The Reluctant Guardian. Susanne Dietze

rich taste of his buttered bread soured on his tongue, and he swallowed it down with a painful jerk. “I would be honored, but you know I cannot provide any information on Hamish.”

      She sipped her tea. “’Tis a pity when relations disagree. Even when they are in error, as your mother was. But let us not speak of that. I sense you are not here out of familial duty. Is it something as vulgar as money, then?”

      He choked on his tea. “No, Your Grace. I would ask a favor, if I may.”

      “Why should you not? My connections are estimable.” Her expression held no trace of self-deprecating mirth or apology. She stated facts, ’twas all.

      Why was he less afraid of criminals than the woman before him?

      “I require entrance to Almack’s.” And he must have the approval of a patroness to procure a voucher.

      Ah, she reacted at last, her brow furrowing like a tilled field. “I may be aged, grandson, but my hearing has not yet gone the way of panniers and powdered wigs. Or so I thought. You said Almack’s?”

      He’d prefer to be cuffed by a beefy-armed smuggler than don high-heeled, beribboned shoes and do the pretty at Almack’s. “I did.”

      Glee sparkled like jet in her gray eyes. “Almack’s? The most tedious of places for a gentleman of your age?”

      “I do not wish to go—”

      “No man does. But you will go. This is delicious.”

      “You misunderstand, ma’am.” A headache manifested, pounding directly between his eyes.

      “Pah. Why else would you subject yourself to the marriage mart if it wasn’t for a female? Am I wrong?”

      The pounding in his head intensified. Could he not just lie? “It is not what you think.”

      “Of course it is. You are seven-and-twenty, and finally a lady has caught your eye. But Almack’s, darling? Isn’t this like diving headfirst into a shallow pond?”

      “Please, Your Grace?”

      “Will you not tell me the lady’s identity? If she is to marry into this family I must ensure she is suitable.”

      He stared at the plaster ceiling. “I am not marrying anyone.”

      “Yet.” She cackled. “Very well. I shall compose a missive to Lady Cowper the minute you leave. She will not deny my request.” She lifted her shoulders like an excited young girl. Or an imp, bent on mischief. “Your young lady must be remarkable, indeed, to lure you into the hallowed halls of Almack’s. I would have thought such a place would be your worst nightmare.”

      Tavin shut his eyes. “You have no idea.”

      * * *

      Her knees quivering under her gown of snowy gauze, Gemma nodded farewell to the Almack’s patronesses assembled on the raised dais. When Countess Lieven, patroness responsible for Gemma’s vouchers, tipped her dark-curled head and bestowed a hint of a smile on Gemma, Gemma returned the gesture. The countess did not disapprove of her—an achievement not unnoticed by Amy, who grinned.

      Gemma turned, her spirits glowing brighter than the gaslit lusters illuminating the great room. The worst was over and the fun could begin. At least for her.

      Poor Tavin. Not that he looked ill this evening. He cut a fine figure in his black coat and the required knee breeches. His muscular calves clearly had not required padding any more than his broad shoulders. The man was as handsome in elegant dress as morning clothes.

      But his jaw clenched. His fingers fisted and flexed. He adjusted his cuffs and fingered the simple gold stickpin fastened at his neck cloth, all while scanning the room—for what, the Sovereign? Or perhaps freedom from acting as her nursemaid. She scowled.

      He made a similar grimace at his beribboned shoes.

      Was he not the relation of some nobleman? Surely he had been to London and appeared at court. Danced with ladies and made polite conversation. He should know how to behave here.

      Or perhaps he had never entered Almack’s before and felt the weight of its exclusivity, which could intimidate anyone. It certainly did Gemma. She had heard about the patronesses who ruled over the proceedings like begowned feudal lords. Their expectations and standards were of the highest caliber. Indeed, if it were not for Wyling’s diplomatic relationship with Countess Lieven’s husband, Gemma might not have received the vouchers.

      These few ladies held the power to grant or deny entrance to anyone, for any reason. Poor family connections, Amy explained, or ill manners. Even jealousy.

      It was best for all concerned to please the patronesses. One wouldn’t wish to be denied entrance. Or permission to dance once inside. Or to be on the unfortunate end of their gossiping tongues, since the patronesses held the power to decimate a young woman’s reputation. Gossip and speculation ran through London like pungent water down the Thames. It was a fact she had best not forget.

      Help me be mindful and to cause no scandal, God.

      Yet she almost did, spying Hugh across the room. His beloved Miss Scarcliff—Pet—stood at his side, a shimmering pearl in her creamy gown and headdress. Her ensemble was the first stare of fashion, and Gemma resisted the urge to touch the lace trim covering her breastbone on her own, far simpler gown. Hugh smiled as Pet took to the floor with a stout gentleman, and then, oh, dear, he approached Gemma.

      Amy murmured to Wyling at his approach. Tavin grunted.

      She knew how he felt. Speaking to Hugh—while monitoring her tone, word choice and facial expressions—was not going to be easy. Or pleasant.

      “Gemma.” By contrast, Hugh sounded as if Christmas had arrived seven months early. “How delightful to see you.” He exchanged greetings with everyone, seemingly oblivious to the distance in their manner, perhaps because his smile-crinkled eyes focused on Gemma all the while. “I hope you might do me the honor of a dance. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.” His gaze flittered to Tavin, accompanied by an indulgent smile.

      Tavin’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “No.”

      Gemma was too amused to be insulted by his discomfiture. It felt pleasant—if perhaps not righteous—to be the one laughing at their odd relationship for a change.

      Since this might be her only chance to have privacy with Hugh, she placed her hand on his outstretched arm. “I would be honored, Hugh.”

      Passing by the set containing Miss Scarcliff and her stout partner, Hugh led her to the far corner of the floor to square off for a cotillion with three other couples. While they waited for the music to begin, Hugh inclined his head toward her. “You look well.”

      So did he. His tall, lean form was well suited for the obligatory finery. “Thank you.”

      “Do say you forgive me.” Under the light chatter of the other couples, he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. He looked so sad, and he didn’t tear his gaze from her for a half second. Anyone watching—and someone most certainly did watch—could not miss his intensity.

      Tender emotion lapped over her, washing away the offense of his rejection. He wanted to explain, she could see that now. He knew he had hurt her. And he appeared grieved, too.

      Perhaps Miss Scarcliff had tricked him into an engagement. He hadn’t wished to break with Gemma, but something terrible had occurred, something wicked, which trapped him into a betrothal to a scheming debutante. Little else could explain his actions. “Oh, Hugh.”

      “I was a cad, surprising you on the street like that.” Their hands touched for the dance, and her fingers twitched to grip his. Would it draw too much attention if they quit the floor? If only she could hear his side of the events and help her oldest friend through this terrible circumstance.

      The patterns of the dance separated them, then drew them together. “I thought you were angry,