Sweetest Regret

by Meredith Duran

  “Did it?” She shrugged. “You’ll understand, then, why we did not hold supper for you.”

  “Yes, of course. That is a pity.” This entire week had been nothing but one unhappy surprise after the next, but seeing her again—in this manner, with the feel of her mouth still burning through him—well, a playwright could not have scripted a blacker farce. He very much regretted missing dinner. So much easier to disdain her over the fish course. To study her coldly while picking bones out of his filet.

  She was not beautiful, he told himself. Of middling height and slight build, she was perfectly average.

  And yet . . . those eyes retained all the force that had once struck him dumb. Her low-necked evening gown of scarlet bared an entrancing expanse of creamy bosom. Worse yet, as she stepped toward him, she betrayed that peculiar grace that had riveted him in Munich. In his derangement, he had written verses that likened her to a wood nymph, daughter of the willow, her movements magically fluid.

  Her subtle charms were traps for the unsuspecting. He knew that now.

  He took her hand and sketched a low bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Trent. Two years, has it been?” And one week, exactly.

  “Only two years? Goodness. It feels ages longer.” Her bland smile widened as she glanced beyond him to the encircling diplomats. “Well,” she said as she pulled her hand free, “now we are all assembled, I am very happy to commence our merry little Christmas!”

  Her cheer seemed misplaced, overstated. After a puzzled hesitation, a few of the guests offered halting applause. After all, they had already been in residence for three days.

  Clearly Miss Trent had not inherited her father’s bonhomie. She favored books over parties; she disdained common entertainments, much as she disdained the common man. She needed help here.

  Girding himself to his duty, Lucas stepped in. “Yes,” he said, “welcome to one and all. I am honored to preside in Sir Philip’s place while he—”

  A sharp elbow in his ribs sent his teeth slamming together. Miss Trent had developed some muscle. “As your hostess,” she said sweetly, “I have designed a program of events for the next three days. You will find them waiting in your sitting rooms. We begin our formal festivities tomorrow, when we will rendezvous for breakfast at half six before we set out on our first expedition. Does that agree with everyone?”

  “Half . . . six?” said Countess Obolenskaya. She looked aghast. “Six in the morning?”

  “The English are a race of early birds,” balding Mr. Lipscomb informed her. “Sir Trent is a rare night owl, but his daughter, you see, is English to the bone.”

  “That’s right,” said Miss Trent. “And my father has left me very clear instructions: I am to introduce you to all the local customs, the purely English way of celebrating the holidays.”

  “Half six,” the countess repeated, dazed.

  “Would half eight suit you better?” Lucas said. When Miss Trent turned on him with a scowl, pure malice made him add: “Yes, half eight, then. Everyone agreed?”

  Eager exclamations, nods. “Splendid!” said Mr. Lipscomb, and tugged down his jacket. “Gives us a bit of time for dancing, tonight. Lord von Bittner—help me with the carpets?”

  Lucas took Miss Trent’s arm, ignoring her resistance as he pulled her toward the privacy of the far corner of the room. Every fixture had been trimmed in holly and fir; the walls veritably bristled with holiday cheer. He took a deep breath, letting the fragrance of the evergreens clear his thoughts. “We should come up with a plan,” he said.

  Miss Trent yanked free. “For what? Your orders are clear.”

  Lucas took a survey of the possible culprits. Lipscomb, currently kneeling to roll up one side of the carpet, was from the Home Office—beyond suspicion. Von Bittner, who was kicking at the other end of the rug, was the one whom Trent suspected of the theft. But Lucas would not rule out Sobieski and Obolensky—nor their wives. Diplomats were trained to be canny; their wives, in Lucas’s experience, were born to it. “Your father suggests I start with the German. What’s your opinion?”

  “I have none.”

  He glanced at her sidelong. The woman he remembered had nursed opinions on every subject under the sun. But this one seemed content to bite her lip as she stared toward the piano, where Mrs. Lipscomb was testing the first notes of a reel.

  Rouge would have helped Miss Trent’s pallor. But she didn’t require powder; her skin was flawless. It had felt like silk beneath his touch.

  And that was the only time he would touch it. He cleared his throat. “You’ve spent the last three days with this lot. Surely you have an inkling of their characters.”

  “None whatsoever.” Her great dark eyes flashed toward him. “I pray you find that letter quickly, though. I did not plan for a party of ten.”

  Her asperity startled him. He had imagined, at worst, mockery or contempt—not cold hostility.

  No doubt she thought him an upstart for daring to have admired her in Munich. But what had she imagined her effect would be? When a woman looked at a man as she had done—when she listened to his thoughts so intently, proving warm, amused, even delighted in reply—

  Well. She’d shown him a thousand different encouragements, none of them reflective of what she actually felt for him. At least she was being honest now. “I’ll start tomorrow in the Germans’ rooms,” he said curtly. “With any luck, I’ll find the letter by noon and be gone before dinner.”

  “Oh, dear. Will luck be required?” She laid a hand on his arm, gazing at him with overstated sympathy. “And here I imagined you’d have a talent for sneaking into places. After all, Mr. Godwin, you excel at sneaking out of them.”

  He gritted his teeth. She referred, of course, to his impromptu flight from Munich. Whose fault had that been? It took great restraint not to ask. “Luck can’t hurt.” There, a fine piece of neutrality: he truly was a diplomat, after all.

  She continued to stare at him. “You’re shorter than I remembered.”

  Delightful! “It must be from the grave burden of steering our nation’s course overseas. The responsibility does weigh heavily.”

  “On the shoulders of a second secretary?” Paired with her words, her smile stung. He had moved up the ranks faster than any man in history without aristocratic patronage, but a second secretaryship hardly carried real power. “Of course, you take your duties very seriously,” she went on. “Marvelous, how you manage to balance them with all the time you spend drinking absinthe at the Chat Noir!”

  Lucas inwardly cursed. That single night’s excursion to Montmartre would hound his reputation forever. He would never again go exploring in the company of poets! As a breed, they seemed to derive their inspiration from bar brawls. “You’ve been keeping track of me? How flattering.”

  “Oh, one could not ignore you if she tried. Newspapers these days have no notion of what is fit to print. All manner of rubbish collects in the social columns!”

  “Indeed?” he said. “I suppose you must take particular interest in that section, since you so rarely find yourself included in it.” As her eyes narrowed, Lucas added with feigned haste, “Not for want of invitations, I expect. Surely not! You simply prefer . . . books.”

  Her color rose. No longer pale, she. In a minute, she would match the cluster of holly berries tapping at her shoulder. “As Sir Philip’s daughter, I am naturally forced to be selective with my time. Otherwise, between this soiree and that ball, I would never get anything done.”

  “Sir Philip’s daughter, of course.” He gave her a very kind smile. “I expect Sir Philip’s daughter would be in demand even if she sported horns and a tail.” Here he paused, casting a questioning look down her figure.

  When he glanced up again, she had fixed him with a glare that might well have conjured hellfire. “You’re right,” she said, deadly sweet. “I rarely go into company. I find the diplomatic crowd very tedious. All talk, no substance. I suppose that is what such circles require. No wonder you flourish there!
”

  “Will you join us?” called Mr. Sobieski. At the piano, Mrs. Lipscomb had finally found her rhythm; the couples were lining up in the middle of the room.

  “No,” said Lucas, as Miss Trent snapped, “Indeed not.”

  He swallowed a laugh, then could not resist leaning toward her to murmur in her ear, “Ah, how like-minded we are. Birds of a feather, after all.”

  She glanced up at him through her lashes. Too late, he realized his stupidity. From this close, the resplendence of her eyes, the fragrance of her skin, were unavoidable.

  In that moment, he remembered everything he’d tried so long to forget. How fondly she had once gazed on him. How badly he’d ached to win her laughter, and to keep her good opinion.

  But he’d never had it in the first place. That had been made very clear to him.

  His gut tightened; his hand fisted to resist the sudden, astonishingly fierce urge to touch her face, to force her to speak to him honestly. What happened, two years ago? He swallowed down the words like rocks.

  For her own part, a shadow darkened her expression. She looked away. “Birds of a feather?” she said softly. “Well, Mr. Godwin, you certainly do have a talent for taking flight. I will follow your example now, I think.”

  Without another word to the company, she turned on her heel and walked out.

  Chapter Three

  December 23

  She’d let him drive her out of her own drawing room last night. This morning, Georgie was determined not to repeat her mistake. She pounded at his door, heedless of the noise it made. By her instruction, he’d been lodged in the oldest and shabbiest wing, far away from the comforts of the other guest suites. Nobody would overhear.

  At long last, the lock scraped, and the door swung open. Mr. Godwin, bleary-eyed, his square jaw darkened by stubble, blinked at her. “What time is it?” he asked in a graveled voice as he yanked at the knot that held his robe closed.

  His throat was bare. She could see the hollow where his clavicle joined. His tan did not fade below his neck. Perhaps he was perfectly golden . . . everywhere.

  She yanked her gaze away. “A quarter to six.” Was he wearing anything beneath that garment? “I’ll wait while you dress.”

  “We said half eight for breakfast.”

  She had not said it. She turned back, scowling. With his black hair disordered and that stubble shadowing his face, he looked like a pirate. The robe clung too closely to his body: despite his shenanigans at vulgar Parisian stews, he retained the physique of an athlete, broad-shouldered and irritatingly muscular.

  To think she had once esteemed his wit and learning! A man like him traded only on his looks. “Go back to sleep,” she said, “by all means. You were ordered here to find a letter, but yes, why not laze about? The von Bittners were up before dawn and have gone into the woods to find a Christmas tree. I shall search their rooms. I already had a brief look yesterday.”

  He dragged a hand through his black hair. Then, without another word, he stepped backward and slammed shut the door.

  She crossed her arms and stood tapping her foot for several long minutes before he emerged again, dressed in a dark walking suit, his jaw still unshaven.

  She turned on her heel and started for the stairs. His footsteps announced his pursuit. “Goodness,” she said without looking back, “you took so long, I imagined you had made time to shave. Do all gentlemen take such care with their attire, or are you particularly . . . peacockish?”

  He made an ill-tempered grunt. “Look here, Georgie—”

  Everything in her contracted. “Miss Trent.”

  His pause seemed to last forever. She kept her eyes fastened on the path ahead, cutting through a hallway festooned with red ribbon and fragrant pine boughs.

  “Pardon me,” came his voice at last, very gruff. “I am not quite awake yet.”

  A strange nervousness churned through her. She pressed her hand over her belly, crushing the commotion as she walked more quickly yet. What was she to make of such a statement? In his sleep, he still called her Georgie?

  Did that mean he dreamed of her?

  A peculiar habit, for a man who had forgotten her so easily!

  She came to a stop by the von Bittners’ door, knocking for good measure. When no answer came, she pulled a key ring from her pocket. “A fine state of affairs,” she muttered as she fumbled with the lock. He certainly did not dream of her. She felt irritated with herself, with him, with this dreadful situation. “Breaking into my own guests’ rooms.”

  “You needn’t help with this.”

  His voice came very near to her ear, making her flinch. “The sooner done, the better.” She sounded breathless. Her nape prickled with awareness of how closely he stood. He did not smell like cologne this morning. That delicious scent was male skin, nothing more.

  Curse him.

  When she fumbled the key again, his hand closed over hers. She froze. How large his palm was. How hot his bare skin felt against hers.

  I never thought to meet a woman like you, he’d told her once.

  Did he really dream of her?

  He turned her hand, and the key with it. The door opened, and she stepped free, mouth dry, and walked onward into the von Bittners’ sitting room.

  The mess gave her pause. The room had not been so disordered last night. Valises lay open, shawls and gloves strewn across the carpet. Through the door ajar to the bedchamber, she glimpsed a dress sagging from the wardrobe.

  Outside, a bird warbled, startling her. Best get to it. On a deep breath, she knelt by an open valise. “You take the bedchamber,” she said.

  He walked past her. “How long ago did they leave the house?”

  “Twenty minutes or so.” She picked through the jumbled bric-a-brac: handkerchiefs, hairpins, letters—all addressed to Lady von Bittner. “A footman is watching the path for them; he’ll fetch us as soon as he spots them.”

  “A footman?”

  His sharp tone drew her attention upward. Naturally, the sun chose that very moment to break free of the clouds, spilling through the windows, illuminating Lucas Godwin in a blaze. Light gleamed off his black hair and his long, curled lashes; it washed like honey down the perfect bones of his face.

  Her gut gave a pained twist. The first time she had seen him, across a crowded ballroom in Munich, she’d supposed him vain. The smooth fall of his black hair, the quick readiness of his smiles, even the way he moved—his easy, powerful grace—had made her conscious of the clumsiness of her own body. She had no rhythm for dancing.

  But on their introduction, he had surprised her with a compliment to her essays in the diplomatic circular. I’ve a fondness for Shakespeare myself, he’d said. You claimed this week that he has lessons to teach us about diplomacy. But I always thought his finest works concerned warfare.

  She had shrugged. Diplomacy is warfare, sir. Its weapons are words, to be certain; but its aim is the same as that of any other battle: to force the other side to surrender ground.

  His smile had faded briefly, then redoubled. Would you care to waltz? he’d asked. And then, as she’d taken his hand, he’d added, A waltz, and a debate: for I mean to change your mind on certain matters.

  What would those be?

  Dance with me, and find out.

  And if you fail to change my mind?

  Then I’ll have to apply to you again tomorrow. He’d offered her a beautiful smile. Perhaps I should aim for failure, then.

  She’d never imagined herself vulnerable to flirtation. But suddenly, she’d felt made of wax . . . melting, loosening, beneath the warmth of his regard.

  You dance divinely, Miss Trent. So he’d said a minute later.

  And you lie very smoothly, Mr. Godwin. For she had just tripped over his foot.

  He’d laughed, flashing perfectly white teeth. But I was to blame for that stumble. I confess, I was thinking again on your essays. The one published last month—do you really think Romeo and Juliet base fools?

  Such ordin
ary conversation. But polite banter had quickly yielded to quips, and quips to spirited debate. Romeo and Juliet, she said, had been driven not by love but infatuation. For Shakespeare’s finest lovers, one must look to the pairs united by an intellectual as well as physical chemistry, chief among which were—

  Beatrice and Benedict, he’d replied.

  Yes. She’d felt as surprised as though he’d given her a gift. Exactly.

  By the end of the waltz, she’d been dazzled and delighted, laughing with him like an old friend—she, Sir Philip’s bookish daughter; he, the rising star of the diplomatic corps, whom everyone wished to know.

  When, the next day, he had paid a call on her, her father had seemed quite astonished, asking the butler to repeat the message. Here to see my daughter? Are you certain? But to Georgie’s amazement, she had not felt surprised at all. Many gentlemen found her dull and bookish, but Mr. Godwin was different. His interest felt right to her. Inevitable. A curious joy had seized her then, at once exhilarating and profoundly comforting. At last, she’d thought. At last, here he is: the man who sees me as I am.

  And now, two years later, after abandoning her without a fare-thee-well, he stood before her again, scowling at her as though she were some idiotic child.

  “You informed the staff of our plan to search these rooms?” Mr. Godwin sounded incredulous. “How could you possibly be so indis—”

  “The staff,” she said through her teeth as she rose, “are not your concern.” With her father so often posted abroad, Georgie had all but grown up at Brisbon Hall. The butler and Cook, three footmen and six maids—they were as close to her as family. Closer, in fact. “I trust them implicitly.”

  He stared at her a moment longer. “Of course,” he muttered, then turned back into the bedroom, digging through a bag slung haphazardly across a Chippendale chair. “I recall how fondly you spoke of them.”