The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 159

Well, I won’t be unguarded anymore.

“Miss Doyle!” Mrs. Tuttle scurries toward me with a scowl when I reach the ballroom. “Miss Doyle, you mustn’t run off like that again. It isn’t proper. It is my duty to see to it that you are right at all times—”

“Oh, do shut it,” I growl.

Before she can object, I weave my spell. “You’re thirsty, Mrs. Tuttle. Thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life. Do try the lemonade and leave me in peace.”

“I should like some lemonade now,” she says, putting a fluttering hand to her throat. “Dear me, I’m parched. I must have something to drink.”

I leave her and watch the ball from behind a pillar. I’m alone, full of magic and hate, the two twinning into a new force. Nearby, Lady Denby gossips with Lady Markham and several other important women.

“I have grown very fond of her in these few weeks, as if she were my own daughter,” Lady Denby crows.

“She will make a most suitable match for him,” another lady agrees.

Lady Denby nods. “Simon has not always shown good judgment in such matters. And we have been misled before. But Miss Fairchild is the best sort of young lady—well-bred, agreeable, without flaw, and of good standing.”

An ample matron, beaded and bejeweled within an inch of her life, hides behind her fan. “Lady Markham, have you decided on the other matter, of young Miss Worthington?”

“I have,” she sniffs. “I’ve spoken to the admiral tonight, and he is agreed: Miss Worthington shall come to stay with me, where I might shepherd her season; her mother will not have a say in the matter.”

Lady Denby pats Lady Markham’s hand. “That is as it should be. Mrs. Worthington must pay for her disgrace, and her daughter is far too bold and tempestuous a creature. You’ll take the girl under your wing and mold her into the sort of lady acceptable to all.”

“Indeed,” Lady Markham says. “I feel it is my duty, as her mother has failed in that regard.” The women cast glances toward Mrs. Worthington, who dances with a man half her age. “And let’s not forget the young Miss Worthington’s substantial inheritance. If brought to heel, she would make a valuable wife for any man.”

“Perhaps your Horace,” Lady Denby coos.

“Perhaps,” Lady Markham says.

I imagine Felicity a cosseted debutante in Lady Markham’s parlor instead of a free spirit in a Paris garret, as she desires. She’ll be pitied and powerless, the very qualities she hates most. It will never happen; I’ll see to it if I must.

“Ah, here is our Miss Fairchild now,” Lady Denby announces.

Simon delivers Miss Fairchild to his mother, and she fawns over the girl while he attends to her in a courtly fashion. I burn with a terrible longing. For as much as I claim to hate them, I envy the way in which they all seem to fit one another so perfectly, the ease of their careful little lives. Cecily was right: Some people don’t belong. And I am one of them.

Demon beasts. That’s what they are. Ann’s words come back to me: But they are the ones who rule. Not tonight, they shan’t, for the power of the realms flames within me, and I’ll not temper it. Don’t go up against me, mates. I will win. And I want to win. I want to win at something.

I close my eyes, and when I open them, Simon has broken away from his mother, Miss Fairchild, and all the acolytes. He strides toward me with a hungry look and extends his gloved hand, palm up, though it feels as tense as a fist. His jaw is determined, his voice raw as he says, simply, “Dance with me, Gemma.”

He has called me by my first name, and it sends a shock through those near enough to hear it. Mrs. Tuttle looks as if she might drop her lemonade. For a moment, I do not know what to say. I should feel remorse. Instead, a terrible satisfaction flows through, exciting me. I have won. And winning, however cheaply bought, is thrilling.

“Dance with me, Gemma,” Simon says again, more loudly and insistently. It gains the attention of the other guests. Many of the dancers have slowed, watching the scene. There is whispering. Lady Denby’s mouth has fallen open in disbelief.

Lord Denby has taken notice now. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking my intent. Corrupt my brother, will you? I’ll see you in hell first, sir.

The smile I give Simon is like a fallen angel’s. He seizes my wrist tightly, and half drags me to the dance floor. He’s making a spectacle of himself. Roughly, he pulls me into waltzing position. The music begins anew, and Simon and I twirl around the floor. There is a heat between us that does not go unnoticed by the others. With each push of his hand against the small of my back, it feels as if Simon wants to eat me alive. I have brought about this affection in him. Let everyone see how powerful I am. Let them think me a beauty, nakedly desired by an important gentleman. And let Lord and Lady Denby be disgraced in the bargain. I cannot keep the satisfied smile from my lips. I am in command and it is intoxicating. On the edge of the dance floor, Lord Denby watches, fuming. He was wrong to doubt me.