Edith Layton (6 page)

“They hardly breathe during a play,” Damon said. “If someone coughs, he’s glowered at. Because they don’t get much in the way of theater, although the larger cities have some fine ones. But they’re as riotous during musical reviews and comedies as you would wish.”

“You look so far away when you speak of the way things were there. Do you miss them?”

“No. I’m very happy to be home again. Because this is my home. Most of the people I met in America went there because they had no home, or the home they had was no longer good for them. If I had to make a new start, there’d be no better place on earth for it, I think. You see,” he said, his voice growing reflective, “if you went to the Continent, or any settled country in the
world, for that matter, you’d arrive an immigrant, an outsider, an alien. It would take time to be absorbed into the life of the country because you’d be so different. Like many of the French, here in London.

“They escaped the Terror a generation ago and yet they still live apart in many ways, speaking their own language, eating in their own restaurants, shopping in their own markets, staying with each other for friendship. I suppose some of it’s because we were at war with France so long, they may have felt unwelcome whether they were oppressed or oppressors. It’s too bad, but many were under suspicion, some for good reason. But much of it was for their own comfort then, and now. They band together, strangers in a strange land.

“But that’s my point,” he said. “Almost everyone in America is a stranger. There’s some whose parents were born there, some even have grandparents who lived there, and some of those aren’t even Indians.” He grinned. “But they aren’t a majority, and it doesn’t make much difference. Everyone speaks with an accent of one kind or another; everyone’s trying to build a new life or rebuild an old one. They’re escaping from broken homes and hearts, shedding lost dreams and old loves. They’re creating a new world as well as living in one. That’s why I say that if I had to begin my life over again, it would be there. Some are doing that exactly. They’ve left not only the Old World behind, but their real names and memories, too. Sometimes even their real husbands and wives,” he said with a reminiscent grin. “But my name, my family, and my memories are good ones, and so I had to return.”

Gilly slowly withdrew her hand from his. He let it go
at once. She smiled at him, easily. It was an easy thing to do. She liked him very well, she’d love to have him as a friend. But he’d reminded her that she knew too well she could never have him as a husband. His name
was
a good one, and his family obviously doted on him.

Again, she realized how wrong she was for him. Once again, she vowed to end their charade. Surely it was too soon? But a few weeks weren’t enough time to reclaim her good name. Or, she corrected herself, at least the good name Ewen and Bridget had given her.

She’d take a little more time with him, she decided. Just a little. Because apart from needing society to see that their liaison hadn’t been just what it was—a sham to save her reputation—she was enjoying herself enormously. And maybe they could remain friends after all. After all, she was friends with the one and only man she’d ever wanted to marry—if the world and time were altered. If she could bear that, she could bear this new male friend, couldn’t she?
What a lucky girl I am
, she thought wryly.
So many dear friends and no lovers to complicate my life
.

“So, you like this gown?” she asked suddenly, to change her thoughts.

He paused. “I thought you hated compliments.”

“I do,” she said gruffly, “but haven’t you ever asked a friend what he thought of how you were dressed?”

“I may have…” he said slowly, suspecting a trap.

“Well, I usually hate pink,” she said, plucking at a fold of her skirt. “But Bridget said this gown isn’t. It’s apricot or some such fruit or other,” she added quickly, vexed with herself for not finding a less foolish topic to turn her thoughts.

“No, not pink,” he agreed thoughtfully, gazing at how she glowed in the reflected light of the theater’s blazing torches. She saw his intent concentration and was glad she couldn’t see the expression in the glittering depths of his eyes now, because his voice was intimate and tender. Or so it seemed in the fading light in the recesses of their extravagantly carpeted and padded exclusive box. The theater’s noises were a low babble since most of the audience was promenading in the corridors. It was warm, it was cozy, they were alone together. Now, suddenly, they were very aware of it.

“Nor apricot neither,” he drawled, studying the lovely form he was not allowed to touch, the lovely face, suddenly shy, turned to his—not for a kiss, but only waiting for his answer.

“Peach?” he murmured, considering it. “No. It makes me think of succulent things. But not fruit. It’s a rarer shade, I think. That’s it exactly,” he said, struck by the elusive thought that had been haunting him. “It’s the color of secret, hidden, blushing things. It reminds me of the innermost lip of a seashell. You know, the faint color on the smooth shiny part inside, in the inner whorls of it? Like the inside of a woman’s ear, right under that little curled up part of the rim,” he mused. “Or the color of her lips…or the slowly unfurling petals of her—like a rose,” he said abruptly, as Gilly’s face became almost the color he described, and he realized how far his thoughts had strayed from convention.

He hesitated, appalled—and then amused. He smiled, crocodile tender as he looked at her heightened color, the result of his musings. Not much
embarrassed Gilly. He was almost ashamed, but her blush was too rare and charming a thing to see to regret it. “No,” he said gently, “though it makes me think of delicious things, I don’t think of fruit.”

“Well!” Gilly said, struggling with her answer so he wouldn’t think she guessed what sort of shocking things he was hinting at—if he even was and it wasn’t her evil mind at work. “I don’t think you’d answer another fellow that way!”

“No, but you aren’t another fellow, are you?”

“Couldn’t you just pretend?” she asked, almost despairing.

“No, Gilly,” he said seriously. “And I’m very good at pretending things. I had to be, to be a good merchant. But some things are beyond my abilities.”

Gilly was glad Ewen and Bridget chose that moment to return. She turned her flushed face to the stage again, unfurling her fan as though it was the overheated theater and not Damon’s words that had warmed her cheeks to match her gown. She’d end the engagement before it became too painful to end, she decided. The world might allow her to remain his friend, but she didn’t think he would. Still, given how she felt about her other dearest male friend, maybe it was just as well. She waited for the farce to begin. And hoped it would be more amusing than the one she was living now.

Gilly said good night to Damon at the door, and then turned to go up the stairs to bed.

“A good night.” Ewen yawned, as he and his wife paused at the foot of the stair for a last word with Gilly. “Don’t you think? Ryder is indeed a catch, Gilly. At first,
I’d my doubts. But he’s a man I’d be proud to call friend. Don’t make such faces. They’ll stick and then where will you be?” he added, as though he were talking to Max. “And don’t doubt me. I have very good taste in friends—and women,” he added, bending to drop a kiss on Bridget’s nose. “Never met a friend of mine you didn’t like, did you? Oh—and on that head, I wrote to Drum the other day and told him your happy news.”

“How is he?” Gilly said at once.

“Fine, as ever. The rogue writes reams about his travels but doesn’t even mention returning to England yet.”

Gilly nodded. “Looking for trouble, most like. He and Rafe seem to be the only living things in the world to regret the end of the wars. So, what has he to say about the ‘happy’ news?”

“We’ll know when his reply gets here,” Ewen said. “Though I doubt he’ll be as thrilled as Betsy,” he added with a grin.

Gilly sighed. Her sister, Betsy, had been ecstatic when she heard about the engagement, even though Gilly tried to make the thing sound as temporary as it was without actually putting it in so many words.

“Yes, it’s true, I am engaged,” she’d carefully written, “but I am not yet wed. So don’t build any air castles. For one, I’m not ready to move into one yet. And two,” she’d added, keeping to the agreed story until she could speak to Betsy directly and explain the whole of it, “Damon and I know each other on paper, but not so well in person. Writing to a person is never the same as keeping company with them. Which is exactly
why I’ll have more to tell you when I see you.”

Betsy was twelve, and Gilly’s responsibility since she herself had been a girl. She took that duty seriously, and so Betsy had grown to be as trusting as she was pretty, and that was saying a lot. She was also bright as a new penny. Gilly would gladly die before she’d let a bad thing happen to her sister. Which was why Betsy still believed the best of everyone. Dangerous as that was, Gilly supposed it was better than being a realist, as she’d had to be.

“Still, however he feels, I believe Drum may be able to control his ecstasy a bit better than our Betsy has,” Ewen said on a half-covered yawn as he gazed at his wife.

“You told him all?” Gilly asked.

“Of course,” Ewen answered, on another monstrous yawn, though he secretly winked at Bridget.

“Don’t let me keep you from bed,” Gilly said innocently. Bridget blushed, showing she understood that Gilly knew just what Ewen was so eager to get to, and it wasn’t his rest.

“Wild horses couldn’t,” Ewen agreed.

W
ell, well
, Gilly congratulated herself as she went up the stairs alone a few minutes later. N
o need to worry after all
. Once Drum got word of the nonsense, he would put an end to it. He might think of her only as a sister, but he was too goodhearted and too clever a man to let a sister go to ruin, or into the arms of a fellow she’d just met. A gent who was only being kind to a chance-met female. And a gent that Drum didn’t know, at that.

The Earl of Drummond might be careless in some ways, but he took good care of those he loved. Gilly
never doubted he loved her—if not in the way she tried not to dream about anymore. Hadn’t he taken pains to teach her the right things to say and do those years ago when they’d first met? Mentor, tutor, and indulgent friend, hadn’t he always shown her easy affection and care? For no reward but that of friendship? Didn’t he visit her every time he returned to England and write back to her every letter when he left again?

But she hadn’t sent him so much as a line since she’d become engaged to Damon. She found she couldn’t write to tell him the news. It would have been too much like begging, even if he never realized just exactly what she was begging for. But now Ewen had told him that she had got herself in a scrape, and then in an even deeper one trying to free herself from scandal.

Gilly fairly danced up the stair. Damon Ryder was a good man and a fine friend. In fact, she thought, Drum and Damon would get on wonderfully well if and when they finally did meet. But Drum was more than a good man and a friend to her. He was more to her than her life itself, though he didn’t know it and never would. He’d find a way to disentangle her, cleanly and cleverly. She grinned, thinking of his sly sense of humor, wondering how he’d express his outrage at how she’d been coerced into a false engagement.

She felt infinitely lighter. And why not? A weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a difficult decision taken out of her hands. It was what Drum had always done for her. With any luck the two men could become friends and remain her friends, too.

But what of herself, and any possibility of a lover?

She didn’t need one. She needed love, but not a lover. Because she knew she couldn’t love him back. Her heart was already taken. Her body would be. But with luck, that would only bring her babies to love. She was sad for a moment—but then, content—because she was a realist. But even realists have fantasies. She was to discover she had dreams she hadn’t yet given up, though she thought she’d relinquished them all.

She was at breakfast a week later when she found out.

“This just came in the post for you, Miss Gilly,” the butler said, bringing in the mail to her at the table himself. He knew how eagerly she waited for the Earl of Drummond’s letters. It made her wonder, sometimes, how much the servants knew. But she didn’t care now. It was a letter from Drum!

Ewen grinned as he saw how eagerly Gilly plucked the letter up from the silver tray and how her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded the page. But Bridget frowned.

Gilly’s face was alight as her eyes skimmed over the boldly scrawled words. Then, slowly, her eyes lost their luster. She blinked. And then her face went white.

“What’s amiss!” Ewen demanded sharply.

“Oh. What? Amiss?” Gilly said, returning to the room and the present and herself. “Nothing. He’s fine, or at least, he says he is. No, nothing at all. It’s just that the silly clunch understands nothing! M
en
!” she said, turning to Bridget. She smiled widely, but unconvincingly, because her lips were quavering, and not with laughter. “What did you tell him, my lord?” she asked Ewen. “For I vow he doesn’t understand a thing. He
congratulates me on my good fortune at finding such a match! He is in alt about it, in fact. M
en
!” she said again, shaking her head.

But it didn’t shake as much as her hands did. And she spoke in high, artificial tones. She sounded like a fashionable, frivolous young woman, and not at all like Gilly Giles. Now Ewen frowned, too.

His eyes narrowed. “I simply told him Damon Ryder was a good man, one who seemed to me capable of being a good husband, too. Why?” he asked, his voice becoming suspicious and hostile. “Do you know otherwise?”

“Then you spoke truth,” Gilly said airily, “but the silly creature forgot the how and why of it. Bother! He writes that his only regret is that he’s not sure he can come to the wedding—but note, he don’t ask when it will be! Huh! Some friend! Well, I won’t let that vex me. Is there anymore of that delicious ham, I wonder?”