Taming Wilde by Rachel van Dyken

been in love with him all along.

 

Chapter Eleven
     
    Gentlem e n, do not get down on yourselves if you are not able to keep up with the rakish lifestyle . F ew succeed , and hundreds fail. Remember, there are worst things in this life. After all, you could
     be French. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox
     
    “A letter, m’lady,” the lady’s maid announced, bounding into the room as though she
     owned it. She tore back the drapes, and the sun sloshed into the room, burning through
     Gemma’s closed eyelids.
    “Pearl…” she groaned. “Can it not wait until a decent hour?”
    “No, m’lady. Orders from the marquess himself. The letter’s from yer mum!” she said,
     with far too much exuberance. Her admiration for Hawke fairly bubbled out and hung
     on the girl like leprosy.
    Definitely akin to leprosy, Gemma thought as she stretched and peeled back her duvet reluctantly. Hawke was a
     scourge. Gemma had half a mind to marry the first sod to come along, if only to be
     rid of her brother’s particular plague.
    And Pearl.
    Gemma had to begin thinking about a new lady’s maid. Perhaps Julia, the scullery.
     She seemed unfazed by Hawke’s charms. Of course, she was eighty-three if she was a
     day, so it was unlikely the marquess had been chasing her around the kitchen.
    She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Pearl met her there with a
     pair of slippers and her housecoat. Gemma reached for them with another discontented
     murmur.
    “Why is it, Pearl, that the marquess has nothing better to do so early in the morning
     than rouse me from my slumber? His night was as late as my own.”
    “Later, I’d wager,” Pearl announced with a girlish giggle, then had the decency to
     blush when she apparently realized what she had just confessed.
    Gemma could feel her own embarrassment rising to her cheeks, but she turned away from
     the girl, slipped her arms into the robe Pearl held for her, and pretended not to
     understand.
    “Where is his majesty? In Father’s study?”
    “Why, he’s still abed, m’lady. He received the letter when he came in last night,
     but gave orders you should get it at first light o’ day.”
    “How thoughtful.” Gemma could imagine how Pearl had come to be privy to these orders.
     Though she wished she could scrub the image from her mind. She closed her eyes in
     hopes that would work.
    No such good fortune.
    “Pearl,” Gemma said, lifting the envelope from her desk.
    “Yes, m’lady?”
    “Please have Cook make the marquess a special breakfast. Let her know he had a long night, and I insist he be treated to Cook’s
     delightful morning casserole. She’ll know the one I mean.”
    Whatever she already had cooking, seasoned with a generous dose of castor oil.
    Though Hawke had all the housemaids wrapped around his aristocratic fingers, he had
     long since burned bridges with Cook. A terrible mistake on his part, and one Gemma
     was only too happy to capitalize on. Cook and she had a common bond, and they had
     often schemed together for ways to make Hawke’s life miserable — or at least ways
     to keep him occupied in his closet a large portion of the day.
    Gemma couldn’t help but laugh. He would never know what hit him.
    “Yes, m’lady. Straight away.” Pearl scurried from the room, as though life itself
     depended on her haste.
    Turning the letter over in her hands, she noted the seal had already been broken.
     There was no doubt Hawke already knew the contents of the missive. It must have pleased
     him, or he wouldn’t have bothered her so early. And if it pleased him…
    Oh, no.
    Gemma lifted the letter. She couldn’t keep her hands from trembling as she opened
     it and scanned the message. Her stomach dropped like a millstone to her knees as she
     read:
     
    Dearest Daughter Gemma,
    We have the most wonderful news for you. Your father has entered negotiations for
     your betrothal to the heir to the Bridgewater dukedom. A duke! Can you