Edith Layton (7 page)

No urging, however subtle, would lure her to discuss the matter again that morning, and her eyes began to glitter when the subject was mentioned. But they weren’t glittering with tears, the viscount and viscountess, knowing Gilly all too well, noted uneasily.

It had all been a pipe dream, Gilly thought as she chewed and swallowed whatever was on her fork, and then stabbed something else from her plate. She was too blinded by her thoughts to see what it was, too busy holding her tongue to keep from spitting out her pain and shock to taste her food. And too wildly angry to do more than sit and pretend she was eating her breakfast.

Because that was so much better than being hurt.
Tears had been vanquished by rage. H
e had discarded her that easily
! Given his blessings to her marrying a man he didn’t even know—had never set eyes on! She knew he didn’t think of her as a woman, so of course the idea of her in another man’s arms wouldn’t trouble him—although it near killed her. But she’d thought, felt, dreamed he valued her as a friend at least. To discover she meant so little to him that he could let her go, dismiss her from his life that effortlessly! The words so smoothly written stabbed her to the heart. She read the letter again.

Gilly ducked her head over her plate. She knew Ewen and Bridget were worrying and wondering what to do. She knew it from their silence and the troubled looks they’d exchanged. But she couldn’t say anything. Not now, not yet. First she had to conquer her disappointment and all the grief of it.

Then, she knew she had to do something. And soon.

Before anyone could feel sorry for her. Or at least, as sorry as she felt for herself.

T
here was no one to talk to. Gilly paced her room, muttering to herself because she couldn’t think of a single person she could discuss her problem with now. Not even Bridget, who was her best friend in the world. She had few other friends. Few real ones, at any rate. But that was because she didn’t make any other kind. It may have been because her standards were too high, as Bridget chided her—but not too often. Bridget knew it was the singular circumstances of Gilly’s life that made it hard for her to find friends of the heart.

The ladies of the
ton
were utterly alien to her. She could imitate them because she was an excellent mimic, but she didn’t know any of them well. Nor had she tried. They terrified her. She was afraid of few things, and wouldn’t back down from any of those
things, even so. But she avoided the company of fashionable ladies. Bridget had only married into the aristocracy and so wasn’t like the rest of them. But the others, with their heads filled with gossip, clothes, and beaux! What did she have in common with them?

Gilly was a fair-minded person, and she admitted some fashionable young ladies did worthwhile things. Some did charity work. Others were musical, singing or playing pianoforte for more than fashion’s sake; still others painted or wrote poems. The most daring ones spoke out for social reform, risking being known as bluestockings. But no matter how much they cared about the downtrodden, they’d never been trodden upon. They might have soft hearts, but they also had soft beds and ate regularly. They’d no real idea of what they were trying to remedy. Gilly did, and also knew she was an interloper in their privileged world. She knew how she’d be treated if they knew the whole. The kindly ones might pity her. That would be worse than the outright horror the others would feel.

The friends of her childhood were either dead, gone, or best forgotten. The working-class girls, town or country, that she met since she’d gone to live with the Sinclairs, held her too high for their company. The minor aristocracy in the countryside were wary of the stranger, the new girl without a history suddenly come into their midst. That didn’t bother her. She was more comfortable in men’s company than women’s anyway. Until recently. She still couldn’t understand that. If she liked a man, she was only too happy to treat him as an equal. Just because a person found another attractive was no reason to change toward them, was it?

She paused in her pacing. L
iar
, she told herself, remembering Drum and the artificial way she’d behaved with him after she’d finally seen what was really in her heart….

B
ut
I
kept that to myself, didn’t
I? she asked herself. Because she had to for everyone’s sake. This was different. She’d made up her mind, but for the first time in long years she wasn’t entirely sure of her course of action. She went over the list of people she might consult. She had friends, as many as could be counted on one hand. But how many more could anyone have? The heart had only so much room, Gilly reasoned, and she couldn’t see the point of having half-friends; everything she did was absolute, or not at all. She sighed. She couldn’t speak to any of her heart’s friends now.

Her sister, Betsy, was her delight. But at twelve, only a child. Still, it would have been good to speak with her; Gilly didn’t need advice so much as a sympathetic ear. But Betsy hated London and had remained in the countryside, still reveling in being allowed to be a child.

Bridget was Gilly’s best friend. But Gilly knew where Bridget stood on the matter of her false fiancé. And the truth was, she didn’t want to hurt and disappoint Bridget for any reason, and what she was about to do would do both.

Gilly counted Ewen Sinclair as a good friend and a reasonable man. Clever and worldly-wise too…but with a habit of being managing. She couldn’t tell him what she was about to do. He might try to talk her out of it; he’d surely think she’d run mad. Perhaps she had.

She liked Ewen’s friend, that redheaded rascal, Rafe, and called him friend, too. A soldier of fortune, easy to talk to, easier to tease, yet with a sound mind in that sound body of his. But he was presently roving the globe with his friend the Earl of Drummond.

And then there was Drum himself.

She would
not
think of him.

So who could she talk with? Who could listen, then tell her that whatever she did, if it made her feel better and hurt no one else, it was for the best? That was her personal code, after all. She needed only to hear it from a friend. But she feared there wasn’t a soul in the world who would tell her that now.

Even little Maxmilian had come over to Damon’s side. Literally as well as emotionally. Like when Damon happened to sneeze—which he always did, theatrically, when he saw Max.

“Oh no!” Damon would exclaim, putting a finger under his nose. “Here I go again! It seems your hair tonic makes a fellow sneeze!”

And Max, in a fit of giggles, would reply, “But Damon! I don’t wear any!”

With a great show of trying to hold in that sneeze, Damon would reach into his jacket to get a handkerchief—and instead there was always something that just happened to be there for a sharp-eyed little boy to discover. Damon would slowly take the mysterious thing from his pocket, scratching his head, wondering how it got there. Little things: sweets, toy soldiers, whistles, colorful strings of what he called genuine Indian beads. And somewhere in his travels he’d learned to pluck coins out from behind a boy’s ears.

Gilly found herself smiling at the memory, and froze. N
o
. That way lay hurt and disaster. N
o
. When the time was ripe, it was best to act quickly, before everything good turned rotten. She took a deep breath. T
oday, then
.

“What’s happened!” Damon demanded the moment he saw her face.

Gilly blinked. He’d come into the morning room to fetch her for their carriage ride. But the moment he laid eyes on her, his own had widened. Then his face went cold and hard, and he strode up to her and took her hand.

“What is it, Gilly?” he asked in a softer voice.

Little Max cut off his glad cry of greeting, looking from Damon to Gilly. His mother stared. Then they both turned to look at Gilly. Bridget hadn’t noticed anything but a vague uneasiness on Gilly’s part this morning. Damon had taken one look and read her heart. Gilly swallowed hard. He was making this much more difficult.

“I’ve been thinking—I have to speak with you, that’s all,” she said. But she could hear Bridget’s sharply indrawn breath.

“About something dire, I think,” Damon said, his eyes searching hers.

“Not
dire
. No need to upset my lady, she’ll think I’m dying,” Gilly said on a forced laugh. She saw how intent his gaze was, and shrugged. “I’m not ill or upset…well, I suppose I am upset, but not about anything dire.” She made a face she hoped looked comical and added uneasily, “Well, the truth will be
out by this afternoon, so I might as well come right out with it. I was thinking it was time we ended our charade, is all. I can’t say more right here and now,” she added with a quick look to Max. “But it’s been on my mind, and you know very well that what’s on my mind finds it way to my tongue. We’ll talk about it later.”

Gilly hated the silence that fell over the room, and hated the look in Damon’s eyes even more. She sought a diversion. “Ah—how is your nose today?” she asked him.

“What?” he said, still holding her hand, still looking at her with deep concern.

“Has your allergy to hair tonic cleared up?”

“Oh, that,” he said, obviously trying to force his mind back to the present.

But before he could say more, Max spoke up. “It’s all right. I don’t need a sweet. You go talk to Gilly, Damon. Then come back. When you come back, we’ll play the sneeze game, all right, Damon?”

Damon sank to one knee. He put his hands on Max’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “A sweet? I don’t think so. Not today. Today you proved you are a true friend. That means that when I come back I have to present you with something more important. An eagle feather or some other special talisman for you to keep to show that we are true friends forever.”

Max grinned. But Bridget cut a swift dismayed look at Gilly. Damon saw it. He rose to his feet and bowed to Bridget. “We’ll talk about it,” he told her. “We
both
will,” he added with more force, as he escorted Gilly to the door.

They got into his carriage. But Damon didn’t pick up
his whip right away. “Now,” he said after Gilly was seated next to him on the high driver’s seat. “I’ll head toward the park, where there’s some quiet. But you may start talking. I’m listening.”

She looked out at the street, at the other horsemen, carriages, a passerby, at anything but him. She shook her head. “There’s nothing really to say. I just think it’s time we ended it.”

“Why?” he asked. He held the reins still, his team stood waiting for his command. But he didn’t move them. He was staring at Gilly.

She shrugged her shoulders again, still avoiding his eye. “Well, it’s been several weeks, and how long should we go on, after all? I mean to say, the longer we do, the harder it will be to explain the breakup.”

“Why?” he asked again. “What happened? Don’t gammon me. Something happened. I think you owe me the truth.”

“The truth? Well, the truth is I’m grateful for what you did that night when Dearborne threatened to ruin my name, but—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “That’s over. I thought we’d become friends since then.”

She was silent a moment. “You’re right.” She squared her shoulders. “I won’t tell you tales. Excuse me for trying, you deserve better of me. But what I have to say needs concentration. Let’s talk about the weather till we get to the park.”

But they didn’t speak about anything as they drove toward the park. Gilly stole a glance at his profile and saw he’d set his jaw tight. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t dare. He’d seen her clear when he’d stepped
into the morning room, all in yellow, her flaxen hair picking up color from her vibrant gown until she glowed like a jonquil in the muted light. But the look on her face cut him to the quick.

It wasn’t a bright day, but it wasn’t raining, and the streets were full. London was bathed in that special kind of watercolor light that meant rain would fall before night did. Since there was no sunshine, there were no shadows anywhere but in her lovely face. She looked beset. He would know why. She suddenly wanted to end their engagement? Something had happened to force her hand. Whatever it was, he believed in himself enough to think he could change her mind. He had to.

The weeks they’d passed together had turned his impulsive act into firm resolve. She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. Lovely, with a bright, inquiring mind and a lively sense of humor, she was as exotic as a courtesan, but with a sense of honor steadfast as any man’s he’d ever admired. She looked like a lily, but was tough as a thistle, and yet, curiously vulnerable, as he witnessed today. He wanted her body, heart, and mind, in whichever order they came to him. But he wanted them all, and for all of his life. He hadn’t sought her, but now he had no doubt she was the woman he’d sought all his life. He’d fight for her, even if it meant he had to fight against her. In his experience what he fought for, he would win.

They passed through the gates of the park and, still without speaking, drove toward its center. At a grassy verge beneath towering trees, Damon slowed. He edged the horses to a stand well off the road, and
flipped a coin to a grinning youth who came bustling up to them.

“We’ll be back within the hour,” he told the youth, handing him the reins. Then he helped Gilly dismount, took her hand, put it on his arm, and strolled with her on a winding path in the dappled light. She walked head down so the brim of her bonnet hid her face.

“I wonder if I should hire on a boy to act as tiger for me, to hold my horses whenever I stop,” he remarked after they’d walked a few minutes, “though most places have likely lads eager to earn a few coins by watching a gent’s cattle for him. Still, a boy in livery helps a fellow cut a dash. I never cared about that. I didn’t think you did either. I could go on jabbering, you know, but I thought you were going to tell me something. So tell me, whenever you’re ready—this year or next.”

“Trying to find the right way to put this,” she muttered.

“Put it any way, I’ll sort it out.”

She turned her face to his, and he was blinded for a moment. Her eyes made her remarkable instead of simply lovely. Sometimes, when light filled them as it did now, they glowed tigress amber and took his breath away.

“The thing is, Damon, that you don’t know the whole truth about me,” she said without preamble, getting over rough ground as fast as she could. “I mean, you know me—but not my history, and it’s fairly terrible, and not at all what you need in a wife. I won’t be coy. You seem to like me. You’ve hinted we could make this thing reality, if I wished.” She stopped walking and
faced him squarely. “If I’m off there, tell me, and don’t worry about my feelings.”

“You’re right,” he said, keeping his voice slow and steady, watching her carefully.

Gilly nodded solemnly. “So I thought. And so I suppose if the world were different—but it isn’t and I’m not, and you deserve better. The thing is…oh, blast! I want to tell you, and think I can, but you know? I think it would be better if I showed you. Will you come back to the rig with me? And then drive me where I tell you? Now? That’s the best way to get it over and done. Because just words just won’t do it. They couldn’t.”

He looked at her gravely. Then nodded. “If it’s what you need, then yes.”

“Good.”

They went back to the carriage. Damon gave the puzzled boy another coin, and after helping Gilly up to the seat, turned to her. “Where?” he said simply.

“After we leave the park, go toward Picadilly and then to Thames Street and then keep heading east.”

He looked his question at her.

She nodded. “Just east. And keep going, a long way. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when to stop—if you don’t decide to turn ’round and come back first.”