fanciful thoughts.
A silly, adolescent game to play, to rank a long lifetime by a few striking moments. A vanity, to think that the real world could pivot around tiny stretches of time, no matter how thrillingly tender.
Real life was work, not waltzes, a voice within her reminded her sharply. Day-to-day struggle, while one's house decayed about one and one's face developed a disappointed little crinkle between the brows.
The scent of the roses was so intense, it overwhelmed that troublesome voice most satisfactorily.
Gemma had never loved easily nor lightly, as some girls had. She'd not had her wedding day planned from pre-pubescence, nor — she was quite certain of this! — had she ever pretended to stumble just to let a man catch her in his arms. Until now.
She did it even as the thought crossed her mind. Such a transparently coquettish move!
I blame the roses.
She wasn't at all regretful when Lysander's arm tightened about her. She soaked in every move of his powerful body as he clasped her safely to him until she righted herself.
Then he released her and stepped away, one outspread hand indicating the rest of the shed with shy expectation.
Gemma lost her breath at the vision of a charming, if rustic, ballroom. She felt a sense of wonder as she noted the scoured walls, the floor strewn with fresh, fragrant grass, the benches lining the room and the already groaning refreshments table where a freshly scrubbed Mr. Bing stood by a half-barrel punch bowl, his carved wooden ladle at the ready.
A low musical note hushed the growing crowd. Gemma saw Jem Toms in the corner, tuning his fiddle.
"Ah then, hold your horses, Jem. I've not yet lit up the candle-ear with the spill!" Shepherd Orren stepped forward, holding a long twist of burning paper above his head.
Gemma's eyes widened at the giant wagon wheel, minus a few spokes, hanging horizontally from the central beam. Dozens of candles, fat and thin, tall and short, had been crammed atop it. It was monstrous and frankly Gemma hoped she had enough burn ointment made up for when the candles heated and began to drip hot wax onto the occupants beneath!
Lysander must've felt her go up on her toes with anxiety, for he stepped bravely beneath the now glowing "candle-ear" and spread his arms wide to demonstrate its safety.
"Don't fuss yourself, Missus," Shepherd Orren boomed at her. "Yon lad built deep wells into them candle holders."
Gemma bit her lip and eyed the thing mistrustfully, but then nodded at the looming Yorkshireman. "Thank you, Mr. Orren. I'm entirely reassured."
At that point, the chamber seemed to burst into open activity, as if everyone had been waiting for Gemma's approval.
Jem Toms lifted his bow to his fiddle and the music began, a rousing country dance tune. Gemma stepped back and waited for someone to lead their lady onto the floor.
Then tall, handsome, somehow-suddenly-dashing Mr. Lysander Worthington moved toward her with his hand outstretched.
"May I have the honor?"
Gemma's breath caught in her throat and suddenly her hand was wrapped in his. So large. So warm.
And then she was dancing.
Someone was laughing, a delighted breathless sound. It was her, giggling and grinning like a giddy schoolgirl.
I don't care. I'm dancing!
The dance was a romping pattern with four couples, and soon the floor was filled with sets of dancers. Gemma caught glimpses of Shepherd Gosling doing the steps and carefully guiding Jennie, who moved like a ship under sail. Gosling's fair complexion had turned ruddy with the intensity of his concentration. He needn't have worried, for the crowd parted for Jennie and eased her way with a few affectionate pats to her ripe belly. Jennie looked serene and saintly, her cheeks pink and proud.
Gemma even caught a glimpse of Miss Atalanta Worthington dancing with Mr. Button. For all her gangling height, the girl moved with breathtaking grace. That and Mr. Button's vivid glee put well paid to their height difference and they were the most accomplished partners on the floor. Miss Worthington performed the reel with a bored sort of graceful style, theatrically weighed down with jaded ennui.
Really, what an odd girl.
The dance ended. Gemma fanned her face and accepted Lysander's offer to fetch her a cool drink. While she waited, she spotted handsome Mr. Pollux Worthington chatting up the two very pretty, if rather vapid, nieces of the village postmistress. The two young ladies gazed up at Lysander's brother with shining eyes while he told some tale requiring the use of both hands fanned out from his head like a set of horns.
"Oh dear," she murmured to herself.
The postmistress's nieces were renowned for their heartfelt, but swiftly forgotten passions. They always became enamored of the same fellow at the same time and the competition often shook the entire village.
"My dear Mrs. Oakes, do not fear for the ladies. Pollux is a rogue reformed. He's had his heart quite unavoidably broken, you see. He would never inflict that pain on another now."
Gemma turned to Mr. Button with a bemused shake of her head. "It is for Mr. Worthington — Lysander — that I fear. The village has only just forgiven him for his disastrous arrival. If the Lamb sisters take on a battle over Pollux, I fear the entire dale will resent Lysander for it."
Mr. Button's eyes widened. "Heavens, it's as fascinating as summer court at the palace! What fun!" Then, with a wink at Gemma, he stepped away to speak to Mr. Cabot.
Mr. Cabot gazed down at his friend with absolutely no change of demeanor, yet Gemma had the impression of a severe lack of enthusiasm for whatever Mr. Button suggested.
Mr. Button returned to Gemma's side as they watched Mr. Cabot move smoothly to the trio, gain an introduction by way of Pollux, and sweep the taller of the Lamb sisters away for a dance. Pollux, perforce, did the same. The two young ladies had to settle for glaring at each other over their partner's shoulders, each jealous of the other's conquest.
Gemma snickered. The Lambs were fine people, but the entire community would be relieved when those two were settled in homes of their own.
"Poor Cabot."
Gemma blinked. The Lamb sisters were exceedingly silly, but they were both considered to be quite beautiful. Yet Mr. Cabot, unlike Pollux, seemed entirely unaffected. In fact, Mr. Cabot appeared oblivious to everyone except for one silver-eyed glance at Mr. Button.
"Ah." She hadn't realized. "Swans."
Mr. Button turned to her politely. "I apologize. I didn't catch that."
Gemma smiled at him gently. "Swans. They pair up for life, don't they? Not always male and female, either. Cambridge University is absolutely puffy with swans."
Mr. Button sputtered and lost his composure for the merest fraction of a second. Gemma bent to kiss his cheek quickly. "Thank you for helping me dress. I do feel quite fearless in this gown."
Lysander returned with an earthen cup of something for Gemma. Mr. Button made a quick bow and stepped away. Lysander moved into his friend's place next to Gemma.
"Lemonade." He peered into his own cup. "Or possibly not."
Gemma raised her brows at the very purple liquid in her vessel, then she gave it a sniff. "Bilberry juice," she announced. "Perfectly safe." With a glance around the room at the many thirsty partakers, she added, "Nor shall I see a case of gallstones for the next year. Still, you should take care. It can impart the most vivid purple —"
She looked at Lysander, who even then had his head tilted back to drain his cup. "Mouth stain."
Oh dear. Gemma bit her lip but the impending giggle won out. Mr. Worthington looked down at her, bemusement etched on his handsome, manly, bilberry–stained features.
For a moment, a mischievous part of Gemma toyed with the notion of not telling him. After all, nearly everyone else in the improvised ballroom drank the "muckle–mouth" juice with relish. However, there was a trick to it, sipping small and swallowing fast. Mr. Worthington had guzzled his. Not very gentlemanly, that.
Still, Gemma believed in kindly impulses more than mischief. Some villagers were glancing his way, and Gemma began to suspect that the choice of the problematic bilberry juice had not been random. She grabbed Lysander by the hand and dragged him from the noisy shed.
"Come with me. And don't lick your lips, whatever you do."
Chapter 22
THE AIR WAS COOLER outside and the dew had begun to fall. Gemma had never considered how passionately romantic the dale looked by moonlight.
Until tonight.
Lost in her spinning thoughts, she stumbled on the slick grass. The matching elegant slippers she had borrowed from Miss Worthington were not meant for Yorkshire pastures. Instantly Lysander came to her rescue, just as he had on her previous coquettish stumble. How carefully he watches over me.
His warm hand cupped her bare elbow and his other slipped about her waist. Her back fell into his chest and the heat of him rose up to infuse her senses. Desire broke powerfully over her, crashing into her like a wave on a rocky shore. She was drenched, tumbled and breathless and deliciously confused.
She stayed, leaning into him, not stepping away as she very likely ought to have. He stayed as well, neither moving away, nor forward into some caress. He simply held her, allowing the moment to last just as it was.
I could love a man who understood such moments.
She tipped her head back to rest it on his shoulder. The sky above them was a riot of stars, the moon a brilliant disk that still could not outshine the shimmering swath of forever.
"We are so small," she whispered. "Insignificant."
"No."
Gemma felt the single word rumble through her body. Her knees weakened and her desire spiked. "No?" She murmured, just to feel his deep voice vibrated through her again.
"You are not small, Gemma. You are … essential."
His words echoed inside her, provoking emotions and needs she had hidden away years ago. She realized she was shaking her head, denying his words, denying her response. "I'm not. I'm —" Not a lady. Not a doctor. Not even a true Yorkshire woman.
However, her usual litany of inadequacy no longer rang true in her mind. She abruptly realized how careful she'd become. So careful. So formal and awkward in her position of weighty responsibility.
She felt altered tonight, as if the gown and the attention had granted permission to some other Gemma to take her place.
Her pulse pounded. The rush of blood through her veins combined with the moonlight to brew a fizzy sort of indestructibility within her. The rules of propriety seemed suddenly pointless and limiting. She felt them slipping away, as if perhaps they had fit badly all along. Perhaps they had.
After all, she'd lived her first fourteen years in quiet rebellion against the rules, passing untold days drifting through the forbidden library. She'd gone to war when most women in Society could barely speak of it. Defiance had always been part of her. Now it stirred, awakening and stretching in the heat that suffused her blood with arousal.
For the first time in a very long time, she wanted. And what she wanted, she meant to have.
She turned to look over her shoulder at him. A snort of laughter caught her without warning.
Lysander still had a raging case of muckle-mouth. No matter. Gemma had the cure. She grabbed his hand and towed him onward.
LYSANDER, WITH GEMMA'S SMALL strong hand in his, would have walked with her to the equator and back again as long as she didn't let go.
Sadly, their excursion ran somewhat shorter. She led him behind the shed and up the slope where a dry-stone sheepfold stood empty.
It was little more than a pen. As they entered it, stepping through the high grass within, Lysander saw that it had been built to encompass the meanderings of a small spring, surely meant to sustain the sheep being held at shearing time.
At Gemma's direction, Lysander crouched beside the spring to rinse his mouth of the deliciously messy bilberry juice. He stood and reached in his pocket for his handkerchief. It wasn't there. It was wrapped and tied about the wobbly leg of the refreshment table.
He glanced at Gemma, his face dripping. Wipe it on his sleeve?
She shook her head, smiling ruefully. "Mr. Button won't like me doing this." She took Lysander's chin in her cupped palm and used a silly wisp of handkerchief to dab at Lysander's face.
Enough. He lifted his hands to capture hers and tucked the sodden little ball of ruined lace into his pocket. "Gemma Oakes, I'm going to waltz with you."
As if by a secret signal, just at that moment Jem Toms began to play a lilting, mournful waltz on his fiddle. The tune floated out over the hillside, refined and sweetened by the fragrant breeze and the otherworldly moonlight.
Lysander saw Gemma's blink of surprise. Before she could recover, he swept her into the waltz.
She let out a sigh when he pulled her in close, just a soft breath that he felt on the skin of his cheek. That, and the way she melted into him, told him something he'd never realized.
Gemma Oakes was plenty tired of always having to be in charge.
Lysander would do anything for Gemma, unconditionally. If she asked him to dance like a monkey before the assembled folk of Farby, he would assume she had good reason for the request and comply. Yet realizing that something she lacked was someone to ease her burdens firmed Lysander's resolve, sparking a burst of clarity inside him.
What Gemma Oakes required in her life was someone strong, someone quick of mind and thoroughgoing. It occurred to him that she would not, in fact, prefer the old Zander to the new one. He had been light-minded, despite his intensive if outlandish education. Not weak, but yes, lazy and careless. He'd laughed at his sisters when he'd frustrated them to fury, he gambled when he knew perfectly well that old Philpot was struggling to stretch the meals to feed nine bellies. He'd not been cruel, nor corrupt. Simply, tragically convinced of his own immortality, never understanding that there were many kinds of death.
Foolish youth.
He was much wiser now. Wise enough to see into the widow's clear gray eyes and glimpse a future worth fighting for.
That was the man he would be for Gemma Oakes.
All that depth of understanding occurred in a matter of seconds as Lysander slid his hand down Gemma's back to rest there, palm inward. He could feel every ripple of movement through the diaphanous gown as they swayed into the steps of the dance.
GEMMA HAD BEEN WRONG. When she'd stepped through the rose arch, she'd thought it the most romantic moment of her life. What a drab existence she'd had to think so highly of strolling under a charming arch with a handsome man. It did not compare with dancing high on a grassy hillside under a full moon, with the strains of a distant fiddle guiding their steps.
This is definitely the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me.
Abruptly, Gemma decided to stop thinking so much. In fact, she vowed to stop thinking at all. If this waltz was such a rare and random occurrence, perhaps now was the time to shut it and dance.
This man, this unusual man, gave her leave to be bold. But no one wanted to be bold all the time. She closed her eyes and sank into his large, muscled body as if she were falling and he was her only hope of survival.
Catch me, she thought, and danced.
The cool air on her skin competed with the heat of him against her. Gemma remembered the kiss on top of the fell. Had it truly been so remarkable? Or was it gilded by a lovely day and her feeling of skipping out on her responsibilities? Shouldn't she explore that more thoroughly?
Oh yes. I think I will.
She went up on tiptoe, drove her fingers into his silky dark hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. The spark of surprise at her own impulsiveness disappeared in the detonation that occurred when Lysander pulled her hard into his arms and kissed her back.
