Authors: Compromised
“Oh!” Gail clapped a hand over her mouth. “I had nearly forgotten!”
Over tea that morning, in an effort to stay awake, Gail had engaged Lilly on the subject of foreign travel. As Lilly had never been out of the country, she didn’t have much to contribute to the subject, instead inquired about the fashions in France, Vienna, and Portugal. Gail was caught, as she had no real interest in the subtleties of fashion, but knew enough to note that in Lisbon, the ladies’ shoes were cut a bit wider.
“That’s curious. Lavender, isn’t that curious? How strange to have wider shoes. I wonder why?” Lilly pondered aloud. Gail couldn’t help but murmur, “to accommodate their extra toes?”
Lilly did not note, or perhaps did not comprehend, the sarcasm. Instead, she leapt upon this information, peppering Gail with questions about other deformities of foreign people.
Really, the girl was quite macabre.
Before a stunned Gail could set any assumptions to right, Romilla intervened, declaring it time to go to Bond Street.
“I suppose I’ll have to invite them over for another afternoon,” Gail mused, delighting in Romilla’s aghast expression. “I should hate to leave Lilly with a false impression.”
Romilla chewed her lower lip as they walked through the front door. “Consider for a moment,” she finally said, “how often is that girl going to meet a real live Portuguese anyway?”
Gail laughed again, and Romilla joined in, visibly pleased. Could it be that they were easy together? Maybe even
enjoying
each other’s company? How surprising—and yet, how wonderful, too.
As they handed their coats and bonnets to Morrison, he informed them that Lord Fontaine was in the drawing room with Miss Evangeline. Romilla, seeing Gail’s pleading look, figured that the young couple had enjoyed plenty of their own company for one day and waved the girl to the drawing room, saying, “Go ahead and join them. I’ll be by in a moment, but first I want a minute with your father. Is he in the library, Morrison?”
Morrison nodded.
“Good,” said Romilla.
Gail didn’t even hear the last part. She gave a quick curtsy to Romilla and shot off down the hall to join her sister and friend (for that’s what Max truly was now) to tell them all about her deliciously awful afternoon.
But when she opened the doors to the drawing room, she was thrown completely off balance.
Max and Evangeline sat on the couch entwined in a lover’s embrace. They were so very close to one another, knees touching, Max’s hands around Evangeline’s neck. She was looking up into his face, his back to Gail. The embracing couple took no notice of the new arrival to the room, until Gail gave a small involuntary gasp.
“Gail!” Evangeline cried, extracting herself. “You’re back! How was—” But the sentence was to never be finished. With a ruthlessly brisk gesture, Gail cut her off.
“Romilla’s on her way. Probably best to cut the lovemaking short.” And with that, she closed the drawing room door and took off down the hall.
Gail found herself in the warmth and light of the conservatory before she realized she was crying. She sat on the stone bench by the fountain and let the tears flow.
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.