Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(7)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

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Once safely away from the prying eyes of the gossiping horde, Gemma regarded her brother, who sat across from her in the carriage, speaking mindlessly of this lord and that debutante.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap, as befitting a gently bred lady of the peerage. With an almost imperceptible movement, she slipped her left hand from its place and drew off her glove. A bare hand would intensify the sting, and it was her dearest wish to leave a burning impression of her fury before he had a chance to realize what had happened.

With her right hand she gestured out the window and said, “Isn’t that Sir Bryan?”

Hawke glanced out the window, leaning forward slightly to get a better view.

As he did so, she pulled her left arm high above her head and let loose a wild swing, landing the full force of her strength squarely across his right cheek. Never had she struck anyone in her life, let alone her brother, but the pain of it on her own palm and the sound of Hawke’s cry was so satisfactory, she smiled wide in triumph.

Before her, Hawke clutched his face in agony and his eyes frantically searched hers.

“Gemma, what the h—”

“Truly?” Gemma interrupted his eruption. “Do not pretend, dearest brother, that you are not deserving of ten times that!”

His shock at both her physical attack and her verbal outburst was obvious. She had always been the sweet, proper lady with impeccable manners, no matter who was present. The full measure of her anger surprised her as well, but she was past caring.

“You… you…” She couldn’t think of a word bad enough to capture his essence without loosing a torrent of expressions that would make a pirate blush — and so she did.

Hawke’s face darkened into crimson. “Really, Gemma. Your language! Remember your station.”

“Remember my—” Gemma couldn’t believe his gall. Her control was long gone. She leveled her finger in his face. “You are a marquess! Yet you sat amongst those men and referred to me as a piece of… a piece of cheese! And you want me to remember my station?”

“Gemma,” his voice was soft, as though he hoped to placate her. “You misheard what was spoken.”

“Did I?” She was yelling at the top of her voice. “Did I also mishear the words spoken about you no longer sending my letters to Sir Wilde?” She lifted her hand as if to slap him once more.

The anger surfaced in Hawke’s expression then, and he grabbed her hand and wrenched it away from his face, tightening his grasp when she resisted.

“You shall remember yourself, sister. You shall conduct yourself as the daughter of a duke, and you shall respect my authority regarding all decisions for your future. Do you understand?”

He leaned forward, glowering dangerously into her eyes. He twisted her arm slightly as if to emphasize his point.

Tears threatened to spill over, but Gemma held firm in her resolve not to let him know he was hurting her.

“Do you understand?”

“I do not.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“What was that?”

“I do not. I do not understand you. I will not accept your authority over me for another moment.”

His confidence faltered for a moment, and she tugged her wrist from his grip.

“All my life I have been careful to be proper at all times. The proper daughter, the proper sister, the proper hostess, the proper lady. I’m done. And if you tell me I must marry whom you choose, I am telling you now, I resolve to seduce the first unworthy sod I meet. To the devil with the family name.”

Chapter Four

A rake is never alone, yet always alone. Allow me to explain. A rake must exude his individuality while still managing to be the most popular gentleman about Town. At night, his bed must be warmed by a willing participant or participants, whatever his flavor. In the daytime, he must not rise too early, lest he raise suspicion that he has ambitions outside of whoring around, gambling, and drinking. He must always appear as if he has just had a tumble with one of his many mistresses, and at all costs — and this is a point on which I dare not waiver — he must always wear black. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox

“Going to a funeral, Wilde?” Anthony filled his plate with food and went to sit at the large table.

“Yours. If I’m so lucky.” Colin glared and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. The night previous had not been kind to him. After his run-in with Gemma in the hall, he had thought it a brilliant idea to try his hand at the tables and see how much whiskey he could consume before the pain in his chest went away.

The answer was more than the host had available.

And his blasted chest still hurt.

Along with his head and his hand. Though he had no idea how he managed to injure his hand. He had hoped that upon seeing Anthony the mystery would be solved, for the only man he had wanted to wound, other than himself, had been Anthony, his dearest friend.

“Oh, Wilde, good morning.” Lady Maddox strolled into the room and kissed her husband on the head.

“Morning,” he grumbled.

“Who died?” This she asked as she eyed Colin up and down, tilting her head this way and that.

“My question exactly,” Anthony interjected. “Though I daresay it is his mind that has been buried deep in the ground, never to return. I am sure his heart is down there somewhere, as well as his valet, considering he has refused to wear any color for the past four months.”

“Thank you,” Colin said through gritted teeth. “If my head did not feel like it had been trampled by a carriage, I’d have a witty response to your inane observation. As it stands, all I can manage at the moment is a curse. However, there is a lady present.”

Lady Maddox grinned and swatted Anthony, who at that moment did let out a curse as he threw his newspaper to the ground. “Are you truly this bent on destruction, then? You want the rakish lifestyle and everything that goes along with it? By the by, you’re dressing differently, leading women into darkened hallways—”

Lady Maddox cocked an eyebrow and regarded Colin. “Wilde, it sounds suspiciously like you have been reading my husband’s private journal. Tell me you aren’t following in Anthony’s ghastly footsteps.”

Anthony turned crimson.

Lady Maddox giggled. “Oh, yes. I’ve read it. Truly a work of art, darling. Ever think of having it published?”

“Please tell me you did not just admit to reading that piece of—”

“Fine literature,” Lady Maddox finished. “And to be precise, Cordelia and I happened upon it. Quite interesting. I had no idea it was possible for a woman to—”