Tempting Gemma 9 Page 3

  Chapter Five

  The play drew gales of laughter followed at the end by numerous curtain calls and a standing ovation for hapless Pennywort, who had to be dragged out on stage to receive it. Gemma thought the dog had the best part and Jane agreed. Before they said their farewells outside the theatre, they had already made arrangements to meet again the next day.

  Mindful of her request to her husband, Gemma slipped away as soon as they returned home. Having shed the violet evening gown, she stood in her dressing room, debating what--if anything--to put on. Finally, she settled on a leather corselet paired with black fishnet stockings in the hope that he would take the hint and realize that she wished to be ravaged. He did and she was, quite thoroughly.

  The next few days had the quality of a mosaic made up of bright, delightful pieces and darker, far murkier ones. There was her warm friendship with Jane, sprouted as it were in full bloom, that felt as though it had always been. It helped to make even the endless round of social events that Charles deemed required their attendance endurable.

  But there was also the sense that nothing whatsoever was happening. Mary Magdalene was scarcely mentioned. As for Dame Aurelia herself, she was at many of the events attended by the Ardsleys and Burleighs where it was clear that she still had the confidence of at least a sizeable portion of Old Guard.

  True, the more weak-willed among them--or perhaps they were the shrewder--had been peeled away but the rest remained. Whether they did so from bulldog stubbornness or the inability to bestir themselves under the weight of their own imagined superiority was impossible to say.

  Trusting that there had to be more than she could see, Gemma finally inquired of her husband as to what she was missing.

  “Nothing,” Charles assured her. They were lying in bed after a protracted and highly satisfying bout of marital relations.

  Reaching for the open bottle of champagne in the cooler on the bedside table, he said, “I know it’s tiresome, darling, but this is how anything of real importance is accomplished. Nothing rises to the surface and shows itself until it’s all been settled underneath. Then it’s presented as a foregone conclusion, so obvious that no sensible fellow would dispute it.”

  She supposed that made sense in a completely opaque and devious sort of way but she was impatient all the same. Accepting her refilled glass, she eyed her husband over the rim. He looked so deliciously mussed, his golden hair tousled, a bit of an orgasmic flush still clinging to his sculpted features, the taut skin of his muscular chest glowing from his exertions…

  He was far too distracting but she refused to be diverted, at least not right at that precise instant.

  Quietly, she asked, “How much longer do you think?”

  “Not long,” he assured her. “By appearing as we have in public, we’ve shown who’s on our side which means whose favor can be hoped for by those who come over and support us. Contrarily, the undecided can see whose disfavor will fall on those who fail to do so. That’s already had a significant effect.”

  “Then what is left to be done?” she asked.

  The look in his eyes put her in mind of a hunter who had spied his prey and was closing in on it.

  A little shiver ran down her bare back as he said, “The final hold-outs need to understand how far we are willing to go.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  They found that out a few days later when The Most Honorable Charles George David Bonville, Marquess of Ardsley rose to speak in the House of Lords. That he should choose to exercise his hereditary right to do so was notable in itself as he rarely bothered to even attend Parliament.

  Anything he chose to say was guaranteed to command his audience’s rapt attention. But the subterranean grapevine that wove through Society had alerted them to the fact that a scandal was brewing. Ardsley was whispered to be at the heart of it. What would he reveal?

  Later, the newspapers would report that the handsome marquess, known for his prowess on the polo field, had given a rather bland address about how very pleasant it was to be British. But those who actually understood the language of power had heard an entirely different speech.

  In plain words, unmarred by the fibber-gibber eloquence for which solid men--and these days one had to add women--had no patience, his lordship spoke of the values that were the bedrock foundation of the realm, at once its most precious heritage and lasting legacy.

  He referred to the need not merely to uphold those values-which as he pointed out all sensible men and women did not have to be told--but to be seen to do so in a manner that reflected well on those entrusted with the abundance of the realm’s land and treasure. Absent such a show of worthiness, the claim to any such privilege could not be taken for granted.

  He sat down to a combination of sustained applause from much of the chamber and ruddy-faced glares from the remainder. Once again, the air was being sniffed. A consensus was growing that what smelled suspiciously like crumbling mortar in the wall of aristocratic solidarity could not be ignored much longer. At least, not if one wanted to go on having such a pleasant life.

  Ceteri non futuis illum. Don’t fuck it up for the rest of us. Because if you do, we will throw you to the wolves. How well will you manage when they rip out your liver, tear off your gonads and feast on you?

  Scarcely an hour after the Marquess concluded his address, the Member of Parliament for Birmingham rose in the House of Commons. The speech that Lady Jane gave bore a marked resemblance to that still reverberating in the Lords. As she and Charles had collaborated on their addresses, that was hardly a surprise.

  On hand in the Visitors’ Gallery to hear her speak were a great many people including both the Ardsleys and the lady’s husband, Minister for Crown Security, Lord Adrian Burleigh whom, it was whispered, was the keeper of the realm’s darkest secrets.

  In contrast to the off-handed reporting on the Marquess’ remarks, Lady Jane’s address was hailed as a rallying call to all that was good and honorable in Britain--fair play, forthrightness and the like. Once again, it was confided to the public that she was likely to be their first female Prime Minister.

  By the time Parliament adjourned for the day, a general understanding had taken hold that regarding the matter about which no one was speaking, Something Had To Be Done.

  Chapter Six

  You were both wonderful!” Gemma exclaimed. She beamed a smile at her husband and Jane. Both were looking modest but she could tell they were pleased.

  “It was all so exciting,” she went on, unable to contain herself. “I can scarcely believe that I was here to witness it. Their faces, the Old Guard, I mean. They were priceless!”

  “I half suspected that a pickle salesman had been on the loose giving out free samples,” Charles said with a grin.

  “I, on the other hand,” Jane said, “braced myself for the sudden intervention of the Emergency Medical Services. More than a few cases of apoplexy appeared imminent.”

  “What a shame that would have been,” Adrian said dryly.

  They were walking out through the Central Lobby when he called his wife’s attention to the reporters’ gathered outside. “I expect they’ll want you to say something.”

  “They’re all yours,” Charles said hastily. He took Gemma’s arm. “We’ll just slip out another way.”

  “Coward,” Jane said teasingly.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “I am more than happy to cede the public’s attention to you.”

  “I suppose I shall have to get used to it,” she replied. The prospect did not appear to concern her overly much.

  Moments later, the couples parted. Charles led the way down one corridor and another through the labyrinth-like building until they came to a nondescript door marked by a prominent sign: No Entry. Alarm Will Sound.

  Without hesitating, he pushed open the door. Gemma braced herself but nothing happened. At her surprised look, Charles said, “The sign’s just there to discourage the riffraff. Members have been using bolt holes like this to slip in and
out since the Normans arrived.”

  “I can see how that would be convenient,” she remarked as they entered the stairwell. However ancient its origins in buildings that had stood on the same spot in centuries gone by, it was entirely modern and utilitarian with a single exception.

  “No security cameras?” she remarked, glancing up toward the ceiling.

  He shot her a pleased smile. “Noticed that right off did you? Lords and Commons agree on one point at least; we both retain a death grip on our privacy.”

  “Hmmm, did I mention how exciting I find all this?”

  About to start down the steps, Charles paused. He thought his wife looked a bit flushed. And the way she was moistening her lips--

  “You did say something to that effect.”

  “Very, very exciting. You were simply marvelous and I could tell that they all thought so, even those who wished the ground would open and swallow you up. Especially those.”

  “I think today accomplished a great deal,” he acknowledged. “The message has been sent: Make things right or suffer the consequences. Now we shall see if the response is all we desire.”

  Privately, he had his doubts. The nobility was a lumbering beast that balked at any effort to force change upon it. Yet it had also shown a remarkable ability to avoid the extinction that had overtaken others of its kind. With luck, it would again. Only time would tell.

  “Speaking of desire…” Gemma said. It was unaccountably warm in the stairwell or perhaps that was just her. She was feeling quite over-heated. The pink Chanel suit she had put on to visit Parliament was far too much for such a sultry day.

  It was him, of course. He was far too arousing. The sight of her husband standing in the Lords, speaking with such clarity and conviction about the noblest of virtues had quite undone her. He would never be that ‘parfait, gentil’ knight of legend and thank heaven for it. Who wanted a fellow who went about tilting and the like? But he was the only man she would ever love. In the face of that, she simply could not contain herself.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. She had the jacket off already and was working on the zipper of her skirt. Did she really intend--?

  “Do these stairs get much use?” she asked.

  “Not today,” he assured her as he quickly loosened his tie. “Members will be out in front vying for the media’s attention or they’ve slunk off to their clubs to rue the destruction of all they hold dear.”

  “Good.” She gave him a smile that had Brad at attention and his balls clenching. “When I’m a very old lady, I want to have something truly shocking to tell my great-grand-daughter.”

  “Perhaps even to inspire her,” Charles suggested helpfully, undoing his belt.

  “Oh, yes…” Gemma murmured as she dropped her skirt and stepped out of it. Her gaze was firmly on the rapidly growing bulge in his trousers. “That, too.”

  “Fornicating in the Houses of Parliament is strictly forbidden,” he informed her. No one had ever inquired as to why that had to be spelled out in the official rules. Everyone either knew damn well why or assumed the other fellow was responsible.

  Glorious woman that she was, Gemma turned around and wiggled her bottom at him. With a fetching look over her shoulder, she said, “Oh, dear, does that mean I’m being very naughty?”

  “Indeed,” his lordship said sternly. “And you know what happens to naughty girls?”

  “They get spanked?” she suggested.

  Magnificent! How had he ever managed to get so lucky? He could hear her now, years and years from then, after children and grandchildren, in the fullness of time regaling their great-grand-daughter. She would chalk it up to the events of the day, all the excitement added to her own natural exuberance and then him, too, of course, the effect they had on each other.

  The flat of his hand landed on her lovely bottom. She jumped a bit and widened her eyes.

  “Oh, my!” Gemma murmured.

  Another and another, the sound echoing up and down the stairwell, until her pert ass was a lovely shade of pink and he couldn’t wait a moment longer. Bracing her against the nearest wall, he tore off her panties, lifted her legs over his hips and found her wet, tight heat. Sinking into her, his lordship hoped it wasn’t sacrilegious to offer up a prayer of thanks at such a moment. Regardless, he did so and trusted that whatever deity was listening would understand.

  Chapter Seven

  Awhat? Gemma asked.

  It was the following morning. She and Charles were having breakfast on the roof of their London house. Fiona had consented to join them, emerging from her perch on a silk pillow in the master bedroom. She yawned delicately before leaping up onto an adjoining chair and settling in to wash her paws. The indignity of being forced to travel to London appeared to have been forgiven.

  “A costume ball,” Charles said. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  Privately, Gemma thought it a bit frivolous in the face of all they were dealing with. But she had absorbed the fact that when it came to Society, nothing was as it appeared on the surface. Boisterous greetings in a theatre lobby were a critical show of solidarity. The friendship of a charming couple who just happened to be at the center of power sent a formidable message of support. A seemingly pleasant speech in the House of Lords was a deadly warning.

  Who knew what a costume ball would turn out to really be?

  Having arranged for London’s most fashionable modistes to present her with a variety of costume choices, Charles remained on hand to help his lovely wife choose her ensemble for the evening.

  Emerging from her dressing room arrayed as Bo Peep, Gemma gripped her beribboned staff, gave a twirl in front of the mirror that sent her flounces flying and turned to her husband.

  “What do you think?”

  Eying the tight bodice and short, ruffled skirt of the shepherdess costume, Charles said, “Definitely has possibilities but keep going.”

  There was a prolonged interruption after the belly dancer outfit she tried next proved far too distracting for her husband’s sensibilities. Afterward, he said, “Forget ever wearing that outside the house.”

  Gemma smiled, smoothed her hair and went off to try another.

  In the end, she decided to go as Madame Pompadour, the famed mistress of King Louis XV. The costume was ridiculously over the top, a confection of silk, lace, ruffles, exquisitely embroidered flowers and the like. Gemma loved it.

  Even more, she chose it so that Charles would complement her in snugly fitted breaches, an embroidered silk waistcoat and a dark velvet coat split in the back to just incidentally reveal those buttocks of which she was so very fond.

  “Who is giving this party?” Gemma inquired as they made the short drive to the Mayfair address not far from their own.

  “Lucius and Natalia Belmont. Marvelous couple. I owe my safe-cracking skills to her.”

  A woman safe-cracker in Society? That was a story she would look forward to hearing.

  “They’re friends then?”

  “Indeed, you would have met them by now but they became parents a few months ago and have been keeping to themselves, understandably enough. It will be good to see them again.”

  Their host and hostess truly were the souls of amiability. Certainly, no one could ever have guessed that the slim brunette with the remarkable violet eyes had ever tread a toe on the wrong side of the law. Gemma was wondering if perhaps her husband had been joshing her when she caught the look that passed between the Belmonts and Charles.

  Oh, yes, definitely, something was in the works.

  The sprawling apartment overlooking the park was crowded with the crème de la crème of Society vying to outdo each other in the elaborateness of their costumes. Although they were all masked, she could recognize some: the polo team and Bernie were on hand with their significant others, as were the Burleighs.

  She even thought she could identify a few of the Old Guard she had seen in Parliament. A gentleman arrayed as a satyr appeared to have recovered from his brush with
apoplexy. Another--rigged out as Bacchus--still looked glum but determined to soldier on.

  “Everyone is here,” Jane said as she and Adrian joined their host and hostess. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the din. A moment later, Gemma realized just how right she was.

  Dame Aurelia Ratwitz had arrived.

  At first sight of her Nemesis, a sense of betrayal overtook Gemma so profound that for several moments she forgot to breathe. How could she possibly be in the same room with that loathsome woman after everything that had occurred? For that matter, how could the Belmonts--Charles’ friends--have invited her? Or the Burleighs or any of the others stand to be in her presence?