MAX left Number Seven that afternoon, a confusion of feeling, growing for some time now, massed into a giant knot in his stomach.
He had, in accordance with Romilla’s request, arrived a half hour earlier than usual that morning, ready to take Evangeline and Gail to the botanical gardens. When Romilla told him before he even had the chance to take off his hat that she and Gail had plans for the day, and that this was his opportunity to escort Evangeline without familial supervision, he should have been thrilled. Or at least, a little relieved. But all he felt was uncommonly let down, as if he was a lad whose favorite mate had to stay in and do chores instead of coming out to play.
However, he put those feelings aside the moment he saw Evangeline, a vision in a light blue pelisse and matching dress. Max began to rationalize his situation. This was good, he thought, this was progress. He would have the opportunity to spend more time with Evangeline, getting to know his bride-to-be. After all, they had been courting for three weeks now—soon, people would be expecting an announcement. It was best to know as much as possible about his partner in life before the wedding…or was it after? He always mixed up that proverb. So Max and Evangeline set forth in his hired (but beautifully appointed) phaeton, to enjoy the warm day at the botanical gardens and each other’s solitary company.
Max should have been able to enjoy himself. Even a little bit. But the more he was in Evangeline’s company, lovely and kind as she was, the more Max found himself at odds. They had very little in common. Max loved books. Evangeline loved art and sketching more. Max loved to go riding. Evangeline barely ever touched a horse. Evangeline delighted in the country—Max considered himself far more citified. One would think that a devoted couple would easily overcome these things, but in two people so undetermined in their feelings but locked into their fates, such differences acted as bricks, stacking one on top of the other, into a wall between them. There was no movement, no room for debate. With Gail, there was always debate, Max thought, but at least it was interesting. Evangeline was just…not interesting to him.
Even though spring had bloomed into its lush green glory, the botanical gardens were quite empty that day, and Max counted only a few other couples as they toured the grounds, too engrossed in the various plants or each other to give more than a passing glance to Lord Fontaine escorting Miss Alton. As they toured through hothouses of blooming exotic flowers, tall palms, and winding mahogany trees, Max’s memory was drawn back to Number Seven’s conservatory and a particular moonlit night.
“This place reminds me of when we first met,” he said, attempting a smile, pulling a flower from a vine overhead and offering it in what he hoped was a besotted manner to Evangeline, but she simply bit her lip and looked at her toes.
“Lord Fontaine,” she said, not looking up, “I do wish that you wouldn’t bring that up.”
“How we met?” Max asked, lowering the flower.
“Yes,” Evangeline said, now worrying her gloves a bit, her eyes warily darting to the sides. “It’s terribly embarrassing. I don’t usually act that rashly, and the consequences thereof are already known to both of us. It was wholly out of character, and…it is not a moment I take pride in remembering.”
Max felt the air leave him. In his head, he recalled the night he met Evangeline as magical, filled with moonlight and romance and hope. In fact, he had clung to their first meeting as the sole evidence of their mutual attraction, the proof they could possibly enjoy each other. But to hear that she did not feel the same, that she considered that moment not worth remembering, regrettable even…it destroyed the already crumbling illusion of that night as completely as sunlight would have.
They walked on through the hothouses quietly now, silent in their defeat. Max still twirled the small flower he had picked in his fingers. Offering it again to Evangeline, she smiled sweetly and accepted it, with thanks.
However, when tucking the flower into her buttonhole, she did add, “I don’t think we’re allowed to pick these, though.”
They left the gardens sullenly, not finding anything further to distract them from having to converse with each other.
Later, making their way up Bond Street, they stopped for ices at the public rooms. Since the intent was to be seen in society together, Romilla had made certain their itinerary had included this stop, and Max, for one, was glad for it. It gave them something to focus on other than each other.
They were in the public rooms not five minutes before Will Holt came to greet them.
“Fontaine! Miss Alton! A pleasure.” Will bent over Evangeline’s hand as she smiled widely at the new addition to the party. Will stayed with them for nearly a quarter of an hour, regaling them with stories of how his father and Count Roffstaam were fairing since the ambassador had abandoned his rented apartments to become a guest at the Holts’ London residence. However, it seemed the only person in the house who spoke passable German was the Holts’s French cook, who, it was discovered, was of rather dubious origins.
“So the Count, who really is quite a jolly chap, if a little stiff (can you believe he took me to task for wearing trousers instead of breeches!), is every five minutes in the pantry, asking the cook to come up and translate something or other, and the cook is ready to beat him about the head with a chicken for interrupting her work. This, naturally, has my mother in fits and my father in giggles,” Will recounted to a laughing Evangeline, who had somehow during the course of the conversation transferred herself from Max’s arm to Will’s, and was now the picture of ladylike flirtation. Max stood some two steps away, enjoying Will’s story, but more pleased by the fact that for the first time that afternoon, Evangeline looked to be enjoying herself.
It was odd, really, Max thought, frowning. He should be jealous. He should be protective. But he wasn’t. He liked Evangeline, he did, but it just didn’t go farther than that.
Would it ever?
Before Max could ruminate further on this latest and most disturbing of thoughts, Will was bowing over Evangeline’s hand to take his leave.
“Are you certain you can’t join us back at Number Seven?” Evangeline asked with a pretty pout.
“Alas, no,” Will answered with real regret. “I am due at Jackson’s, then the Holt offices. But I look forward to our next meeting.”
Evangeline’s light and joyful demeanor immediately fell when Will left. She and Max both attempted to buoy the conversation, but by the time they reached Number Seven’s drawing room, they had once again dissolved into silence. The only thing that broke the tedium was when Evangeline leaned forward to grab a biscuit from the tea tray (besides affording Max a slight peak of cleavage—and how had the situation deteriorated when even that didn’t inspire him beyond mild interest?), and her necklace, a precariously delicate looking thing, became unclasped and landed on his shoe.
“Oh dear,” Evangeline cried, placing a hand to her now unadorned neck. “It was my mother’s. Is it broken?”
“I don’t believe so,” Max said as he retrieved and examined the small gold chain and cross that adorned it. “It looks unharmed. Just came undone.” He held it up for Evangeline to see, and her worried face broke out into a relieved smile.
As Evangeline tried and failed to clasp the necklace back in place herself, Max scooted closer on the couch and offered assistance. Taking her hands in his, he said, “Here, allow me.”
As he fastened the chain back in place, Evangeline sat very calmly and still. Max was overcome with the realization that this was the first time he was touching Evangeline, really touching her, in any manner that might be deemed inappropriate since that fateful night in the conservatory.
And he felt nothing.
He had his arms wrapped around her neck, his face inches from hers, and any sane man would have taken the opportunity to pull such a delectable morsel close for a kiss. But he didn’t. Nor did he care to.
He really must be going mad.
Of course, the fates being what they are, the doors opened at that moment.
And then Gail’s stunned and crestfallen face appeared.
By the time he took his leave, Gail had not returned, and Max was deeply mired in his own conflicting thoughts. One thing remained clear, though—he wanted to speak with Gail, alone, at the next possible opportunity.
And there was only one time and place that Max knew he would have the chance.
“NOW, Jupiter, I know you are excited to see your beloved again, but I beg you: This time, try not to charge her down.”
It was far too early in the morning for anyone of quality to be taking a ride, which, as Max had been informed by Jimmy, was exactly why Miss Gail took her rides now. He was also furnished with a general sketch of Gail’s morning routes through the park’s lesser-worn paths by the accommodating groom—along with a wink and a nod. Jimmy, it seemed, understood the situation better than Max did himself.
So, Max found himself on a winding path of the park, the dew still wet on the ground, waiting for Gail to appear.
She seemed to be taking her time, Max grumbled to himself, as he tucked his hands under his arms to keep them warm.
He checked his pocket watch, his breath still visible in the cool morning air.
It was obscenely early. Duels were fought this early. Maybe, Max considered, one was being fought today, right now, in this very park. If Gail was going to be a while it might be interesting to watch a duel, provided he could find it. Maybe near the Serpentine.
“Ruminating, my lord, when you should be watching your horse? No wonder you end up in lakes.”
Her voice broke through his reverie, just in time for Max to take up the slack in Jupiter’s reins, who was all too eager to greet QueenBee again.
“Whoa! Whoa there,” Max said, calming his besotted mount. Once Jupiter was back in line, Max turned his attention to Gail.
All gold eyes and wry quirks of the mouth. A flush heightened the color of her cheeks, as if she had just come off a good run, breathing heavily. The deep green velvet habit was expertly cut emphasizing her surprisingly striking figure and the rise and fall of her breasts. A fetching froth of a hat in matching green topped the pile of her thick hair, completing the picture. Max was struck by how pretty she was. He always thought her nicely put together, but now, he couldn’t stop staring. Did she even realize it?
Max caught sight of movement behind Gail and saw Jimmy sitting atop a gray mare. He was giving them a respectable distance, Max realized, while trying to stifle a grin. Again, Jimmy saw things Max himself was blind to.
Remembering his manners and purpose, Max tipped his hat in greeting. “Good morning, Miss Alton.”
“Good morning.” She nodded, that open humor never leaving her face. “Dare I ask what you’re doing here at this hour?”
Max opened his mouth to reply, but could not find the words to his well-practiced speech. Instead, “Where’s your hat?” fell from his lips.
“My hat?” Gail replied, reaching up to pat the smart green cap pinned to her coiffure.
“Not that one. The, uh, the squashed brown one.”
“Oh.” She looked embarrassed, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Don’t you think this one’s better?”
“Well, yes. And no. This one’s very nice, but it doesn’t seem very, er, you,” Max answered truthfully.
Looking acutely uncomfortable, Gail forced her attentions back to QueenBee’s nervous prancing.
“Why are you riding so early, Max?”
“In the hope of meeting you.”
She blinked at him. “Well,” her voice finally came, sounding a bit strangled, “your quick honesty is becoming unnerving, Max.”
“I wanted you to know,” Max began, then cleared his throat and nerves, and began again.
“You should know that, yesterday, when you arrived back at the house, you did not see an indiscretion.”
“I know,” Gail replied quickly.
“Your sister’s necklace had fallen and I was helping her put it back on.”
“I know,” she repeated, stopping Max short. “Evangeline told me once you had left. After brief consideration, I came to the conclusion that you might have learned your lesson about attempting to ravage young ladies—at least in their own homes.”
It was a cautious joke. It teased him and yet boldly invoked their encounter in the library. When he laughed, he watched a visibly relieved Gail join in.
Max walked Jupiter forward, so now he was face-to-face with Gail. Reaching over, he lifted her gloved hand from her reins and kissed it.
“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t release her hand.
“You’re welcome,” she returned. “For what?”
“For forgiving me. For being my friend.” Max met her eyes, sincere.
“Max, there is nothing to forgive! You said it yourself, it was wholly innocent. Besides, you’re to marry—” He cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“Gail, what you saw, no matter how innocent or indiscreet, gave you a shock. And above everything else, I never want to hurt you.”
Gail didn’t breathe for a moment. “I…I wasn’t hurt,” she lied.
Liar, he thought, but held his tongue, and with a final squeeze, released her hand.
So it followed, and nothing seemed more natural than that Gail and Max should spend the early morning ride together. Max allowed Gail to lead the way, who chose to pick various paths at random. The morning grew brighter, as the dew slowly began to lift from the grass in tufts of mist. When they reached fields with enough space, they raced. When they came to a path with only enough space for two riders walking closely, they used it to their advantage and talked.
“Why don’t you ever speak?” Max asked.
Seeing as Gail had just given him a lengthy discourse on the perils of shopping with the Pickerings, she was understandably confused.
“In public,” he clarified. “You have improved since I’ve known you, but you are still too often silent when out in society. You’ll speak to me, to Holt, your family, and Lady Charlbury. And God knows you’ll lecture to anybody who stands still long enough when in your cups, but in every other situation, you shrink back against the walls, into a shell.”
“I have found that my tongue gets me into trouble,” she replied, suddenly preoccupied with twisting a lock of hair.
“But you’re brilliant,” Max countered, pushing aside a branch. “You should be the darling of every dinner party.”
“Don’t call me brilliant,” Gail said, blushing quite furiously now. “It’ll go to my head.”
“Maybe some things should go to your head,” he argued.
Gail, her face scarlet, dropped her hand from her hair. “I’ll go too far.”
Max pulled Jupiter to a stop, and QueenBee followed suit. “Why do you think that?”
She sighed, admitted defeat. “You’re asking to know the worst of me,” she whispered.
“You already know the worst of me,” Max replied softly.
Gail held his gaze for a full minute, as the sway of a light breeze through the low branches mixed with the caw of far off birds.
“I can trust you,” she breathed softly. It was a statement, not a question.
Max nodded imperceptibly. That was the first truth of their young friendship. Even when they had hated each other, they had trusted. Turning her head forward, Gail gave QueenBee a light nudge, starting a slow canter along the path. Max silently kept pace.
“About a year ago, my family was in Lisbon,” Gail began. “My father was assigned to the British Embassy there—in particular, he was asked to make friends with and earn the confidence of a man in trade relations, Don Basti. He was invited to our house often for dinners and parties as was his son Josef. We had only been in Portugal a few weeks when we first met them, so I didn’t know the language yet. As time went by, I picked it up, but the Bastis remained unaware of my knowledge. I was so newly out of the schoolroom, I guess I didn’t know my limits, but honestly, I shouldn’t have tested them.”
Gail paused to take a breath and shot Max a nervous smile. He didn’t smile in return, but he nodded, let her know he wanted to hear more.
“About this time,” she continued, “Romilla came into our lives. She met my father at some function, and they took to each other. She was always visiting, on the pretense of having taken a liking to Evangeline and me, but we knew—she always had eyes for Father.
“One afternoon, while Romilla was over for tea, the Bastis stopped by, this time accompanied by the second son, Paul. Don Basti went to speak with my father, but the younger ‘gentlemen’ joined us. When taking tea, Paul said in a low voice, and in Portuguese, that Josef had been right, Evangeline and I would be fun for what he termed a ‘double-toss.’”
Max nearly fell off his horse. “He said what?”
“A double-toss. I took it to mean he wanted to seduce both of us at the same time,” Gail explained baldly.
“And what”—Max nearly choked—“left you with that interpretation?”
“He went on to categorize our various differences. Light and dark, short and tall. Some other anatomical contrasts I’d like to avoid repeating.” She shrugged. “Variety is the spice of life, apparently.”
She told her story with a detached, uninvolved air, but Max knew that was for her own protection. It still made her angry. It still hurt. He was suddenly overcome with the desperate desire to hunt down the Basti brothers and dismember them. His shoulders shook with the effort of keeping control. But in his anger, Max remembered his own drawing room conversation in different tongues.
“God, you must think me an ass.”
She looked up sharply. “Why?”
“Because of what I said that day—the, uh, mundane things. In other languages. I’m amazed now that you didn’t slay me down to size. I certainly deserved it. Hell, I’d box my own ears if I could.”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Well, as I said—you were terribly mundane, Max. Hardly worth a comment.”
Knowing that he had been forgiven for one of his earliest stupidities, Max reached over and squeezed her hand. “Please,” he managed, “continue.”
“Well, you have likely guessed by now that I was the only one in the room who understood what they said.” At his nod, she went on. “My face was burning. I was so angry, but Evangeline and Romilla were laughing and being entertaining with Josef and Paul because they didn’t know. That made me angrier than anything—it was like they were laughing at us.”
What was it she had said? Gentlemen had proved to be far more vulgar than any commoner. This must be a key piece of evidence in her theory.
“When my father entered the room, with Don Basti, they looked inordinately pleased. Only later did I find out they had just come to terms on a deal. Don Basti made the suggestion that we all go out that evening together. And when Paul had the audacity to take my hand and ask me if I would enjoy such an excursion—”
“Oh no,” Max moaned.
“Oh yes, I’m afraid,” Gail replied. “I told him, in English, that I would sooner swallow my own tongue than willingly spend an afternoon in their company.”
Max’s jaw dropped. “Oh, God.”
“That alone would have been bad enough, but I added, in Portuguese, a few less than complimentary names I picked up from my rambles around town. The, erm, dockside, in particular.”
That was, Max thought, without a doubt, the cruelest, sharpest, and most deserved slight he had ever heard. He could well imagine being so young, so angered to have lost one’s temper, but Gail’s brand of retort was an art. He had to laugh.
So he did. Long and loud and with his full body. But this time, Gail did not join in.
“Please don’t laugh,” she pleaded weakly. “It was a terrible, mean thing to say.”
Max immediately sobered, and but for a hiccup or two, sounded appropriately subdued.
“You regret saying it, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. No. They were abominable, awful men, and the way they looked at Evie made my skin crawl. But afterward, I learned that what I say can have serious repercussions. I had my ears blistered for days. Even after I had explained what the so-called ‘gentlemen’ had said. A week or so later, Don Basti changed his position on the exporting agreement. My father was so frustrated…” Her voice trailed off, lost in her own thoughts.
“Sometimes I think half the reason he married Romilla was to have a female around to teach me how to be a lady,” she said. “The other half was so she wouldn’t spread the tale of my uncouth behavior. She has tried to teach me, you know. How to demur, how to be gracious and flattering. It hasn’t worked very well. It’s just so much easier to sit in a corner and be quiet.” She finished her discourse with a noncommittal shrug, as if to distance herself from her feelings by pretending nonchalance. But the air of sadness permeated her being, and Max, for one, would not stand by and let her pretend it didn’t hurt.
“You should never temper yourself. No, listen to me.” Max approached Gail, reached out and took her head in his hands, forced her eyes to meet his. “You felt as you did and spoke accordingly. And very bravely, too. God save me from simpering females who never speak their minds—I would go mad. You are a clever, witty, cynical, passionate gale force wind and you can’t hide that under a bushel. So, please, for my sake—don’t even try. Besides”—he smiled—“this is the worst of you? I’ve heard nuns speak with more bite.”
Gail smiled in return. “Well, nuns are married to God. That offers them some protection, don’t you think?”
His fingers were burning from the electricity of touching her skin again. But more he was burning from the liquid gold of her eyes. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. They were wholly alone. Her scent as she passed him in the drawing room, her smile and sparkling eyes when she laughed at something only he understood, the torment of remembering her warm mouth opening to his had been torturing him for weeks. And now, here she was, so close, and he was touching her. His rough thumb caressed the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He looked into her eyes, and saw them go dark with passion. With hunger.
With fear.
Fear won out. Gail broke eye contact, instead searching the surrounding woods.
“Where are we?” she asked, her voice a pitch too high for his liking.
Max searched her face, and reluctantly let his hand fall. It was a loss, the cool air now separating them, the longing to touch again. But he pulled back.
Turning Jupiter about, he took stock of his surroundings and was amazed at what he found.
“I’ve been here before,” Max whispered, awed. Somehow, in the course of the rambling paths and deep conversation, Gail had led them to the long forgotten grotto. The sun now rose in the sky instead of setting, but it was unmistakably his same grotto. The ruined Grecian gazebo stood, now with vines in full leaf twining up its columns. The silence here was overreaching. No breezes brushed through the trees, no clip-clops from horse hooves in the soft earth. The only sounds were their own breathing and the faint rustling of some birds hiding in high sycamore trees that edged the magical place. The colors of a deepened spring were in full life here, and Gail was open-mouthed in her appreciation.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Max dismounted, then helped Gail down. As Jupiter and QueenBee nuzzled each other and munched on the grass, Max explained how he had come across the grotto before. “I looked for it again every day, but I never found it,” he finished.
“I can understand your quest,” Gail replied. They walked to the gazebo, simply reveling in their surroundings. Max suddenly realized that he had never relinquished Gail’s hand from when he assisted her dismount. He also noticed that she did not ask for its release.
“Do you know,” Max said, regarding the gazebo, “I have no idea why it was so popular to build something that is crumbling.”
“It is silly,” she conceded. “But it’s romantic, too, for an illusion. We’re meant to pretend that this gazebo is just as old as the trees.” Gail offered a grin, although the light did not reach her eyes.
“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” Max asked. “Lisbon?”
“A little,” Gail hemmed. “I just worry too much about making a mess of things.”
Max squeezed her hand. “I am suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling that you will be just fine.”
“Why is that?” she questioned.
He laced his fingers through hers. “Because when no one’s watching,” he whispered, “you’re fearless.”
A blushing smile of honest and brilliant light overtook her face. And suddenly every nerve in Max’s body was tingling.
Just as suddenly, the crows in the trees sang their fierce cry and an amount of rustling predicted they would soon take flight.
“Oh!” Gail said, looking up into the air, “Crows! Max, quick, how many do you see?”
“Ah.” Max spun around, his ears breaking as cries rent the perfect tranquility of the grotto, but he couldn’t actually see any birds in flight. Suddenly, a small blur of black lifted from the top of the sycamore and crossed through the sky.
“One,” he answered, looking back to Gail. She faced the other direction, her eyes scanning the treetops.
“I only saw one, as well,” she said ominously. “That’s not good.”
“Why ever not?”
“Crows! You have to count them. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret, never to be told.’”
He pulled her closer. “A bit superstitious, aren’t you?” he asked, a laugh in his voice.
“What makes you say that?” Gail countered, her eyes still desperately roving the treetops.
“The crows. The dire need to avoid the number thirteen.”
“Oh. That’s not superstition, Max. I simply prefer not to tempt fate.” She worried her lower lip. Max was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead he took hold of her neck with his free hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive line of her jaw. Her eyes stopped scanning the skies, and after closing them blissfully, briefly, she turned her gaze to his.
“Don’t worry, Gail. You saw one, and I saw one. That’s two for joy.” His voice was a low, warm rumble.
“That’s not two,” she argued. “That’s one for you, and one for me. Two sorrows cannot make one joy.”
“Yes, they can.” His eyes grew dark, feral. Hungry.
“How?” she asked, barely a whisper.
The glint of a challenge flashed through him, and his mouth descended to hers.