Sweetest Regret

by Meredith Duran

  Relieved, Georgie settled her weight against the plate-glass window. The bell rang overhead, and Mr. Godwin stepped inside.

  “No letter,” he said curtly as he joined her along the wall. “Not in the von Bittners’ rooms, nor the Sobieskis’, either.”

  She sighed. “The Obolenskys next, then.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and nodded, his mouth a tight line. “Will you take them home after this?”

  “Thank goodness, yes.”

  He glanced at her. “Given you trouble?”

  She smiled faintly. “They’re diplomats, Mr. Godwin. Their livelihood depends on trouble. When they find none, they must invent it, lest they be thrown out of a job.”

  He blinked. “A cynical view, from Sir Philip’s daughter.” But the hard set of his mouth loosened; after a moment, he leaned back against the wall.

  Perhaps, she thought, she should try to strike a truce. Quarreling certainly hadn’t served her. Why, if they argued again, she would probably invent a secret wedding for herself, and two well-behaved children besides.

  She leaned back, too. “Pardon me,” she said politely. “I recall that you were an idealist about the cause of diplomacy.” He’d spoken most impassionedly in Munich about his hope to do good in the world; to temper the sharp edges of British power abroad. “I don’t mean that all diplomats are so self-serving.”

  He snorted. “Perhaps I’m not an idealist so much as a pragmatist. As a second secretary, after all, I have little scope to enrich myself.”

  She recalled her unkind jab about his position last night. “I doubt you would abuse your power, regardless.”

  He cast her a sidelong, measuring glance. “That is kind of you,” he said after a pause. “I suppose we may soon find out. I have it on rather good authority that if I remain in the— Well. There is a rumor that I might be made secretary of legation next year.”

  He spoke stiffly, as though prepared for her mockery. But such news did not deserve it. “Goodness,” she murmured, making a rapid calculation. “By thirty? You would be the youngest in the history of the service, I believe.”

  His color rose. “A rumor only. It may be empty.”

  Truce, she reminded herself. “I doubt it.” Now she sounded stiff. “Everyone always spoke of you so highly. And you have—” She cleared her throat. “You have charm, sir, in addition to your erudition. And charm, I fear, is the main thing for a diplomat.”

  He looked at her directly, his blue eyes somber. “You fear it, do you?”

  The solemn weight of his attention made her pulse trip. Yes, she feared his charm. Any wise woman would fear charm when paired with looks like his.

  She felt herself flush at the thought. “It’s terribly warm in here, isn’t it?” She made a show of fanning herself. “Mr. Tilney must be using all the ovens.”

  He glanced toward the counter, and she felt released, able to breathe again. “Gingerbread,” Mr. Tilney barked, holding up a cookie in the rudimentary shape of a man. The diplomats murmured and nodded.

  Lord von Bittner raised his hand. “That is not an English food,” he volunteered. “That is a German tradition.”

  “German!” Mr. Tilney bared his teeth, then turned the gingerbread man upside down and snapped its head off.

  Audible gasps followed.

  “It’s English,” he said.

  Lord von Bittner cleared his throat. “Perhaps . . . it is both.”

  Tilney held out the gingerbread head to Lord von Bittner, who accepted it with great dignity.

  “Ah, the spirit of Christmastide,” muttered Mr. Godwin.

  Her giggle startled her. She felt him glance over at her again, but kept her eyes trained on Mr. Tilney. “Watch them go back to Germany talking of our curious rituals,” she said. “England, where they must behead their gingerbread man before they eat him.”

  “No stranger than the Swedes burning their straw Yule goats,” he said.

  “Perhaps we should make it a tradition, then!”

  He made a sound of amusement. “If you told me it already was one, I might believe you. I haven’t spent a Christmas in England for eight—no, nine years.”

  “And what a fine holiday for you, doing my father’s dirty work.” When his expression darkened, she wanted to kick herself. Why bring that up? Quickly she rushed on. “Of course, I imagine Paris has much to recommend itself during the holidays. Do you hope to stay there, once you’re promoted?”

  “Paris is lovely,” he said. “Very comfortable. But I may request a farther-flung posting. The Ottoman Empire. China, perhaps.”

  “China!” She felt a strange clutching in her chest. That was very far away indeed.

  He shrugged. “There’s real work to be done there.” His lips twitched. “And no absinthe, you’ll be glad to know.”

  Hesitantly, she smiled. Perhaps this truce might work, after all. “Well, I suppose in your shoes, I would long for adventure, too.” Imagine it, having the entire world ranged before you, any spot on the map open to your choice! Where on earth would she start? “I think I should choose Persia myself.”

  He turned to her, his weight braced by one shoulder against the wall. He had found time to shave, but his hair remained unruly, unfashionably long; he wiped a dark cowlick off his brow as he said, “Persia. Yes. Did you keep up with your studies of the language, then?”

  She refused to let the question startle her. A truce meant speaking companionably, without bristling at each reference to the past. “I fear it proved too much for me. Anyway, I simply wanted to read the poetry, and it turns out that several gentlemen have undertaken studies recently. Mr. Whinfield has a lovely manuscript in press of Jalal al-din Rumi’s verses—have you read it?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “Oh, it’s remarkable. ‘Did my beloved only touch me with his lips—’ ” She came to an abrupt stop, realizing that the verse was hardly suitable for public discussion. Her enthusiasm had always outstripped her mindfulness of decorum.

  But he was watching, his expression intent. “Finish it,” he said.

  “I’ll send you a copy,” she muttered.

  “Shy, Miss Trent?”

  The challenging note in his voice made her spine stiffen. She locked eyes with him. “ ‘Did my beloved only touch me with his lips, / I too, like the flute, would burst out in melody.’ ”

  He stared at her a moment longer—oddly, searchingly. “That is very fine,” he said quietly.

  His gaze was too intense to hold. She slid her palms down her skirts, knocking away a stray speck of flour.

  “Why don’t you have the choice, Georgie?”

  She caught her breath. But he was frowning slightly; she did not think he realized his own slip of the tongue. “What choice?” she asked.

  “The choice to go,” he said.

  “To . . . Persia?” She tried to laugh. “All on my own? I should think my father would have something to say about that. I do depend on him for an allowance, you know.”

  “So find someone willing to go with you,” he said. “A companion in adventure. That’s what you always wanted.”

  She turned away from him blindly, fixing her face in the general direction of the others. I tried, Lucas.

  I thought I had found you.

  He broke the silence by clearing his throat. “God save us. It’s come to goose pies, has it?”

  For Mr. Tilney had hoisted aloft a fine specimen—the pastry crust gleaming with a coating of egg white. “But you love goose pie,” Georgie said without thinking. “Eating the enemy!”

  Their gazes caught again. He must be remembering the same moment—that enchanted discussion they’d had at a Christmas party in Munich, keeping to themselves the entire night, lost in their laughter. Would he deny recalling it?

  After a moment, he offered her the faintest smile. “Yes,” he said. “I’m a diplomat, after all. We never forgive or forget.”

  A strange relief swam through her, making her feel almos
t giddy. “Poor geese! They crossed the wrong man.”

  He cocked a dark brow. “Had you been attacked by them at the age of eight—for the mere sin of attempting to feed them!—you would nurse a grudge, too.”

  “They are dreadful creatures, aren’t they? I—” She paused as Countess Obolenskaya approached to hand them each a slice of the pie.

  Mr. Tilney was the finest baker in the realm; his crusts could not be rivaled. As Georgie swallowed, she exchanged an amazed look with Mr. Godwin. “I suppose revenge is a dish best served hot, after all.”

  He laughed. “Still fond of Shakespeare, I see.”

  “Oh, no, that isn’t Shakespeare. Everybody thinks so, though. Do you know—” She hesitated, wondering at herself. Would she confide this in him, when she had not yet shared it with anyone? “I’ve been writing a series of essays, a study of the common phrases misattributed to him. Trying to track down their origins.”

  “A fine project,” he said. “I had wondered if you’d stopped writing. That is . . .” He brushed his hands free of crumbs, cleared his throat. “I no longer see your essays in the diplomat circular.”

  Had he been looking for them? “I think the editors grew tired of the subject of Shakespeare.”

  “You had other subjects in mind,” he said. “Your piece on Machiavelli in his humanist guise—that would have drawn a great deal of notice. Perhaps you never submitted it, though.”

  She stared at him. She had given that draft to him two days before he’d left Germany—the very last day she’d seen him. He had taken leave of her that day by kissing her fingers, with no word of his impending departure.

  Her fingers, her skin, her entire body, had felt more alive that day than in any before it, or any to follow.

  “Your final taste,” Mr. Tilney announced. “Plum pudding. Gather round now; you’ll each need a spoon.”

  Mr. Godwin made no motion to approach the counter. As for herself, Georgie felt curiously rooted in place. “You read that piece?” she asked.

  Mr. Godwin’s jaw flexed. He was staring very fixedly now at the pudding eaters. “Of course.”

  “You approved of it?”

  He slid her a quick, unreadable glance. “I always had the highest esteem for your scholarship, Miss Trent.”

  Yes. Alone among the men of her acquaintance, he’d seemed to take a personal, deeply felt delight in her bookish pursuits.

  “Yet you never wrote me to give your opinion,” she said very softly.

  “No,” he said.

  She waited, but he did not go on. After a moment, he shrugged. “I expect everyone will retire after this excursion, yes? But later, when you call them downstairs to trim the tree, that should give me time to search the Obolenskys’ suite for the letter.”

  She felt jarred by the transition. “I suppose they must be the ones who took it.”

  “I expect so.” He paused. “I’ll book a ticket on the morning train, then.”

  Her throat tightened. She would be deeply relieved when he left. Wouldn’t she?

  Misery tangled her fingers together at her waist. Suddenly she foresaw that she would not be relieved at all. Not if he left without giving an explanation for what had happened two years ago. Her pride could go rot: she needed to confront him. To clarify, once and for all, that she had mistaken the significance of their friendship in Munich—that the face he had shown her was false, and should no longer remain the singular standard by which she judged other gentlemen, and found them wanting.

  “Why did you not write to me of the Machiavelli essay?” she blurted.

  He sighed. “Would my opinion have been welcome?”

  After his rude departure? “Perhaps not. So tell me this: why did you not write to inform me that you were leaving Munich?”

  He turned toward her, his handsome face cold. “You think that odd?” he said. “That I should have left without a word? How else was I to go? Tell me, Miss Trent, was my offense so great, the injury to your sensibilities so severe, that you would have preferred an apology before I departed?”

  Her breath caught. Here it was: the crux of the matter. Say no, she told herself. Don’t let him see how deeply he hurt you. Have pride. Say no!

  The breath exploded from her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes! An apology at the least !”

  “An apology,” he bit out furiously, and then stopped, his face flushing.

  She recoiled, astonished by the look on his face. Anger, at her ! If anybody deserved to feel anger, it was she! “Yes, an apology!” How dare he try to put her to shame?

  “Ah!” Countess Obolenskaya swanned up, looping her arm through Georgie’s. “Where do we go next, Mistress of Revelries?”

  Chapter Six

  Georgie stood on her tiptoes, straining to reach the uppermost boughs of the Tannenbaum as Lady von Bittner barked at her. “Higher. Yes, even higher! All the way to the top!”

  “Perhaps somebody taller ought to step in.” Georgie cast a speaking look across the room. Count Obolensky and Lord von Bittner were kneeling by the fire, roasting chestnuts under Mr. Lipscomb’s supervision. “Much taller,” she called pointedly. It had required all three footmen to cart the von Bittners’ fir into the drawing room; the tree stood over seven feet high.

  “No, only women decorate the Tannenbaum. Drape it so—” Lady von Bittner stepped forward, tugging at a loop of beaten silver. It slipped off the bough and fell straight into Georgie’s face, making her sputter as she clawed it away. “The tinsel must hang in swags, else there will be no room for the candles.”

  “Candles, on a tree?” Mrs. Lipscomb, who stood to one side clutching a tray of crystal baubles, looked dubious. “Is that not a fine way to start a fire?”

  “Only rarely,” said Lady von Bittner.

  “What Miss Trent needs is a hook,” Countess Obolenskaya said. She was sipping her third glass of local wassail—a spiced mixture of rum and cider—and sounded lazily amused. “I have one in my rooms, for tightening my laces. Shall I go fetch it?”

  “No!” Georgie blurted. Mr. Godwin would be searching the Obolenskys’ rooms. “That is—I’m determined to do this in the traditional fashion. But perhaps you could fetch over that chair?”

  This small innovation was deemed acceptable by Lady von Bittner, who remained squinting until Georgie finally managed to lasso the top boughs. “Yes, that’s precisely right,” she announced, then promptly lost interest and wandered over to the fire to request a chestnut. The countess followed suit, leaving Georgie alone with Mrs. Lipscomb, who watched mutely as Georgie hauled the chair around the tree, clambering up and down like a monkey to arrange the tinsel in an elegant, looping pattern.

  “It seems a bit pagan,” said Mrs. Lipscomb at last. “To kill a tree to celebrate the Savior’s birth.”

  “Her Majesty always has a Christmas tree,” Georgie said. “I would not call her pagan.”

  “Hmph, well. She was married to a German.” With a sour tug of her mouth, Mrs. Lipscomb laid her tray of ornaments onto the carpet. “I think I will roast chestnuts, too.”

  Thus did Georgie find herself alone by the tree as her guests disported themselves with wassail, chestnuts, and a game of dice—the last of which rather marred the holiday flavor. Sighing, she finished wrapping the tinsel, then took up the tray of baubles to hang.

  “It’s done.”

  She jumped out of her skin. Mr. Godwin had sneaked up behind her. He looked grim-faced. Still sulking over her remonstrance at the bakery, no doubt. Scalawags had little practice with being called to task for their rudeness.

  “Good,” she bit out. “Bring the letter to me after supper.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t find it.”

  “What?” But who had stolen it, then? In her surprise, she fumbled the ornament.

  Mr. Godwin made a swift, graceful lunge, and caught the bauble in midair. From their position by the fire, the other women took note. Hearing their appreciative coos, Georgie felt her general irritation sharpen into a particular an
d pointed resentment. “It’s not done, then,” she said in an undertone. “It’s not done until you find the letter.” And until he managed that, he would have no choice but to remain here, antagonizing her with his very presence—his athletic grace, his innate and effortless and infuriating ability to charm anybody who happened to glance at him.

  Why, the countess and Mrs. Lipscomb were still mooning. Georgie scowled at them until they turned back toward the fire.

  Mr. Godwin lifted the bauble to the light of a nearby stand of candles. The ornament was etched with miniature engravings, vines of ivy entwining around snowflakes and stars. “Lovely,” he said.

  “Factory-made,” said Georgie.

  His mouth twisted as he handed it back to her. She carefully hung the globe on a lower bough, then knelt to take up another. When he followed suit, she snapped, “Only women may decorate the tree.”

  Kneeling, he looked up at her. The candlelight flattered him; it had no standards or taste; it painted shifting shadows in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, and played in the curve beneath his full lower lip. “Is the tree a very modest specimen, then?” he asked cuttingly. “Heaven knows I would hate to offend its tender sensibilities.”

  She turned away. He was making a jab at her, alluding in some obscure way to her remonstrance in the bakeshop. But she would not be ashamed for what she had said there. As she hooked the bauble around a sprig of needles, she hissed, “If you wish to pretend that your departure from Munich was gentlemanly, very well. It fools nobody but you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rise and square his shoulders. “I suppose if you want gentlemanliness, you’ll need to look to a better-bred man.”

  What nonsense was that? She was sick of his excuses. “Even children know how to bid a farewell. But perhaps it was my fault to expect one. Certainly it seems bizarre to imagine that I once considered you a friend—but I did. And friends owe each other that much, I think!”

  “Friends, were we?” His laughter was jagged. “Tell me, Miss Trent. Did you truly expect me to look on you as a friend—to treat you as a friend—after instructing me to be ashamed for having pestered you with my attentions?”