LADY Hurstwood’s gossiping tongue did its work at record speed. She told the tale of the earl’s passing and his son’s callousness with such relish, it was amazing to many that she managed to keep a sober look on her face. However, Gail was too busy at the moment to frown over Lady Hurstwood’s facial expressions. She had to get to Max. And since Will had put him immediately into a carriage, the only way to do that was to get out of the ball. So, instead of returning to the ballroom, she turned into the dining room, where she intended to reach her father before the gossip or Romilla did.
Sir Geoffrey sat at one of the tables, indulging in a cigar and some conversation with Mr. Fortings. He was chuckling as his daughter limped to him.
“Father,” she said, with what she hoped was a tired but happy expression, “I wanted to inform you I’m headed back to the house.”
“What? Oh Gail! What’s this? Going home already?” Sir Geoffrey asked, looking only a little peeved at her interrupting the masculine conversation.
“Yes. I’ve danced and danced, and now I’ve bruised my foot in the process. Romilla has said it’s quite all right, but I should ask you for either the carriage or hack money.”
It would, of course, be terribly crude for Sir Geoffrey to send his daughter home in a hack, so Gail soon found herself in the possession of the carriage, with the strictest instructions to send it back for the rest of the family. Then, with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and a dismissive wave, Sir Geoffrey turned back to his conversation with Mr. Fortings before he could see his daughter remove herself quite speedily and without so much as a trace of limp.
ELSEWHERE in the mansion, Romilla was idly sipping punch when the news of her prospective stepson-in-law’s father’s demise reached her ears. And by none other than Lady Hurstwood herself.
“And I don’t suppose we’ll ever see him married now,” that lady conspiratorially whispered.
Romilla took a calm sip of punch. “Why do you say that?” she queried nonchalantly.
“Oh, everyone knows it was his father that was pressuring him into marriage. The Baron Rentworth is a, er, close friend of mine, and he said the old Earl (God rest his soul) had actually threatened to cut the boy out of his inheritance—the part that was not entailed, which is quite a large portion. But now that the father’s gone”—here she interjected a heartfelt sigh to her narrative—“there’s no reason for the son to hunt a bride.”
Romilla, a credit to her social skills, managed to remain cool as iced tea as Lady Hurstwood delivered her parting line.
“It’s a pity someone didn’t snag him sooner—especially if that young lady strived to the point of compromise to secure him.”
AND so it was, for the second time in a quarter hour, a female family member interrupted Sir Geoffrey during his conversation and cigar.
“Romilla!” he cried. Seeing his wife approach with a placid smile, he tried to shove his still-burning cigar into the hands of a very amused Mr. Fortings.
“Here you are, dearest,” Romilla said easily. “Mr. Fortings, do you mind if I steal my husband away for a few moments?” At that gentleman’s acquiescing nod, her husband stood and placed Romilla’s arm through his, commencing a leisurely stroll to a private alcove out of sight and earshot of the other diners.
“Darling, it wasn’t my cigar, I swear, Fortings just asked me to hold it a moment…”
“Don’t talked to me now about such a silly thing as cigars, we are about to be undone!”
As Romilla told him of the Earl’s demise and the gossip that had ensued, Sir Geoffrey’s face went from white to red, to black with anger.
“All this time…it was just for his inheritance?” Sir Geoffrey asked disbelievingly.
“Dearest, whatever his motives, it is immaterial now. The point is he’s going to cry off!”
“He gave me his word,” Sir Geoffrey said darkly. “We must impress upon him the importance of keeping it.”
“We must do more than that, we must force him.” Romilla took a deep breath and imparted her plan. “We have to announce it.”
Sir Geoffrey stroked his chin. “But even if we announce the engagement, it will appear after the news of the Earl’s death—it will seem a desperate act on our part.”
“Go and wake up your friend at the Times. Have him pull all the papers that were to be distributed in the morning and reprinted with the announcement. This is the material point: It must seem as if we placed the announcement before the Earl’s death. And make it known they’ve been secretly engaged for a while.”
“But…I’ve already given the carriage to take Gail home.”
Romilla was so exasperated she nearly shook her husband.
“Then, hire a hack, for goodness sake! In fact, t’will be better if you do—no one will spot our carriage where it should not be. I’ll make your excuses. Just go, now!”
And with that last command, Romilla dispatched her husband to go and awaken his editor friend from his well-earned slumber. She returned to the ballroom some minutes later, wholly composed and graceful, keeping her eyes on Evangeline as she danced, speaking quietly with her in the interim. Although she seemed to be calm and blasé in the sea of gossip swirling around them, Romilla’s mind was far too engaged on the predicament at hand to dwell very long on why her second daughter had left the party early, and unescorted.
TO carry off her hastily put together plan, Gail required the assistance of two particular servants. One was Jimmy, the groom, who as a longtime observer of the tenuous relationship between Miss Gail and “that Lord Fontaine bloke,” and a bit of a romantic to boot, was more than willing to assist the young mistress. The second was Gail and Evangeline’s ladies’ maid, Polly, who, as luck would have it, was Jimmy’s sweetheart.
After entering Number Seven and making a show to Morrison and Mrs. Bibb of her intention to retire for the evening, Gail went to her room. There, with the assistance of Polly, she quickly changed out of her ball gown and into the darkest clothing she owned, which she discovered was her dark green velvet riding habit. With a black hooded cloak draped about Gail’s shoulders, Polly ushered her down the servant’s fortuitously empty corridors and out to the stables. There, Jimmy was waiting with QueenBee.
Covered by the cloak and the darkness of night, Gail went to the front door of Max’s rather modest dwelling and knocked softly.
She waited a full ten seconds before impatience had her trying the door handle. It was unlocked.
The lodgings were completely still. She moved quietly, keeping her eyes peeled for any servant, anyone who should acknowledge her presence, but none emerged. It seemed as if her very breath would disrupt the frozen house.
Had she guessed wrong? Maybe Max had not come back here, maybe he had gone to Longsbowe House in Mayfair. Maybe he had already left for his estate. Maybe he had…Gail poked her head into the rooms on either side of the small corridor, finding a cozy, messy study, and a small, tidy drawing room, but no sign of life. She nervously played with a curl of hair, wondering if she should check the back of the house, when the slightest flicker of light caught her eye from under a door on the far side of the drawing room.
Gail froze, mesmerized by that faint glow of light. To slip into a man’s house in the dead of night was foolish, impulsive, and tantamount to ruination. To seek him out in his bedchamber was ruination.
And yet, she’d come this far, with one purpose: Max. She didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but she knew he needed her to be his friend tonight.
Love is need.
It was the easiest decision of her life to cross the room and seek the light.
Her soft footsteps came to a stop before what she’d guessed was Max’s bedchamber. When soft knocking elicited no response (and neither did loud knocking), Gail held her breath as she tested the handle, easing open the door.
He stood by the bed, his back to Gail. His stillness mirrored that of his rooms, as he stared at some random spot on the counterpane, lost in his thoughts.
She stepped into the room, but kept her hand on the knob, as if to hold her from fleeing.
“Your doors are unlocked,” she ventured softly. He was so still, she couldn’t know if he heard her. “Where is everyone?”
“The maid is only here once a week. I sent Harris to Longsbowe Park, to prepare for my father’s arrival.” He spoke in monotone, keeping his back to her. The light she had followed was a single candlestick, resting on a table by the bed. It flickered softly as his breath passed by, all too soon returning to stillness. As her eyes adjusted, Gail could see various articles of clothing lying neatly on the bed, a pair of boots on the floor. Max had not changed out of his impeccable evening kit, having only removed the dark black coat. Next to the clothes sat a small opened valise.
“You’re going away,” she said softly.
“I must. I have a parent to bury.”
“Are you…”
“I’m fine,” he said curtly. “You can go.”
“No,” Gail whispered, her heart in her throat. “I don’t think I should.”
He turned to her then, his eyes unreadable in the dark, but his jaw set and angry.
“Think?” he replied mockingly. “God forbid you ever try it. Get out of here, now!”
Gail’s hand tightened on the doorknob, warring with the strong impulse to turn and run. But she held her ground.
“You told me your father tried to manipulate you in the past…” she began stiltedly.
“I don’t wish to discuss my father with you,” he warned, his tone low, his broad shoulders working fiercely under the taut expanse of his shirt.
“You should know,” Gail continued bravely, “that whatever your parent’s methods, I believe in the end his intentions were good.” She let go of the handle, taking a step away from the door. It creaked softly shut.
“When you first told me of him, I thought him a monster, and you thought him a monster, too, I believe. But I met him. He was just a man, Max. A lonely, old man, broken by time and his mistakes. I think…I think he came to understand that you were your own person. And underneath all that, he was your father.”
She stepped closer as she spoke, coming to rest in front of Max, who refused to raise his head and meet her imploring, sincere eyes. She was close enough to touch him, but dared not reach out.
“Max…” she whispered, the sympathy in her voice bridging the space between them.
“No!” he cried so sharply, Gail took a step back. “Why on earth am I plagued with such a nosy creature? Do I have to be cruel to be rid of you? Fine.” When she took another step back, he stepped forward, pushing, pursuing. “At the museum, I told you about the meanness of my father to get under your skirts. You had been twitching about the stacks all day, driving me mad, and I preyed on your surprisingly eager sympathy. You should have seen yourself, too, when I told you how my father made himself ill to get me to stay in the country—you were so ready to comfort me in my grief I could have tossed you on the floor, and you would have made no argument. In fact,” he crowded her as her back hit the wall, “you would have enjoyed it.”
Gail sucked in her breath, finding she had no farther to go. He put both of his hands on either side of her head, effectively caging her in.
“Is that why you’re here now?” he murmured. “To…assuage my grief?” One hand left the wall to graze over the velvet of her jacket. “I can’t see you in this habit without thinking of how easily the buttons come free.”
The want in his voice mingled enticingly with the menace. She felt his breath on her lips as he leaned in closer, and closer. Then in an instant, he pushed himself off the wall and stalked away from her, back to his packing.
“Get out of here now, Brat, before I take what your very presence here offers.”
Gail stood frozen to the wall, but not with fear. A great calm had settled about her, an understanding. Her voice was clear as she spoke.
“He missed you.”
She saw his shoulders tense, but he remained silent.
“All that you said tonight, on the dance floor, here in this room, I know it’s not true.”
“I don’t give a damn about my father,” he said as he ruthlessly stuffed shirts into the valise.
“Bullshit,” she replied, clear as a bell.
He turned, openmouthed in surprise.
“Where did you learn that word?”
“I know lots of words.” She moved toward him, her confidence growing with each measured step. “You’ve encouraged me to speak up, so I shall. It’s bullshit.”
“My father was an old manipulative man, and I never gave a damn about him,” but his voice lacked the conviction it had before.
“What ho, methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” Gail said, her steady gaze penetrating him. “If you don’t care about him, if you never cared, then what have you been doing in London all this time? You could have traveled the world twice over, and yet you remained here. If you didn’t care about your father, then you must have been simply waiting around for him to die.”
“Don’t say that!”
“You stayed,” she replied, her voice louder than his, stronger with its certainty, “because you did care. Because you were worried. You had to leave Longsbowe to survive, I understand that, but you stayed close enough so if he needed you, you’d be there. You loved him.”
All of Max’s arguments died on his tongue. All he could do was watch Gail as she approached him, listen as she gave voice to the tumult of his feelings.
“He loved you, too. Everything he did might have been warped and misguided and foolish…”
“Stop it,” he croaked.
“He was still your father, Max. He was still the man who taught you how to fish, who shared his love of his lands with you. He cared about you. If nothing else, believe that. It’s all right to be sad.” She had reached his side by now and impulsively laid a gloved hand on his tense wrist. He simply stared at it. “If you’re mad, if you want to scream. You’re allowed to miss him.”
“No,” he whispered. “No! No! Stop, right now!” he yelled, shaking off her hand, turning away, pacing furiously.
His face was a portrait of pain and anger, of confusion and grief, as he stalked in long strides the length of the carpet. Suddenly he crossed to her, breathing heavily.
For a moment, Gail thought he might hit her, but she refused to flinch. Then, a decision made, he grabbed her arms and pulled her roughly to him, kissing her fiercely, bruising her lips with his.
She did not move. She refused to let her shaking knees fold into him, but also did she refuse to back away.
He kept kissing her, pushing himself against her soft but unyielding frame, trying desperately to feel something, anything, but this breaking in his chest.
Soon enough, Gail felt something wet fall against her cheek. A tear, but it did not belong to her.
Max was crying, no longer pressing his intentions against her mouth. His grip was still fierce on her arms, and he fell to his knees, unable to stand anymore, such was the violence of his sobs. She pressed his face to her stomach, holding him there, the dam finally broken.
They stayed like that for some while, Max holding firmly to Gail’s waist, she soothing his head and shoulders, as he mourned for the father that had died tonight, and the one he lost so many years ago.