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 ordinary 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.”
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.
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