Sweetest Regret

by Meredith Duran

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Moonless darkness stands between.

  Past, the Past, no more be seen!

  But the Bethlehem-star may lead me

  To the sight of Him Who freed me

  From the self that I have been.

  —Gerard Manley Hopkins

  Chapter One

  December 22, 1885

  The crowd was rowdy; only eight of them, but they managed to make a ruckus better suited to undergraduates on holiday. The noise spilled from the drawing room all the way down the hall to the grand staircase, where Georgie paused to take it in: laughter, clapping, a slurred yell, the ring of champagne glasses knocked carelessly together. Some untalented pianist was mangling “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

  Foreign diplomats: scallywags by profession. And one among them was evidently a thief to boot. This was the crowd her father had left her to host for Christmas.

  It will be very easy, he had assured her while hastily packing his things. An international crisis had called him away to Constantinople—some fracas that could only be resolved by the great Sir Philip, hero of British diplomacy.

  Georgie was accustomed to her father’s abrupt departures. But the house was full of his friends! Worse, one of them had broken into his study and stolen a letter of exceeding political sensitivity. You can’t mean to leave me with them, she’d protested. How am I to search their rooms for the letter if I’m the one hosting them?

  Her father had seemed unconcerned. Cheerful, even. You’ll think of something, he’d told her. And they’ll only stay till Boxing Day. Show them our holiday customs. I promised them a proper English Christmas. Feed them mince pies, keep them drunk. Very easy, Georgiana.

  Easy, was it? Today, from off the coast of Marseilles, he’d cabled a new set of instructions. Never fret, he’d written. I have ordered Lucas Godwin to join the party. He will find the letter.

  Lucas Godwin! Georgie had goggled at the page for long minutes. On no account—not even for peace everlasting—would she endure the presence of that silver-tongued snake in her house!

  But an hour ago, his coach had rolled up her drive.

  The sight had driven Georgie out of the drawing room. Panic urged her toward the kitchens. There was nowhere she felt safer, nobody’s counsel she trusted more than Cook’s.

  But halfway down the hall, she’d changed course. The staff could not save her from her father’s plots. Instead, she had flown up the stairs, bursting into the von Bittners’ suite to make a hasty search of two valises, praying to find the letter so she could send Godwin packing.

  She’d not found it, though.

  Another round of laughter floated to her ears. She took a strangling hold on the ivy-wrapped banister. Did the voices include Godwin’s?

  Of course they did.

  She should march into the drawing room and slap his face!

  The thought made her sigh. Some other woman might have done it. Alas, she was Georgiana Trent, daughter of England’s finest diplomat, schooled from childhood in the art of restraint. She was scholarly, politic, retiring. The worst anyone could call her was a spinster. She would not let an old wound drive her to fresh disgrace.

  Moreover, if she did slap Godwin, he would probably think her mad. He had no idea that he had broken her heart, two years ago. That month in Munich had only been a flirtation for him, one among dozens. Everybody fawned over him—even the great beauties. He had that kind of charm.

  Yet for a month, in Munich, Godwin had ignored the beauties. He had looked only at Georgie—laughing at her jokes, praising her insights, gazing at her across crowded rooms as though she were some kind of miracle. One glance in the mirror might have proved otherwise; she was plain and brown-eyed, with ashen hair too frizzy ever to shine. Her perfectly round face had never caused anybody to gape, much less to think of miracles.

  But even spinsters could lose their good sense. Godwin’s respect for her learning, his interest in her opinions, had touched her deepest, most secret hopes. She had wondered if they might be falling in love.

  They weren’t. That had become clear the morning she’d read of his departure in the diplomatic circular. He’d left! Without a word of farewell, without even a note, he had packed his bags and departed for a new post in Paris!

  He’d forgotten her as easily as he’d noticed her. That was the way of the flirt.

  Well, hers was the way of the civilized. She would abide by her father’s instructions. She would allow Godwin into her home, even have a Christmas stocking knit for him. Not by a single look or word would she reveal how he’d wounded her. But she did not mean to go lightly on him, oh no. If he took it upon himself to “charm” her again, she would show him what she thought of cads who built their careers on shallow charisma. She had more weapons at her disposal than a mere slap. She had erudition. She had substance and dignity and pride.

  Resolved, she marched down the stairs, then cut through the entry hall toward the drawing room. The clamor had assumed a wild edge; ragged shouts of laughter drew her to a halt at the door. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Godwin stood blindfolded amidst a ring of laughing guests. She’d fantasized, once or twice, that Parisian cooking had turned him into a round-bellied, gout-ridden glutton. Alas, his tall frame remained lean—displayed to very good advantage by his formalwear, black tails and a starched white necktie. He could not have been in company above half an hour, for he had made time to change his suit. But already he’d become the center of attention. Typical.

  He thrust out one gloved hand, and Countess Obolenskaya, a willowy blonde well accustomed to men’s attentions, sidestepped with expert ease. “What is this called?” she giggled to the man at her side—Lord von Bittner, a gruff, silver-bearded German.

  “The blindman’s bluff,” von Bittner informed her. He gave a grand sloshing wave of his wineglass. The Axminster carpet might not survive this party. “English traditions!”

  Georgie crossed her arms. Here stood the crème de la crème of European diplomacy, upon whose shoulders rested the future of nations, the fate of politics and continent-defiling wars. And how did they entertain themselves? With a children’s game!

  Somebody noticed her—Mr. Lipscomb, from the Home Office. “Oh, look,” he cried, and then stepped forward to seize Godwin’s shoulders, giving him a shove in Georgie’s direction. “Better luck that way!”

  Godwin grinned, teeth startlingly white against his tanned face. He had the coloring of a farmhand. Did he never wear a hat? Too late, Georgie stepped back. His grip closed on her arms, startlingly firm. “At last,” he said. “My first victory of the evening.”

  His voice was low and rich, like sunlight through honey. It sent a startling stab through her chest. You are a wonder, Miss Trent. So he had told her once.

  A wondrous idiot, more like. A man always at the center of parties would never lose his heart to a wallflower.

  She tried to jerk free, but his grip tightened. “Who could it be?” he asked, teasing. He’d mistaken her resistance for part of the game. “A lady, to turn so bashful. To say not
hing of these elegant hands.” His fingers flexed around hers, his thumbs stroking her wrists.

  She swallowed. The blindfold obscured the azure brilliance of his eyes and the sharp planes of his cheekbones, but it made a becoming frame for the strong square of his jaw. She would not blame herself for having lost her head to him in Munich; he was quite the most handsome man in the diplomatic corps. But Paris had brought out his raffish side: he wore his black hair long now, with no pomade to tame it. It hardly suited him.

  He leaned close—close enough to breathe deeply of her. He still wore the same scent, a faint trace of bergamot that made her stomach clutch. “No perfume,” he murmured. “Not Lady von Bittner, then.”

  “You noticed my perfume, did you?” The German lady sounded pleased about this. Her husband looked less gratified.

  This was absurd. Georgie opened her mouth, but the other guests shushed her. “Don’t spoil the fun,” Lipscomb said, as the rest of them gathered around to watch. Meanwhile, Godwin eased his hands up her arms.

  She gritted her teeth. These casual touches were the very reason adults played such games. They gave license to misbehave—and made spoilsports of anyone who preferred to remain aloof.

  She would not be called a spoilsport. But as Godwin’s hand brushed the patch of skin bared between her glove and sleeve, some stalwart place inside her came violently unseated. She felt unbalanced, a little dizzy. The shape of his mouth, that long lower lip . . . She had dreamed of his mouth, but she had never kissed it.

  She bit down hard on her cheek. She must mask her inward turmoil, so the others did not remark on it. Godwin had forgotten all about that month in Munich; he would not expect her to remember it, either. How humiliating if he found out the truth!

  His hand closed with a testing gentleness on her shoulder. “Well, now,” he murmured. His smile settled into a gentler curve, drawing out the dimple in his cheek.

  She felt struck through by the sight of it. Two years might as well have been two weeks. She remembered everything.

  Recognize me. The thought sang through her brain, clear as ringing crystal. God help her, she had not forgotten the least detail of their time together. The conversations they had shared, their easy laughter and instant rapport—she had looked for that kind of kinship elsewhere and never found it. Remember me, Lucas. It felt like a prayer. Say my name! Give me an explanation for why you left—

  “Too petite to be Countess Obolenskaya,” he said in a friendly voice. “Mrs. Sobieska, then?”

  The breath left her in a sigh. Of course he did not remember.

  Anger pricked her. It had meant nothing. A fleeting flirtation: why could she not accept that?

  “Wrong,” cried Lipscomb, “but not all is lost. You’re standing beneath the mistletoe—see if you can figure out that way.”

  Everybody laughed delightedly. Aghast, Georgie looked up. What rascal had tacked that sprig above the doorway? “No,” she said, but it was too late—Godwin was leaning down. He had the instinct of a rake born rotten: despite the blindfold, his mouth found hers.

  Chapter Two

  It did seem a bit odd to Lucas, as he leaned down under the mistletoe, that Mr. Lipscomb would egg him into a kiss—for by Lucas’s count, Mrs. Lipscomb was the only woman remaining whose name he hadn’t guessed. Or perhaps he’d lost track of the ladies in the room? He was exhausted to the bone.

  Four days ago, he’d been shaken awake by the British ambassador to Paris. The sight of Viscount Lyons hanging over his bed had been bewildering enough; Lucas had wondered for a moment if the Queen had been assassinated, war declared. Surely nothing short of disaster could move such a lofty personage to steal into Lucas’s apartment in the middle of the night.

  But Lyons’s news had proved stranger yet. Lucas’s uncle was dead. That man’s widow, Lady Lilleston, was due to give birth at any moment. But all of Lilleston’s children, to date, had been girls.

  “In short,” Viscount Lyons had told him, “you’re on disponibilité until the child is born. Get to England; you will want to pay your respects to the countess, of course. If she gives birth to a boy, you’ll return to your post after Christmas. But if it’s a girl, well . . .”

  Here Lyons had let his pause speak for him. If Lilleston’s last child was born female, Lucas would inherit his uncle’s honors. He would be the new Earl of Lilleston.

  A fine piece of irony. Lucas had never met Lilleston, nor any of the Godwin family. Given a chance, they would have cut him dead in the street. But if the newest Godwin was born with the wrong bits, Lucas would soon be their patriarch.

  Moreover, he would be retired from the diplomatic service. It was one thing to have clawed his way up the ranks, despite being the son of an outcast. But the Foreign Office would never keep him on if he were made nobility. The British government did not employ earls as midgrade flunkies.

  Ten hours by the tidal express to Charing Cross, then—not counting the two hours Lucas had spent hanging over a bucket on the winter-tossed seas of the Channel. A night in flea-ridden lodgings, then a long trip by rail to Harlboro Grange, where he had tendered his card to the Lillestons’ butler, then cooled his heels beneath a mirror draped in mourning crepe.

  Harlboro Grange had felt like a dream. The only thing Lucas’s father had ever mentioned of the manor was how cold it had grown in wintertime. He’d claimed to prefer the two-room flat in which he’d raised Lucas. Strange, then, to think that Father had grown up here, a beloved son; had played, perhaps, in this very room, a domed hall some three stories high; and had slipped out through that very door to Lucas’s left, to elope with Lucas’s mother one night.

  That elopement would never be forgiven. The butler, returning, told Lucas he was not welcome. Very well; Lucas caught the next train back to London, where he promptly booked himself into a hotel far too expensive for his salary, determined on getting some rest. Before he could fall asleep, however, a knock came: a clerk with a letter from Sir Philip Trent.

  The sight of Sir Philip’s scrawl had set Lucas’s blood boiling. How had the old devil tracked him down?

  Godwin—

  Understand you are in London. Require your aid. Was forced to abandon my guests at Brisbon Hall in order to mediate a quarrel between Russia and Bulgaria. One of the guests, probably von Bittner, has broken into my study and stolen correspondence that must remain private. Get to Brisbon Hall. Find the letter (details enclosed). Do not let it leave the premises. Would ruin my negotiations.

  A dozen curses, a rage so livid that it hazed Lucas’s vision—no use. Lucas could not afford to cross a superior.

  And so—to Brisbon Hall for the holidays. Delightful! Had Philip Trent ordered him to hell, Lucas might have felt more cheerful.

  At least the hostess was nowhere in evidence; Miss Trent had retired early, no doubt as unhappy with his visit as he was. After all, Brisbon Hall was not accustomed to receiving mongrels, and Miss Trent’s pride must prick keenly at the prospect of Lucas soiling her purebred circles.

  Do the job. Find the letter. Leave. His aim was plain.

  A game of blindman’s bluff, greased by copious champagne, seemed a good strategy for putting the guests into an oblivious mood. Lucas gamely leaned down toward Mrs. Lipscomb. Her mouth briefly startled him; it was surprisingly soft, for all that she walked about so purse-lipped. But she kissed woodenly.

  On the other hand, that seemed about right for a woman being mauled at her husband’s behest. Two seconds, Lucas calculated, was just long enough for good manners. As he inhaled, he realized he’d been mistaken—the lady was wearing perfume.

  No. That was soap. Lemon verbena.

  Every muscle in his body contracted.

  Georgie.

  Not in bed, after all. In front of him. Beneath him. Soft, fragrant, and no doubt repulsed.

  He tightened his grip to push her away. Instead, some perverse imp seized the reins, and goaded him to kiss her more deeply—to kiss her properly, as he’d never managed to do in Munich.


  He brushed his lips over hers. Madness. She would slap him, soon enough. She did not consort with lowbred dogs like him.

  And yet . . . her lips quivered beneath his. They felt . . . increasingly pliant. Interested.

  Sensation redoubled, growing painfully acute: the warm velvet of her mouth. The ragged puff of her breath. The swell of her breasts against his chest . . . And that scent, God above, too pedestrian to belong to a lady in silk. It had poisoned his brain in Munich.

  It was doing so again.

  At the last moment, he could not resist tasting her, his tongue brushing against the seam of her mouth, simply to see . . .

  Well, there was the answer he’d long wanted: she tasted like wine. Wine and want and wasted nights and an ache that should be dead, but which resurrected now as a solid knot in his throat. She tasted like stupidity. Regret, and a toxic blow to his pride: that was what Georgiana Trent tasted like.

  He let go of her. He did not shove her away; he would congratulate himself later on his restraint. He withdrew in one long step as he shoved up his blindfold, and from that distance—too short; a continent would have served better—he stared at her.

  She opened her eyes. It shocked him how much she looked the same—her face as round and pale as the moon; her hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, and her eyes as dark and soft as a doe’s. He’d told himself he’d inflated her charms. Misremembered them.

  He hadn’t. Her eyes, however, did not look warm and appreciative, as his memories suggested. Instead, they glared.

  “Forgive me,” he heard himself say. “It seems you stumbled into our little game. I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “Offended? Goodness, how could I be? You kiss like a grandfather.” As he digested this blow to his vanity, she smiled. “Very good of you to join us, though. Four hours after you were expected.” She wiped her mouth with her knuckles.

  “Four hours?” He offered her a smile of his own, sharp on his lips. If she imagined he was here by choice—that her father’s orders suited him—then she flattered herself extremely. “Curious. The journey felt far longer. Endless, really.”