Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  “I did not think you would come this evening,” he admitted wryly, as he stood at a corner shelf pouring brandy. Silently, he held a glass out to her.

  She gave a tight smile, shook her head, and said, “I was given to understand that I didn’t have much choice.” She tilted her head as she added, “Very adroitly implied, I should say.”

  “True, but you do not seem the type to cave to the demands of others.”

  “On the contrary, my profession, like most commerce, inherently defers to the demands of the customer. I am at the mercy of customers on one end and suppliers on the other. Of course, I have to cave in some areas.”

  “So, if you would agree that you caved to the invitation, why the change of heart when you were so clearly not interested in attending?”

  “Your mother’s request, for one. I am not foolish enough to offend a viscount and his lady mother by rejecting an explicit invitation. My curiosity, for another. Why little old me? What could I possibly bring to such an occasion that would warrant said invitation? And, of course, I am a businesswoman first. To sit at a table with some of the finest living writers of our time, how could I ignore that opportunity?”

  “My mother has taken a liking to you, as I suspected she would. You two are kindred. I could see she was shaken to the core over those factory children you mentioned. I would not be surprised if she convinces many of her friends to contribute to the cause, however ineffectually.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, skeptical, before returning her attention to the displays, fingertips on the edge of a display case to balance herself as she leaned in.

  “Anyone not made of adamant would be shaken,” she said. “Lady Devin is very kind and altogether exceedingly generous and gracious. She does seem so familiar . . . in the best possible sense.” She trailed off, confused at her own susceptibility to this family. “I’m not so sure I acquitted myself well professionally with the guests, though.”

  Her progress along the display case was arrested. Her eyes focused sharply, and she leaned close to the glass top.

  “Are these Blake illustrations authentic?”

  He nodded.

  “They’re beautiful. The pairings make such a thought-provoking contrast . . . the Lamb and the Tyger . . . the chimney-sweeps.” She continued to follow the line of the display, observing each piece carefully, appreciative of the obvious care taken with all of them. Without looking at him, she added, “I’m sure your mother makes everyone feel favored. She seems to have a special gift for making guests feel she is entirely in sympathy with them.”

  “True, but she is really quite selective with her inner sanctum, metaphorically speaking.” He could see her trying to extricate herself from the discussion about his mother and let her go. He stood and shifted topics, delving ever so delicately into his mission. “How did you know about the children? One hears about random accidents, but you had very specific information, even down to the children’s ages.”

  “I am fortunate that some investigative journalists trust me to publish their work anonymously. Those tracts you purchased, for example. You may have guessed that the authors use noms de guerre and pseudonyms for their subjects to defend against retribution.”

  “How do you know then that these authors are . . . forthright?”

  “I know them personally, not just by name. I know and admire their legitimate work. I know and trust their characters. They are sincere, upstanding citizens, devoted to aiding the weak and defenseless.”

  He believed her. More than that, he wanted, he realized sharply, for her to talk about him with that same unwavering faith and admiration. Even as he tried to shut down her work. Here she was essentially explaining outright a process by which she could attack prominent manufacturers. She made no pretense otherwise. This hypocritical snare left a bitter taste in his mouth that the brandy couldn’t wash away.

  “This map is beautiful!” she said, her attention riveted to the wall display.

  He groaned inwardly. The map was impossible to miss, large as it was, and positioned so centrally—behind the desk, between the windows. Upon entering the library, most people noticed it first. A bookseller, on the other hand, would naturally be drawn to the displays. He still hated the map, but his mother loved it. His siblings cherished it. Everyone who saw it marveled at it.

  “Ah, yes, the map.”

  “You disagree?”

  He shrugged. “It is just a map.”

  “What do all these dots represent?” Leave it to her to scrutinize it so intently.

  “Those are pinholes my father made. He used to put pins in to note the places he visited.”

  “But there are so many. He couldn’t possibly have traveled to all these places, could he? It would take years.”

  “He was an explorer for as long as I can recall. When I was younger, I suspected he was Ponce de León reincarnated, still seeking the secret to immortality. He wrote monographs about some of his travels. They are housed on the shelf over here, along with notebooks he kept on each of his journeys.” The shelf he pointed to was filled with irregularly shaped volumes, some immaculately bound and others worn, with oversized objects poking out the top. Most people would be impressed by his father’s body of work. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to be one of them.

  “Have you been to any of these places?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I had no interest in following my father’s shadow. I leave that to my brother and sister.”

  “Where are they these days?”

  “My mother has not told you about them already? I suppose the opportunity has not yet arisen. She is ever so fond of relating their adventures. Amelia is married to an Italian baron and now living happily in Florence. Before they had children, they traveled every summer. Mother tries to visit them at least twice a year.”

  “How lucky for your sister to marry so well.”

  “Yes, lucky.”

  “You disapprove?”

  “As you said, Amelia was fortunate to find someone so compatible and indulgent.”

  “And you disapprove.” Tenacious little thing.

  “They are married and have been together happily for more than six years now. He treats her well. I have no complaints.”

  “Hmm.” She seemed about to press further but then shifted. “And where is your brother?”

  “Ah, Andrew. Unlike Amelia, he has no ties or responsibilities to slow him down. He follows the wind.”

  “How does he afford to be a nomad?”

  “Well, much like a traditional nomad, he travels light and makes the most of available resources. He has a modest living and seems to fall into grants from various societies—historical, cartographical. Sometimes he travels on assignment, but most of the time he appears able to wander the globe for pleasure.”

  “Again, how . . . lucky.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Where is he now?” she asked as she traced the line of pinpoints running from London to Pakistan to Hong Kong.

  “He does not keep us as informed of his movements as I would like. Last I heard, he was in Amsterdam.” Without conscious intent, he too reached up. Crossing over her arm, he put his finger on that city. It was the first time since pulling out all those pins that he actually touched this record of his father’s obsession. As fresh anger and frustration swept over him, he couldn’t breathe. She took her hand off the map slowly and touched his arm.

  “It must have been awful for you all, your father dying so far from home. While your mother helped me prepare for dinner, she told me how shocking and devastating it was to her.”

  He closed his eyes, unable to speak.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted it that way,” she continued. “I’m sure, given the opportunity, he would have wanted one last chance to see you all, to say good-bye.”

  He turned on her, unable to keep his silence.

  “You have no idea. He had every opportunity. Every. Opportunity. To be with us. To be a family,” he ground out
as he loomed over her. “Over and over, he chose to leave. He never wanted to stay.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, barely audible. She took a few steps back. “I spoke foolishly.”

  As if he hadn’t heard her, he barreled on, focusing his attention back on the map. “He had a wife and children who idolized him. Caesar himself could not have received a warmer, more extravagant welcome from his subjects. After she turned four, Amelia wept for days every time he departed again. Andrew was more of a man about it; he would retreat into his studies and athletics. Mother strove to put on a happy face, praising her errant husband as a man of the world.” He picked up a letter opener and began turning it in his hands as he moved toward the bookshelves, aimless but needing to move, needing to distance himself from the map, from the conversation.

  “What did you do?”

  “What?” he asked coarsely as if just noticing with irritation that she was in the room.

  “When your father went away on his travels, what did you do? You said your sister mourned and your brother distracted himself. What about you?”

  “I did whatever I was supposed to do at the time. When I was of school age, I focused on whatever skills I needed to eventually take on the role of viscount. When my studies were complete, I simply took on as much of my father’s duties as I could. I was running the estate under his title well before he died.”

  “It sounds like you didn’t have much time to pursue your own interests.”

  He looked at her directly as he said, “My family is my most fundamental interest.”

  She stared back into his eyes and nodded. “Sometimes we have no choice but to sacrifice ourselves for our families, for the greater good.”

  “I do not consider it a sacrifice. I consider it my vocation.”

  “What would you do, though, if you didn’t have these responsibilities? Don’t misunderstand me—your devotion to your family is noble, it’s unutterably admirable, and it’s all too rare. But consider, just for a moment, what you might do if you were beholden to no one? If you didn’t have to worry about your siblings and your mother? Where would you go? What would you want to be? What would you want to do?”

  “Such idle speculation is a waste of energy. It is dangerously fanciful.”

  “My father didn’t think so,” she replied coldly. She turned and went back to the nearest display case. “After my mother passed, he became extremely reflective and philosophical.”

  No good can come of that, he thought, but thought better of saying it aloud.

  “As much as he loved the bookshop, he’d originally wanted it as much for my mother’s sake as for his own. After she was gone, he held on to it in her memory but didn’t want me saddled with its keeping. He didn’t want to dictate my future. Every few months, he would ask me, ‘What would you do if you could do anything without reservation? ’ It became a game, actually. I started with reasonable education and travel goals and eventually embellished wildly, sometimes just to see his reaction. At one point, I wanted to be an inventor of the male version of a corset. And then I wanted to be a mortician. And then I wanted to be a harem girl.”

  “A harem girl?” He stared at her as illicit images of her flesh wrapped in sheer scarves flashed through his mind.

  “So that I could lead the harem in a revolt and subvert the entire Persian ideology of women, of course.”

  He snorted, his imagination firmly tamped down, and thought briefly of the profile from Withersby. She was certainly intellectually and philosophically capable of producing subversive documents, and she had the machinery and wherewithal to print and distribute. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The turn of their discussion had diverted him from his mission; he needed to regain focus, but her voice kept drawing him to the dark corners of his mind, to questions—and emotions—he’d ruthlessly suppressed.

  “So,” she said softly, “what would you do . . . if you could do anything without reservation?”

  He shook his head.

  She waited.

  Seconds stretched out to minutes.

  At first, he refused to consider the idea. But she simply watched him with those doe eyes, soft, sympathetic, somehow familiar. She watched him and she waited. And when he truly thought about what he wanted to do, what he would do if he had no responsibilities, no obstacles, no rules, only one answer came to him. It had nothing to do with exotic places or dazzling careers. It had nothing to do with Withersby and his clients or even with the Devin family. It had to do with this room and this moment and this luminous woman in front of him. He walked toward her slowly, tentatively, at first, but then more confidently as he found his voice.

  “What would I do if nothing stood in my way?”

  She nodded.

  “What would I do if I had no one to answer to and nowhere to be?”

  “Yes, in your wildest, freest dreams, what would you do?”

  He was close now. One more step, and her skirt would brush his trousers. He could see smile lines on her cheeks, the promise of joy and approval. Her eyes, open and frank, narrowed slightly at his approach. Her lips, full and lush, seemed on the verge of spreading in glee.

  He took one last step toward her and said, “Assuming there were no objection . . . what I would do, in my wildest dream, is kiss you.”

  She backed away, her brow furrowing, but he noticed the change in her breathing. Faster, shallower.

  “Don’t toy with me. I was being serious,” she said. He was almost certain he heard something very unladylike whispered under her breath as well. She walked toward the door.

  “I am not joking. That is what I want to do.”

  She halted and looked at him, a rather unwelcome look. “Stop. I was wrong to be so forward, so presumptuous as to ask you about your deepest desires. I had no right to ask such intimate questions, and I am duly chastised. There was no need to be snide. It’s best I return to the party.”

  “Wait! Please. I was not being snide or sarcastic.”

  She still looked like a bird about to take flight. He gestured to the chair nearest her.

  “Please,” he repeated, “if you will sit, we can talk seriously.”

  She sat stiffly, perched on the front of the chair, a hand to her throat.

  “It was not at all my intention to offend you or chastise you. My answer was sincere.”

  At that she stood again. He continued hurriedly. “But if I am honest with myself, there is much I want to do with this life that has nothing to do with the viscountcy. I cannot give time or energy to such indulgent dreams because I do have responsibilities. Besides, you said yourself that your answers turned outrageous. You never actually said what you truly wanted to do.”

  She sat back down, all but slumped into the chair. She wasn’t the only perceptive person in the room.

  “No. You’ve caught me. I haven’t seriously considered the question in years. I have responsibilities too. The bookshop is but the most obvious one, and it forms its own circular argument. I need to run the shop in order to be financially independent. Only if I am financially independent can I pursue some fantasy path. But if I were to pursue some dream, I would have to close the shop and therefore be unable to afford the dream. For me, such dreams are a trap packaged in a paradox.”

  Again, the room was quiet for a few moments. He fervently wished he could see the thoughts streaking through her mind, reflecting in the swiftly changing expressions on her face. It was a reverie he felt should not be disturbed. When she finally looked up at him, he changed the subject.

  “I’ve been remiss,” he said, maintaining his distance. “I meant to tell you earlier your dress fits most becomingly. There are extra panels in the bodice, I believe.”

  She looked at him askance, offended. Well, at least that got her attention. Her eyes were no longer distant and glazed.

  “I only mean panels added for modesty, not size.”

  “You mean the neckline was originally lower than this?” Impossible , she thought. With he
r shoulders and neck exposed so, she constantly feared she might fall out of the top as it was. She had observed that it was more modest than any of the other ladies in attendance, but she still felt as though, if it were any lower, well, her nipples would undoubtedly pop out.

  “The original owner was not so magnificently endowed in that area.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of this soft, docile Lord Devin. Where were the sharp edges, the sardonic comments, the cocked brow? She wasn’t accustomed to niceness from him, and she certainly wasn’t accustomed to compliments from anyone. So even this inappropriate one made her feel special, if only for a moment. Heat spread through her.

  “You look radiant this evening,” he added.

  Her face burned; it was a wonder she didn’t spontaneously combust.

  “You shouldn’t speak to me so.” She got up and moved to the far side of a display case, clearly putting even more space between them.

  “Whyever not?”

  “You know perfectly well why, young man.” She looked at him pointedly.

  He cocked an eyebrow then but seemed to take her meaning, as he moved back to the settee.

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself with my mother’s writer friends. She does love to show off her writing circle.”

  “They’re a lively bunch, aren’t they? I’m surprised to find myself espousing such a contradictory stance on the love issue, but I enjoyed their open exchanges,” she replied with a smile. “It’s always fascinating to see where authors get their inspiration, how they piece ideas together, what they see in the world that we easily miss or forget. They’re a special breed. Maybe that’s why so many of them are in love with their wives.”

  “Do you truly believe love is not important in marriage?”

  “I don’t think it’s a requirement, no. I’m sure it can develop over time, but I think what many young people take as love is really just physical attraction, which fades. Or infatuation, which likewise cannot be sustained. Those aren’t qualities upon which to build a lifelong commitment.”