The muffled remark caught her off guard. Until now, they had behaved by tacit agreement as though they had never exchanged confidences. She frowned at his back. “You remember that conversation, do you?”
He shot her a brief, unreadable look. “Do I strike you as senile?”
She shoved away the valise. “No, certainly not.” Shallow, deceitful, and fickle, on the other hand . . . “But I suppose you make a habit,” she went on, “of befriending any number of people, and collecting any number of”—heartfelt, private, painfully shared—“intimacies from them. So it does surprise me, somewhat, that you should remember my trifling discussion of Brisbon Hall.”
He laid down the bag and faced her, jaw squaring.
They were going to have it out, then. A great pressure swelled in her chest, shortening her breath. He would admit now that he’d misled her. Good! She was sick of feeling as though she were the fool for having mistaken his interest as romantic. He had encouraged her hopes. He would admit it and apologize for it now.
“We should hurry,” he said flatly. “The sooner we find the letter, the sooner I can leave.”
The words slapped her. She looked blindly down at the valise. How she loathed him! “Naturally. You have better places to be, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” he said, and turned back to his work.
But perhaps he didn’t. His parents had passed away within months of each other, during his first year of service abroad. He had told her of it during a stroll through Munich’s Botanical Garden. His father had been a great inspiration to him, it was clear. For so long, I aimed only to make him proud. Once he passed, I felt . . . lost, I suppose.
Her heart had swelled so painfully for him then. She had wanted above anything to give him comfort.
I know what it means to feel alone, she’d told him. Orphaned, in a way. Her father was so rarely with her—and he expected her to live up to the Trent legacy; he did not congratulate her for doing what he considered to be her duty. Treasure your memories of your parents’ pride in you . . .
Bitterness goaded her to her feet. She went to the sideboard, pulling out drawers with violent force. How expertly Godwin had cultivated her sympathy—and for what? He’d manipulated her for his own entertainment. Destroyed her vanity and pride for fun. She had never met a man better designed for diplomacy.
She cast a sharp look at him. He was rummaging through the wardrobe, pausing now and then to bat away the exuberant ruffles and flounces of Lady von Bittner’s ball gown. “Surely,” she said, “you have some friend who will miss you on Christmas. Just one.”
He looked up with a snort. “You certainly are Sir Philip’s daughter.”
She crossed her arms. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
As he straightened, his smile looked unkind. “Your father has a talent for stiletto jabs.” He mimed the action. “In-out, so quickly that his victims don’t realize they’re bleeding until after they’ve bowed their thanks.”
She bit her cheek to prevent a protest. She was not the villain here. “How remarkable! You would imagine my father your enemy, rather than your superior.”
“Oh, no,” he said flatly. “I could never forget that, Miss Trent.” The sunlight fell slantwise across his blue eyes, illuminating them like stained glass; two unjust pieces of beauty in his liar’s face, which she’d briefly adored beyond anything.
Would she ever feel so about another man? She hadn’t managed it yet. Thoughts of him—of what he’d pretended to be—had ruined her.
Suddenly she felt weighted by stones. “You should have refused to come.” All she wanted was to forget him. Why was it so difficult? “You should have told him to send someone else.” If you had any shame, you would have done.
His jaw flexed. “As you said. He is my superior. Far be it from me to challenge his orders.”
“Of course.” The words scoured her throat like copper. “For the sake of your career, you would do anything, I expect.” He would court a naïve wallflower for her connections—and then drop her flat the moment opportunity called him elsewhere, promising to advance his career more expediently.
He gave a grim, humorless tug of his mouth. “It’s the lot of us lowly commoners. We must look after our living, rather than count on an inheritance.”
His veiled jabs grew tiring. Did he truly think to make her feel guilty? “Why, imagine it—you almost sound as if you were the injured party.”
His brows drew together. But before he could speak, footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and Lady von Bittner’s laughter rang out.
Georgie threw a panicked look around the room. There was no way to escape—nowhere to hide.
On a soft curse, Mr. Godwin lunged for her wrist. “Come.” He hauled her into the bedchamber, then lifted her by the waist and thrust her into the wardrobe.
Chapter Four
Hiding in the wardrobe had not been Lucas’s finest idea. For one thing, it was crammed full of highly perfumed, deucedly scratchy gowns. For another, it was far too small to house those gowns and the two of them besides. Necessity compelled him to wrap his arms around Miss Trent; there was no other place to put them. Her waist was small, her breasts an intolerably conspicuous presence against his forearms. As for the rest of her . . .
She was not wearing a bustle. A fine time to prove bohemian! He prayed that her petticoats were thick enough to disguise his reaction. Certainly she made no sound or movement to suggest otherwise. A slight tremble ran through her occasionally—but that was surely due to fear of discovery. The von Bittners were in their sitting room, having a laughing conversation in German.
“What are they discussing?” she whispered. Her hair brushed against his chin, soft and ticklish.
“The most robust specimen imaginable,” Lady von Bittner was saying. “A broad build, but very perky. Handsome, I think everyone must agree.”
He frowned. “They’re . . . praising some man’s features. Why? Have you forgotten your German?”
Miss Trent stiffened, which was not at all what he required, since it solidified her position against him. “It’s a bit rusty,” she said with dignity.
He was glad one of them felt dignified at the moment.
“Which man?” she asked.
He tuned his attention to the conversation. “Oh, indeed,” Lord von Bittner was agreeing. “A bold, cheeky aspect all around. And such a muscular trunk!”
“I thought you would take three strokes to finish,” Lady von Bittner replied. “But you did it in one! I don’t think you broke a sweat.”
“Well?” Miss Trent whispered.
Lucas felt very uncertain now of the wisdom of translating. “I’m not sure.”
“I was surprised,” Lord von Bittner said. “Such a sound bottom, too. A sound bottom is crucial, I find.”
“Crucial,” his wife agreed.
Lucas bit down hard on his cheek. Either the von Bittners shared a very peculiar interest, or . . .
“Particularly since they don’t have the proper pot for it,” Lady von Bittner went on. “Imagine if it should topple!”
Lucas grinned. “They’re discussing the Tannenbaum they found.”
“The Christmas tree?” Miss Trent sighed. “I do wish—”
Floorboards creaked. The von Bittners were on the move. Miss Trent squirmed, and Lucas swallowed a curse. His next deep breath was full of her—of her fragrance, the softness of her hair, her warmth. How well she fit against him! She had always fitted so; taking her into his arms for the first time had felt like a puzzle coming together at last. He still vividly remembered that embrace. She had offered it in sympathy, during their stroll through the Botanical Garden in Munich.
I am so sorry, she’d whispered against his shoulder. Your parents sound wonderful. I wish I could have met them.
He’d realized then that she’d never heard the gossip; that he needed to tell her the whole of it. But the feel of her in his arms, like a revelation unfolding, had stopped him. How could I risk losing this? he’d th
ought. Not now. Later . . .
“Look at this mess!” Lady von Bittner’s voice came very close, causing them both to flinch. “You would think the maids might have straightened up. The staff is poorly managed, I think.”
Judging by the jerk of Miss Trent’s shoulders, she understood that bit of German well enough.
“I’ll ring for someone,” said Lord von Bittner. Footsteps came closer yet. They were about to be found out—
A banging came at the door. An unfamiliar voice, a man with a country accent, announced that the von Bittners were wanted downstairs immediately.
“I’d thought to change before breakfast,” Lady von Bittner said querulously. “But this place is such a tip!” Her voice faded as she headed toward the exit. “Fetch somebody to straighten it, boy. How the Trents put up with this—”
The sharp slam of the door cut off the rest of her words.
Miss Trent did not wait a moment after the couple’s departure to exclaim, “Blaming my staff for this disorder! What gall!”
Lucas pushed open the wardrobe, taking a deep breath. In large doses, Lady von Bittner’s perfume smelled more like poison.
Miss Trent leapt out of the wardrobe, then turned back, hands on her hips, to glare at him. “You’re looking very relieved,” she said. “I suppose you were dying of horror, imagining what should happen if we were caught.” She tipped her head, her dudgeon fading to puzzlement. “Don’t you mean to come out of there?”
“In a moment.” He remained in his awkward crouch, forty pounds of ball gown crushing into his back, praying for his rampant condition to subside.
She rolled her eyes. “Paralyzed by panic, no doubt. Well, rest assured—I wouldn’t have married you. I would rather be ruined.”
It took a moment to follow her meaning. “You thought . . .” He laughed despite himself. “That was your worry? That the von Bittners would find us hiding in their wardrobe and think us overcome by passion?”
The color drained from her face. “No,” she choked. “As you say—what a laughable idea!” She turned away, stalking out of the bedchamber.
Her reaction baffled him sufficiently to tame his bodily humors. He stepped out of the wardrobe and followed her into the sitting room, catching her by the elbow as she took hold of the outer doorknob. “What is it?” he said. “What did I say?”
“Absolutely nothing.” She would not look at him. “Naturally, the thought is absurd. Carried away with passion? You, with me? The thought is absurd.”
He dropped her arm. A very fine thing that she had no grasp of the male anatomy. “Indeed,” he bit out. “God forbid! A more preposterous mésalliance, I’m sure nobody could imagine.”
She twisted, spearing him with a blazing look. “Quite right. Why, I would rather consort with—with—”
“Keep thinking,” he goaded. “I’m sure you’ll eventually find someone worthy of you. The Prince of Wales?” When she wrinkled her nose, he said sarcastically, “Oh, pardon me. The bloodlines are rather suspect. Too German for a Trent.”
She huffed out a breath. “If you imagine I am forced to look to a married man for attention, even a prince, I’ll have you know that I—I am quite—”
“What?” He was burningly, bitterly curious to know. What pristine, incontrovertibly pedigreed gentleman qualified as worthy of Miss Georgiana Trent’s approval?
“I am quite happily affianced!” The words exploded from her with such force that she herself looked shocked. “To a—a very upstanding gentleman of considerable charm and fortune!”
The news staggered him. For a moment, he could only goggle at her. But . . . of course she was betrothed. Had he imagined she would remain unwed forever? A woman as winsome as Georgiana Trent, whose family recommended itself not only by its age but also its wealth and influence, would have no shortage of suitors—even if her taste was selective indeed.
“Well,” he managed to croak, “my felicitations. Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
Her gaze broke from his, wandering to the far corner of the room. Obviously, discussing her private affairs with one such as him mortified her extremely. “Mr. Augustus Brumkin,” she said.
“Augustus Brumkin.” The very name felt like death in his mouth. He did not want to picture the man, but an image sprang forth, so vivid that it might have been conjured by magic: resplendently blond; bluff and hale and irritatingly overfed. In Lucas’s mind, Mr. Brumkin posed, one hand in his waistcoat, with his pack of hounds brawling at his heels, a fine horse of seventeen hands at his shoulder, and a bloody manor looming on the hilltop behind him, pennants flying.
“Yes,” she said. “That is—no. Sir Augustus. He is a—baronet.”
“Oh, very good,” he said. “So you’ll be Lady Brumkin.” The Trents would settle for no less. “My congratulations to you.” He took a step backward to sketch a mocking bow and nearly slipped on one of Lady von Bittner’s shawls.
At the same time, they both recalled where they were. Miss Trent yanked open the door. “Hurry,” she snapped.
But he felt curiously indifferent to his own escape. He waited until she had slipped down the hall, until her footsteps had faded from the stair, before stepping out.
And when he shut the door behind him, he had only the strength to lean against it, and remember again how to breathe.
Sir Augustus bloody Brumkin. Had there ever been a name better suited to buffoonish, inbred idiocy?
Chapter Five
What the devil had possessed her? Georgie asked herself this at regular intervals throughout the morning, as she led her conspicuously unenthused guests on a tour of two local farms. Judging by their reddened eyes and sallow complexions, the Sobieskis and Lipscombs were suffering from last night’s excess of champagne. The Obolenskys, on the other hand, proved noxious in a different vein as they helped each other around piles of dung—pointing them out with increasingly loud giggles, as though dung were an affliction unique to English sheep. Nevertheless, of the whole group, Georgie felt certain that she proved the most pitiable specimen. Inventing a fiancé wholesale!
Her pride had demanded it. Seeing Lucas Godwin laugh derisively at the very prospect of seducing her—it had grated beyond her ability to bear. Still . . . Augustus Brumkin? Could she not have invented a more dignified name? Brumkin! Why not call him Bumpkin and be done with it?
After the agricultural tour came tea at the vicar’s house. As Georgie privately willed time to run backward so she could invent a better name for her betrothed (Matthew Hill. Charles White. Even John Brown would have sounded more distinguished), Mr. Sobieski asked the vicar where the gold was stored, as if this were a cathedral rather than a humble vicarage. Meanwhile, Count Obolensky happened across a bottle of sacramental wine, happened to take it into his possession, and then happened to pour it into his teacup—twice! As though nobody would notice!
The vicar noticed. He gave Georgie a shocked look, which she took as a sign that it was time to hurry the group along to the bakeshop. Perhaps she would not take them to church on Christmas, after all.
The village itself seemed to delight the diplomats. Swanhaven was no larger than a single long street, thatched houses and shingled shops winding sinuously along the riverbank toward the green. The sky was overcast, but every window glowed with the light of Christmas candles. The bare-branched trees lining the lane had been strung with ivy, their trunks wrapped in red ribbon. At the end of the road, a group of young girls stood on the green, singing “God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen” in high, pure falsettos to a small crowd.
The rest of the village was crammed inside Mr. Tilney’s bakeshop, where the atmosphere felt close and warm, rich with the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg. Perhaps the sacramental wine had been parceled out rather more widely than Georgie had noticed. As her flock crowded inside, they jostled each other and joked with unseemly familiarity to those already queued at the counter. Fearing a spectacle, Georgie stepped up to remind Mr. Tilney of his offer: he had agreed to provide her guests a sampl
ing of culinary delicacies particular to an English Christmas.
Tilney was a squat, broad redhead who took his trade very seriously. “Right,” he said, frowning at the lot. “But they’ll buy, afterward, won’t they? For they’re driving out my customers.”
“I assure you, Brisbon Hall will make a sizable purchase,” she said.
“That was Mr. Jones what just left. He was on the hook for three trays of mince pies.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the countess blowing kisses at Mr. Jones’s retreating back. “Send them to the Hall instead,” she said hastily as she turned back. “Indeed, mince pies are a fine idea. Let’s start with them.” She clapped to call her guests’ attention.
Like errant children, they straggled into a semicircle around her. She introduced Mr. Tilney, then retreated to the back of the room to watch.
Mr. Tilney held up a mince pie, rotating it right and left to show its dimpled crust. Tilney, now there was a fine name. Far more respectable than Brumkin! Any woman could hold her head high, betrothed to a man by that surname.
The baker handed his pie to Mrs. Sobieska. “See the shape,” he said. “What does it remind you of?
“A bean,” said Mrs. Sobieska brightly, before taking a large bite.
“The human kidney,” said Mr. Lipscomb.
Mrs. Sobieska gagged.
Mr. Tilney, scowling, said, “It’s an oval, aye?”
“Bit lopsided for an oval,” Mr. Lipscomb said.
“ ’Tis an oval in the shape of a manger,” Mr. Tilney bit out. “Like the manger where the Christ child was born! And as for the savory bits inside”—here his livid gaze swung to Mrs. Sobieska, who froze mid-chew—“those be gifts of the Magi. So if you’re Christian, swallow them down!”
Mr. Tilney’s provenance seemed doubtful to Georgie, but among diplomats, facts meant little, so long as the story seemed persuasive. Mrs. Sobieska swallowed obediently. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it’s quite delicious!”
Hands shot out. With a satisfied smirk, Mr. Tilney continued to distribute pies.
Sweetest Regret Page 3