Sweetest Regret

by Meredith Duran

  “I expected more joy than this,” he said.

  “Were you ever in Constantinople?” she asked. “Or was that a sham as well?”

  “What on earth?” He cast her a severe look before he set to unbuttoning his gloves. “Of course I was en route to Constantinople. But I got word at Gibraltar that the negotiations had failed, and so I turned back. We’ll need to hold a multilateral conference in January—another grand squandering of money, for the sake of squabbling dogs.” He glanced past her. “Where is the staff? It’s a disgrace that nobody met me at the door. I do hope you haven’t let our guests be neglected.”

  “Naturally not,” she said.

  “And where are those guests?” His keen brown gaze settled on her face, shrewdly calculating. “Is Mr. Godwin among them?”

  “Mr. Godwin has left,” she said. “Why, did you hope to speak with him? He did not find your letter.”

  She almost did not recognize the look that came over his face then. She had never managed to puzzle him before.

  He cleared his throat. “I hope his presence didn’t fluster you overmuch,” he said smoothly. “I confess, that was part of my call to hurry back here. I would hate to have been the cause of distress, having left you with this party to manage.”

  “Heaven forbid your party might go poorly,” she said. “A pity you spared no thought for my distress two years ago, when you lied to me—and to Mr. Godwin as well.”

  “Ah.” His expression eased. “So the truth came out, did it? Well, I am sorry for that, Georgiana. I feel a lightening of my conscience, now the matter is laid bare. But you understand, he was no fit match for you, in Munich. Every word I spoke of his parentage was true. It’s a suspect line.” He paused. “And not a fertile one. I don’t suppose he confided in you about the mess with the earldom Lilleston?”

  Her temper broke. “You lied to us! You broke your own daughter’s heart, and toyed with me as though I were your enemy—”

  “Georgiana!” Aghast, he took her by the arm and looked around. “If you mean to bellow, we’ll do this privately.”

  “Yes. I do mean to bellow.” She yanked free and stalked to the nearest door, which opened into the second-best drawing room, a shabby but comfortable place, not nearly grand enough for his guests.

  He closed the door very quietly behind him. “I was wrong,” he said. “I won’t claim otherwise. I realized it once I saw how deeply it affected you. I do apologize for it, but I never imagined”—he grimaced—“that you would lose your head so over a man. A child of mine! I thought you had more steel at your core. But believe me, the sad spectacle you mounted afterward was very persuasive in proving otherwise.”

  “So cold,” she said, marveling. “Is there blood in your veins, or only daggers and plots? You are the perfect diplomat, sir. But you make a very poor father.”

  He recoiled physically, staring at her with a shock that she could not believe was feigned. “Georgiana,” he said. “I think you will regret those words later.”

  “You may comfort yourself by imagining so. But they’re long overdue. My happiness was not yours to gamble.”

  “I know that,” he said quietly. “I have just apologized for it.”

  Stiletto jabs. Lucas had warned her of it. Her father probably did believe he had offered a satisfactory apology, no matter that he’d insulted her in the same breath. It was his training and his habit, accrued over a lifetime of handling the affairs of state, never to cede the high ground entirely.

  The thought deflated her. She was angry, yes; she was furiously disappointed in him. But that was nothing new. She’d been disappointed in him her entire life—and never more so than at this time of year, when a child should be with her father, not left to the care of a staff who, despite their every kindness, had family of their own to care for, and better things to do than entertain their employer’s daughter.

  But that wasn’t fair to Cook or the others. Their love was genuine and heartfelt. She would not let her father tar that, too.

  “It’s pointless,” she said tiredly. “You are what you are. I cannot expect a leopard to change its spots. I only wish . . . that I had realized that two years ago. Had I remembered to suspect you, I could have saved myself so much pain.”

  He hesitated, studying her. Looking, no doubt, for the best inroad, the cleverest angle of manipulation. “I am sorry, Georgie.”

  She waited for the twist. But it did not come. He stepped closer to her but made no move to touch her—the diplomat’s instinct guiding him, no doubt.

  “I never thought to be your only parent,” he said. “I imagined I would be able to depend on your mother’s wisdom. She would have raised you better. She loved you to the ends of the earth. She was, in every way, my better half.”

  And now he would try to raise her sympathy, to soften her. “I have no doubt of that,” she said.

  He sighed. “And there, in your disapproval, I hear an echo of her. Well, I deserve it. I will accept your disapproval as my due. But . . . know that I do love you, my dear. And I thought I was protecting you, in Munich. You were lovely. So bright. You could have attracted any gentleman.”

  She snorted. “You’re losing your talent,” she said, “if you expect me to believe that.”

  His brows shot skyward. “Georgiana, I will accept a certain degree of foolishness from you, but you are, in the end, my daughter. Please use your brain. You are your mother come to life again. So you must believe me when I say that I thought you deserved no less than a prince. After all, your mother managed to win me.”

  That startled a black laugh from her. His arrogance was insufferable—but also, oddly, credible.

  She eyed him warily. Perhaps he did believe what he was saying. It made no difference. “You had no right to deceive me so.”

  “A father’s right,” he began, and then cut himself off with a sharp tug of his mouth when he saw her reaction. “Very well,” he said with asperity. “I said I blundered, didn’t I? But why you fancied the only mutt in a kennel of purebreds, I will never understand. Lucas Godwin could never have offered the kind of life you deserved. Not then, at least.”

  And now they came to the heart of it. “You arranged this,” she said. “Our . . . reunion. On the hopes he would inherit his title.”

  “Yes,” he said—smiling, to her disbelief.

  Realization jolted through her. “Why—there never was a letter, was there? Nobody ever stole anything from you.”

  His smile widened. “So now you see: I was conspiring for your benefit, my dear.”

  She recoiled. “Have you no shame? We ransacked the guests’ belongings! Of all the horrid, manipulative things—”

  “Horrid? Come now! I was trying to make amends. Two years ago, Godwin wasn’t fit for you. So I dispatched him. But now that he stands a good chance of coming up in the world, I thought I’d make amends. Effect your reacquaintance. A fine atonement, I thought.” He quirked a hopeful brow. “Did it work?”

  There was no point in trying to wrap her mind around his self-justifications. But his smugness was intolerable.

  “It did,” she said. “But . . .” Let him learn what it felt like to be deceived, for once. For a brief, sweet hour of justice, let him suffer. “He will not inherit. Lilleston’s child was a boy.”

  “Ah.” His shoulders sagged. “Too bad, then. Too bad.”

  “But it makes no difference.” She brushed past him, seizing the doorknob. “I will marry him anyway.”

  He scowled as he turned after her. “Now, listen here, Georgiana. I—”

  She wrested open the door. “We have already arranged for a license. I am going to meet him directly.”

  “By God, you will not!” Flushing a very satisfying red, he followed her into the hall. Forgotten, all his concerns for discretion! “The cheek of him—to come back here, to press his suit when I already forbade it once—without so much as a word to me! I am his superior! That he did not even ask my permission—”

  She whirled, s
peaking as she walked backward, away from him. “He doesn’t need your permission. I am a woman grown. And you, sir, are a tyrant. If you gave him your blessing, I would refuse his hand. I would rather live as his trollop than satisfy you!”

  He lunged after her. “And I would ruin him for it! Why, I could have him sacked like—” He gave a smart snap of his fingers.

  Georgie rolled her eyes and turned away. “See to your guests,” she threw over her shoulder. “For I am done with your business—all of it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  December 26

  As Georgie stepped into the drawing room, the sight of the Christmas tree made her sigh. All the candles had burned down to stumps, and the servants’ children had stripped away the tinsel to make garlands for themselves. The needles had begun to brown.

  Here was the eternal problem with Christmas: it ended. Oh, in other places, the merriment continued till Twelfth Night, but by now the gaiety would have assumed a frenzied nature, everyone resisting the knowledge that come St. Distaff’s Day, work would resume, with nothing to look forward to but the bleak depths of midwinter.

  Georgie always felt melancholy as she braced for the New Year. This poor tree seemed to reflect her wilting spirits. Thirty-six hours, and she’d still had no word from Lucas.

  She knelt to study the urn in which the tree rested. Should it be watered? The von Bittners had left no instruction for it before their departure this morning.

  “Has everyone gone?”

  She twisted around. Lucas stood in the doorway, still wearing his heavy leather coat and riding boots. She rose to fly to him—thought better of it—crossed her arms very tightly at her waist, as his smile faded to a puzzled frown.

  “What is it?” he asked gently. He wore a satchel over his shoulder; he lifted off the strap now, placing the luggage on the chiffonier as he approached.

  “My father is back.” He had closeted himself with Mr. Sobieski and Count Obolensky after breakfast, to discuss his plan for the conference in Constantinople. But they would emerge soon enough. “He won’t be happy to find you here.”

  “Georgie. How many times must I tell you? It no longer matters.”

  “But it does.” She caught his wrist when he would have touched her. “I told him the whole of it—that we uncovered his deception; that I love you. And he made threats, Lucas. Unless—was the child a girl?”

  Smiling, he turned her hand in his, lifted it to kiss. “I’ll tell you everything in a moment,” he said. “First, a late Christmas gift. Will you open it now? I had it couriered from Paris, at no small expense.”

  Mystified, she let him lead her over to the chairs drawn up by the darkened hearth. He unbuckled the satchel, withdrew a thick binder, and placed it in her hands. It weighed half a stone at least.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Open it.”

  Her fingers trembled as she unwound the twine. Inside lay a thick stack of papers. Her breath caught as she read the first line of the topmost page.

  February 7, 1884

  Dear Georgiana,

  I try to make sense of it all. A wasted effort. My new colleagues must imagine me a perfect fool, so absentminded I must seem to them.

  The door opened. She glanced up, heart beating very hard, and found Lucas on his feet, a military squareness to his posture.

  Her father stepped into the room. “A footman told me of your arrival,” he said to Lucas. “Generally speaking, it is customary to pay your respects directly to the master of the house.” His dark gaze moved pointedly over Lucas’s rumpled wardrobe. “To say nothing,” he added, “of knocking the mud off your boots.”

  She laid down the letter and rose, bristling, but Lucas took a restraining hold on her arm. “I am paying my respects,” he said, “to the woman who has tended this house better than you ever did. To you, sir, I have nothing to offer but my sincere regret, for I had hoped to look on my father-in-law with favor one day.”

  Georgie braced herself for an explosion. Instead, her father stepped farther into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. “Ah. So Georgiana has managed to suborn you into this madness.”

  She hissed. “If you ever had any love for me,” she said, “you will prove it now. You will put aside your pride, your outmoded notions of a suitable gentleman, and recognize this man as the most decent, honorable husband I could ever hope to find.”

  “It has gone beyond your opposition,” Lucas said quietly. “You will consent to our marriage, or you will disapprove of it; but either way, sir, I have acquired a license, and mean to put it into use before the New Year.”

  Georgie turned to him, amazed. “You have a license? How on earth?”

  But her father gave him no chance to reply. “I have no time for this nonsense,” he said sharply. “Very well, go ahead. A more stubborn girl, I’ve yet to encounter—unless it was her mother. In which case, I know how little my opinion signifies. You may have her, Godwin—if not with my blessing, then at least with my resigned tolerance. But I will not lift a finger to promote you. I hope you understand that. You will have her hand—but none of the advantages that you might have expected from it. Will that suffice?”

  “I never wanted more,” Lucas said.

  “Georgiana?” Her father snapped her name. “Will that content you?”

  For a moment, tears blurring her eyes, she was tempted to let the matter go. To take this peace offering, no matter how inadequate.

  But something in her balked, hardened. “No,” she said. “It will not suffice. I have never asked anything of you. I have never complained at your absences—your neglect. I respected your work; I knew it was important. But I was important, too. And if I can’t have your blessing on my marriage, then I will have your apology—not only for what happened in Munich, but for everything before it. Every Christmas you spent without me. Every birthday you neglected to recognize. Then, perhaps, it will suffice. Perhaps.”

  “Ah.” Her father sighed. He passed a hand over his face—and to her amazement, blinked away what looked, all too briefly, like a sheen in his eyes. “You may have that, too,” he said. “I’m sorry, Georgie.” As he glanced to Lucas, he took a deep breath. “Perhaps he is a blessing to you,” he said grudgingly. “Surely he will never put his career before your welfare. He’s already shown himself willing to throw it away with both hands, for your sake. But I shan’t interfere with him, that way.” He looked back to her, his face solemn. “You have my vow. I will take no hand in interfering with his professional accomplishments. And I think . . . Godwin will go far, if it matters.”

  “Lord Lilleston,” said Lucas.

  They both turned. “What?” asked Georgie.

  He was staring at her father. “I am Lord Lilleston to you, sir. And my resignation has already been tendered to the service, so you may count yourself safe from any temptation to go back on your promise not to meddle.”

  “Well!” Her father’s jaw sagged. Then, all at once, he beamed. “Well, that’s a fine ending to this tale, after all! A very merry Christmas gift, I dare say!”

  “Oh, just go,” Georgie said in disgust. “Go and leave us in peace.”

  “Without argument,” he said, and gave her a wink. “Congratulations—my lady.”

  The door shut again.

  “He is incorrigible,” she bit out. “And I do not mean that in the charming sense. He is a perfect dog.”

  “He’s a schemer by nature,” Lucas said. To her astonishment, he sounded almost amused. “We’ll have him knocking at our door by next Christmas, I’ll wager.”

  “I shan’t open that door!”

  “Not next year,” he said. “But perhaps the Christmas after. We’ll make him grovel before we invite him in. And he’ll do it—I promise you that. I’ve seen him pander for less than an earl’s favor.”

  “Forget about him.” She grabbed his hands. “Is everything well at Harlboro Grange? Why didn’t you write?”

  “A very healthy baby girl,” he said, �
�gifted with the unfortunate name of Pandora.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “A curious choice.”

  “A very sly one. I believe I’m meant to count as one of the troubles she’s unleashed on the Godwins.” He urged her to sit down again. “But our conversations were as cordial as one could have hoped,” he went on. “With my uncle gone, there’s nobody left who was instrumental in the quarrel between our families. And I’ve assured the dowager countess that she will be handsomely provided for. I thought—if you don’t mind it—that we might let her remain at the Grange for a year or two, until the child is weaned.”

  We. The world suddenly dimmed as she stared at him—dimmed, and then came pulsing back into vivid clarity, colors brighter and clearer. Even the Christmas tree seemed to perk up. “You really have the license?” she asked softly.

  He reached out to touch her face. “What else could have kept me away, my love?”

  Blushing, she looked down into her lap. She noticed the folder, the letter she had laid aside at her father’s entrance, and retrieved it.

  He had written to her, after Munich. Had poured his heart onto a page that he’d never sent to her.

  “You should have posted this,” she whispered. “It . . .” Such ardent, agonized words. “It would have brought me flying to you.”

  “I should have posted all of them,” he said, just as softly.

  All . . . ? She frowned a question at him, and he nodded, his expression so tender. “Go ahead,” he said. “Look.”

  The folder was full of letters—so many! All of them addressed to her. She glanced through the dates.

  “You wrote to me every day.” She could not quite grasp it. “Every day, you wrote me.”

  “I never let go of you,” he said gently.

  “No.” She swallowed. “You did not.”

  “One more thing.” He reached into his coat and laid the license atop the letters. “Shall we marry on New Year’s Day?”

  She glanced up, appalled. “That’s five days from now!”

  A line appeared between his brows. “Too soon? Of course, perhaps you wish a grand affair—”