TOMORROW, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. All too quickly time fled, and with each passing moment, more of Gail’s conviction left her. After all, who was she to disrupt everyone’s plans? They say confession is good for the soul, but who is this “they”? And why on earth should Gail take their word? No, it seemed far more logical to bottle all that feeling and put it aside, concentrate on other things.
Romilla and Evangeline continued their attentions to the Holts’ ball, which was shaping up to be the grandest event of the season. And if she couldn’t take whole credit, Romilla seemed content being a cohostess. Gail continued to spend an inordinate amount of time with the Pickerings, who, while exasperating, did throw her into the company of more and more new people, some of whom she enjoyed. Indeed, it was an oddity, but Gail had quickly found herself with a busier social schedule than that of her oft-sought-after sister. It made time pass more pleasurably than she had thought possible. She began testing her caution and voicing her opinion more and more.
Max had been right: Her easy wit, so long as she kept the lectures and insults to a minimum, made her extremely well liked. Her outburst with the Earl had been a rare display of emotion, and Gail continually wondered why it occurred. Maybe it was simply Fontaine men, she mused. They bring out something in her that other acquaintances were spared from.
The night of the Holts’s farewell ball for Count Roffstaam, Gail was amazed to find herself surrounded by many new friends seeking her favor.
“Mr. Belling, you shan’t be pleased with my company any longer once we dance. Your toes will forbid it.”
But Mr. Belling had simply laughed and escorted Gail to the floor, followed by Captain Sterling, Sir Quayle, and Mr. Thornley (a trio that couldn’t seem to have one do something without the other two following). Granted, none of them asked her to dance again after their first painful experience, but all were more than happy to sit and enjoy her company, laughing loudly enough to draw the approving attention of some of the matrons, including Romilla.
The great ballroom of the Holt mansion was a jewel in the landscape of London that night. Never had there been an equal. Indeed, the guests, comprised of the most jaded, unimpressed, upper upper crust of society, were open-mouthed with astonishment at the sight of the room.
It was bedecked in flowers. Boughs and strings of newly bloomed pink and yellow roses hung from the immense height of the ceiling, which had been painted with a fresco of the sky at sunset just for the occasion, little cherubs flitting between the pink-tinged clouds with delightful abandon. The whole room was built of polished honey-colored wood and pink marble. This, along with twinkling candles and the sunset fresco, lit the atmosphere with a golden glow. Its only rival in decoration was the dining room, where tables were set with white tablecloths, embroidered with gold filigree, and the plates and utensils all in gold. Small personal bouquets of pink roses sat at every place setting, as opposed to overbearing arrangements at the table’s center. It was rumored there would be fireworks after dinner. But for everyone that came to dance, the real treat was the full orchestra, stolen for the evening from the most prestigious opera house in London, and the excellent acoustics of the hall that let the melodious sounds travel throughout the whole enchanting space.
It was a splendid affair, and everyone in attendance could not help but enjoy it.
That is, of course, unless they had some troubling thought on their minds, such as having to marry one sister while lusting after the other.
Max stood on the edge of the ballroom, watching Gail being stuntedly whirled across the floor, a broad smile on her face. She was magnificent, the bloom of popularity livening her countenance to something ethereal, something that glowed. It made his stomach turn.
He watched her every move, every slight tilt of the head, every time her eyes sparkled with mischief when she joked with her partner. She clapped her hands like a child when delighted, and the men surrounding her responded by grinning like besotted idiots and swelling out their chests.
How could she be having so much bloody fun when he felt like nothing more than a hollowed-out shell?
Although one would have to look closely, Max was not as composed as he seemed. In an effort to make him more wretched, his appetite had left him. His eyes were tired from forcing himself to work constantly—if he achieved a state of total exhaustion, he wouldn’t dream. And although Harris had bullied him into shaving and his evening kit, he was paler than usual, and his posture uncompromisingly rigid. In the whirl of gaiety and color around him, Max was stark and immobile.
He managed to put on a good face, for it would never do to let people know one’s true thoughts. He danced with Evangeline, the first two as required, and then handed her off to Will. He chatted at length with various acquaintances he didn’t really know about things he cared very little for, smiling politely all the while. Cornered for ten arduous minutes by Romilla, Max listened as she rambled about how busy he must have been recently, and how much they had missed his frequent visits. Max had nearly started laughing. If she only knew the reason, she would bar him from the house and have him dragged through the streets!
He finally freed himself of his future mother-in-law’s company and managed to make his way to an inconspicuous spot of wall, when a new voice assaulted his ears.
“Well, young man, you look ready for the gallows.”
In the sea of black coats and sickeningly smiling faces, Lady Charlbury, cheerfully cantankerous, had managed to hunt him down.
“You’re too thin by half—and those bags! Such are the marks of drunkards and wastrels. Have you become either a drunkard or a wastrel since I saw you last?” she inquired, all feigned concern.
Instead of releasing a pent-up sigh of frustration as he longed to do, Max simply bowed in greeting and replied in the negative.
“Ah,” Lady Charlbury decided, “both then.”
That pent-up sigh of frustration finally won its way out of Max’s lungs, causing Lady Charlbury to chuckle with malevolent glee.
“My lady,” Max bit out, “are you enjoying your evening?”
“More now than ever,” she replied. “I suppose that Mrs. Holt did well enough in her decor, but is the orchestra really necessary? One cannot hear themselves think, let alone speak to others.”
Judiciously ignoring the old woman’s slight of his best friend’s mother, Max took a sip of punch. “As luck would have it, most people don’t think at all while conversing.”
Lady Charlbury nodded wryly. “Right you are, my boy. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re such a sourpuss?”
But before Max could gracefully dodge that line of questioning, another couple joined their party. And Max’s face became sourer.
“Ah! Here you are, vith the Lady Charlbury! Mr. Villiam Holt said so, correct Miz Alton?”
Count Roffstaam stood before them, Gail Alton smiling with the radiance of pure pleasure on his arm.
She looked even more irresistible up close. It was all Max could do to hold himself from sweeping her into a dark corner of the room, kissing the smile off her face and replacing it with one just for him. How dare she be having a good time?
Unwilling to feast his eyes and torture himself further, Max turned pointedly away from Gail and gave the Count a deep bow, inquiring politely how he was enjoying the festivities in his honor.
“Oh! So lovely!” the Count replied. “Ze food, and ze flors, ve have nothing in Barivia like this.”
“I was just telling Lord Fontaine that the flowers and gold are so excessively overdone,” Lady Charlbury interrupted. “The whole effect is like being in a sneeze-inducing, over-warm, overcrowded peach.”
“You’re having a good time then?” Gail ventured with a half smile teasing her lips.
“Never had more fun in my life,” Lady Charlbury answered, eyes twinkling. Suddenly, the orchestra struck up a waltz, and a titter went through the crowd as gentlemen sought out their partners for the dance.
“Ah, that awful orchestra!” Lady Charlbury cried, making to cover her ears, but no one paid attention to her actions. The Count was staring at the dance floor in wonder.
“A Valtz? I have heard, but never seen such dancing.” He spoke more with curiosity than condemnation.
“Really?” Gail asked. “But I thought the dance was created in your part of the world.”
The Count smiled under his moustache. “My country is very, ah, alone—ve do not see much of the lands beyond Barivia. And they do not see us.” His eyes followed the dancers around the floor. “Clearly, ve have missed much.”
“Well, perhaps you should give it a try, then,” Max drawled.
“Oh yes, it’s quite an easy dance—no intricate steps to learn, just a count of three, and, er, leading and following,” Gail added, trying not to blush, and failing.
“I never have liked the waltz,” Lady Charlbury piped up. “Men and women standing far too close for decency’s sake.”
“But, zey are on a dance floor. Iz proper, ya?”
Gail and Max judiciously avoided each other’s eyes.
“Absolutely.”
“Of course.”
“Miz Alton, you vill show me.”
“I should be delighted,” she replied, moving to take the Count’s arm, but he shook his head. “No, I know not ze steps. Ah, Lord Fontaine, vill you dance vith Miz Alton, so I may see?”
Max had a good notion to refuse, for there were any number of couples already on the floor that the Count could observe, but the way the Count was looking at him, straight-backed, with that immobile mustache, told Max that this was not a request.
So, with Lady Charlbury’s sharp eyes watching with unabashed interest, Max bowed to Gail and led her to the floor. They were too intent on each other to see the Count throw a wink to a smirking Lady Charlbury.
THERE was none of the awkwardness, the learning involved in their first waltz at Almack’s. Now, they knew all too well what it felt like to be in each other’s arms. It was like touching fire. The lightest brush of her glove seared his shoulder. His fingers branded her skin through the silk of her gown.
They moved with more fluid grace than either had thought capable. She could feel him move before he even did so. They were perfect.
But any joy or pleasure that Gail had portrayed throughout the evening fell away. She kept her gaze steady over his shoulder; he kept his jaw set. There were no smiles. Only the warmth of his hands, the music propelling them around the floor in time.
Realizing some conversation must be had—even a very little would suffice—Gail gathered her courage and spoke first.
“I’m surprised I haven’t stepped on your toes yet.”
There. A simple comment on the dancing, wholly innocuous. Never mind her heart was racing.
“Perhaps you have improved through your ample practice this evening,” Max retorted snidely.
Nothing would ever be simple with Max, it seemed.
“Perhaps,” she conceded coolly.
“You’ve been having a grand time, haven’t you? All laughter and jokes. You have Sterling, Quayle, and Thornley jumping through hoops. Be careful though—they are more out to impress each other than you.” His eyes came to her face now, the bitterness of his words shining through them. He threw her violently into a turn, but she held on.
“Do you have a point, Max? Or are you simply enjoying a bit of spite?”
“My point is that for a fortnight, I’ve been wracked with guilt, while you’ve been out making friends and enjoying yourself. I’ve been in a hell of my own making, and you have been laughing and flirting! You have no feeling at all, do you?”
Tears stung her eyes, but pride stung more.
“You begrudge me any happiness I might find, then?” she said, her voice unsteady.
“That’s not the point,” Max replied curtly.
“You don’t know my feelings! For your information, I made friends because I was avoiding you. Because I had to. With your calling on Evangeline, I could not be in the house. And did you know? Other people make it easier to not think about my own stupid actions. So do not begrudge me them, because they are the only reason I’m able to be here now.” The tears choked her, making her voice thick with emotion.
“I cannot avoid your home,” he said brokenly. “But I have made a very concerted effort to visit less, or meet with your sister elsewhere. You should have been able to enjoy your solitude.”
“Yes.” Gail let out a bitter laugh. “And still I cannot escape you. You are quite the topic of conversation. Romilla schools Evangeline daily on the importance of being a good wife. I could not call on the Holts for fear you’d be here. And the one afternoon I had to myself, your father arrived at my door.”
For the first time all evening, Max stumbled in his steps.
“You met my father?” he asked, incredulous. At her affirmative nod, Max’s face darkened.
“Lord Fontaine,” she began carefully, “I know you and your father don’t get on, but he’s not…Max, please, that hurts.”
The hand that had unconsciously tightened about hers slowly, deliberately loosened.
Gail let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. But before they could regain the pace of the other whirling couples, Max abruptly pulled her off the floor and to an innocuous corner shaded by a particularly low-hung bough of roses.
“What did he say to you?” Max loomed over her, so close, so intense, Gail’s mouth went dry.
“He…he said he wanted to meet me.”
“Why?”
“He confused me with Evangeline.”
Swearing under his breath, Max demanded that a wide-eyed Gail recount the whole of her conversation with the Earl. She did so, judiciously editing out the Earl’s insight to her own feelings. She told herself such information served no purpose, but secretly knew she was protecting her own heart.
As Max listened to her finish the careful speech, his jaw clenched tighter.
“And after he called you a fool—he left,” she finished.
“Nothing new there,” Max growled.
Tentatively, Gail reached out a hand, resting it lightly on his arm.
“Your father…he’s not such a bad man.”
Max shuddered a little, recoiling at her words as if struck.
Gail braved her way further. “It seemed to me he just wanted to know his son’s choice of wife. He may be a bit dictatorial, but I think…I think he cares for you.”
“No. No!” Max yelled, causing no small amount of turned heads. Only Gail’s hand on his arm kept him from stalking off. Fury and panic read clear as day in his green eyes.
“Don’t dare take his side. He cares about me only as an extension of a name he refuses to give up control of. You are one of the few people who know…He did this on purpose. He approached you on purpose. He’ll try to manipulate you and through you, me. You cannot trust his motives. So don’t you dare feel for my father, because God knows I don’t.”
Unaware he was ranting, unaware of the tears that swam in front of Gail’s eyes, Max pulled his arm free of her grasp. Music and laughter continued around them as long moments passed, Gail’s heart cracking not because of Max, but rather for him.
“If you just talked with him…” she tried again valiantly, futilely. But Max backed away from her outreached hand as if it were diseased.
For a moment he looked as if she had hit him, hurt him. But then eyes hardened, and he allowed his spite to flow in low menacing tones.
“You talk and you talk and you talk, but you never listen, you foolish little girl. No wonder you were such a disaster all your life. You cannot mend fences that have been blown to splinters. I don’t give a bloody damn about my father. He can rot in hell for all I care. And you can…” He paused for breath and faltered.
He had her backed against a wall—Gail was not too proud to admit that she was slightly frightened. His face was a deep red, his muscles tensed to a snapping point. His brow was drawn down into a menace, but slowly, slowly, Gail saw horror and pain dawning over him. He let out his steam in one long hiss.
“Blast,” he finally breathed, before abruptly walking away.
Gail stood for some moments in shock, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. She had no idea his father had burned him this badly. She was quite certain Max didn’t either. As she brought her hand to her flushed cheek, she took a surreptitious peek from behind the bough of flowers. A few discreet nearby heads turned away quickly, but Gail couldn’t bring herself to care. She was mostly surprised to find that the dancing, the laughter, the music, all continued.
Nothing, and everything, seemed to have occurred.
After a quick trip to the powder room, Gail found her way back to her circle of friends, ready to laugh and feign happiness until she could leave without giving offense, in approximately an hour. If she managed to tear her hem or stub her toe, she could escape in possibly half the time. She was just about to make an accomplice of a nearby chair, when Count Roffstaam approached.
Politely extracting her from Lilly Pickering and Mr. Belling, the Count pulled her to one side.
Gail was rather tired of being pulled from place to place.
“Zat vas a very short valtz,” the Count said, watching closely as Gail worried a lock of hair.
“Count Roffstaam, I apologize if Lord Fontaine and I did not demonstrate the dance properly for you,” she began tiredly. The waltz was the last thing on her mind right now.
“May I offer advising?” the Count asked. At her sullen nod, he continued. “My vife and I”—he nodded toward the Countess’s tall pink form across the room—“fight like bears. But, never are we letting arguing go without the sun.”
Momentarily befuddled, Gail asked, “Do you mean you never let the sun go down on an argument?”
“Ya, ya.” He nodded excitedly.
“But Max…Lord Fontaine and I do not, er, have a relationship of that nature.”
The Count stared baldly at Gail until her cheeks burned with the rightness of his assumption. As she looked to her toes, the Count took Gail’s hand between his two.
“My country may not understand the waltz,” he said, consolingly, but with surprisingly little accent, “but they understand each other. Two people must mend before sleeping. Go and offer the apology.”
“But Count Roffstaam,” Gail replied, tired but resolute, “it is he who owes me an apology. Of that I’m certain.”
The Count leaned in conspiratorially and whispered.
“Then go and be there to receive it.”
HE’D be damned if he apologized, Max thought as he downed a third glass of whiskey. He sat alone in Mr. Holt’s private library, aware of the lull of music and laughter that went on just beyond the huge mahogany doors.
He’d poisoned her, was Max’s only panicked thought. She spoke in defense of his father, and that was as damning a betrayal as Brutus to Caesar. Even as the pain of it sliced through him, he remembered, cringing, the look of wide-eyed fear on Gail’s face.
She’d never forgive him, anyway. He poured a fourth. He’d been so bloody mean—as mean as his father on his worst day. So there was no point—he was unforgivable.
The only bright side of having Gail hate him was that she would never speak to him again. Max chuckled a raw, pained laugh. How low had he fallen when that was a bright side?
He was about to enjoy the fourth glass when the library doors opened, and on a flood of music and chatter, Will Holt entered the room, a small scrap of paper crumpled in his hand and a grave expression on his face.
“Fontaine, here you are.” As Will started toward him, his eyes fell to the bottle at Max’s side. “God—you’ve…you’ve heard, haven’t you?”
“Heard what?” Max slurred, again raising the glass to his lips. Will stayed his friend’s hand.
“Fontaine…Max. You may want to be sober for this.” Will gently removed the glass, bringing a bewildered Max’s attention to his face.
“Goddammit, Holt. I’m in here trying to drown my sorrows, and I bloody well can’t do that without whiskey.” Max reached for the glass, but Will held it out of reach.
“Fontaine! Damn it all, stop!” Will yelled, trying to hold the whiskey and hold him steady at the same time. “Max! Your father died!”
Everything stopped.
He went absolutely still. All the noise in his head, all other thoughts, stopped. Ceased to exist. The world had halted on its axis, leaving Max the only one turning, dizzy. Will held out the crumpled bit of paper to Max, who took it dully, automatically.
Max looked at the writing, not really seeing what it said, not able to make out the meaning. He held it for some minutes, as the words Father and expired finally registered in his brain. Max looked up to Will.
“I’m sorry,” his friend ventured softly. But as Max met his eyes, the bubble of laughter that escaped Max’s throat cracked through the air like a whip.
“Nothing to be sorry about, old chap,” Max said, the cynicism dripping with each word. “I just inherited an Earldom and my freedom with one blow.”
Will cringed. He didn’t see the piece of paper clutched in a fist closed so tightly it shook.
In fact, only one person noticed that white-knuckled fist.
In his haste to reach Max with the news, Will had neglected to close the library doors. Gail, sent on her quest by the Count, had located her quarry. What she saw left her speechless.
However, it didn’t leave Lady Hurstwood speechless, who was passing from the powder room. She may not have noticed the fisted, shaking hand, but she noticed everything else.