Authors: Compromised
“Maybe.” Gail shrugged. “Because the love you describe, giving yourself so completely to another, it sounds rather frightening.”
“Yes, it does,” Evangeline agreed, sitting beside her sister on the bed. “But maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it. Now,” she said, bearing herself up and shaking away any hint of tears, “I may not have the chance to find out, but I don’t want you thinking that way.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Gail frowned.
“I know you,” Evangeline said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like if I’m dissatisfied, you should be as well. I don’t want you to be afraid of happiness just because I failed to achieve it!”
“I have the impression you’ve been practicing this speech,” Gail drawled.
“For approximately eighteen years. Gail. Darling sister. Your life is your own. You don’t have to wait in line behind me. Now, you have to promise me—that if a chance at happiness comes your way, and you think you might love somebody, really love them, not just some foolish inclination, you have to take it.”
“This is terribly melodramatic, you know. It might help if you threw a joke or two in to break up the darker bits,” Gail chided, aiming for some levity, but Evangeline simply shook her head.
“Do be serious for a moment! Gail, I’m not going to have the opportunity to experience love, real love. I wasted any chance I would have on a foolish moonlight kiss. But I would very much like to have my sister, one day, tell me what it’s like.”
Gail was speechless for a full minute, until with a sniffle, she found her voice and luckily, her sense of humor. “What if I fall madly in love with a goatherder? Or a red Indian in America? Or one of the awful Basti brothers in Portugal?”
Evangeline burst out laughing—the first full laugh Gail had heard from her sister in days.
“All right. First of all, you wouldn’t dare fall for a Basti brother. The other two are far more easily imagined. And if it is a red Indian, you absolutely
must
tell me everything. I should require details.”
Gail laughed at that. “Evangeline!”
“But beyond your jokes and my ridiculous bout of melancholy,” Evie continued, still smiling, “if you loved someone, really loved him, why shouldn’t you try for happiness?”
In that moment, Gail knew she would tell Evangeline everything. About the kisses, the dances, about the first time she saw Max in the lake, the magical grotto, and all her feelings, even if she could not be sure of his. But as she opened her mouth, as her voice sounded the first syllable of her long past due confession, a knock sounded at the door.
It was Mrs. Bibb, with Polly, ready to assist with all manner of buttons and hairpins.
“Time to dress for the evenin’ m’ladies, your lady stepmother says the schedule is tight tonight, so we best hurry,” Mrs. Bibb spoke as she bustled into the room, lighting the sconces to replace the daylight that had since left them.
And with that, the return of real life, Gail’s hard-won courage left her, and the confession died on her tongue.
Evangeline was quickly at her dressing table, ready to be made into Miss Alton, jewel of the Ton.
It could be left for tomorrow.
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.