“Gillingham. Andrew Gillingham.” He spoke his name firmly, without inflection.
“A pleasure, Mr. Gillingham.” Mr. Hayward gave a half bow, threw a smile and a wink to Julia, then walked away. The crowd seemed to instinctively part to make way for him as he drew further into the room, which was increasing in its giddy buzz.
Andrew grunted with irritation. “He is quite a cad.”
He turned to leave, but Julia tightened her grip on his elbow. “You are not leaving me here,” she declared.
“Why not?” Andrew said. “I stepped in so you needn’t dance with a particularly loathsome man, but you clearly want to be stuck with that libertine. You have no need of me now.”
Julia stepped closer to him and gazed intently into his dear blue eyes. “Andrew,” she said quietly. “I will always need you.”
He looked away and breathed through his nose, his jaw working.
She tried again. “You promised me the first dance. A gentleman wouldn’t renege on a promise to a gentlewoman, would he?”
Andrew’s stiff expression softened as he tried not to smile. “Are you insinuating that I’m a gentleman?”
Julia released a dramatic sigh. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Gillingham. Worse, you’ll soon be a gentleman with a respectable profession and a thousand pounds a year.” She ignored his laugh at the ridiculously large sum and continued. “Then I will be the one attending balls so that I may rescue you from the unwanted attentions of young ladies. Daughters of earls will be vying for your eye, and I’ll have to beat them off with a parasol.”
Andrew chuckled so hard he nearly snorted. “Let’s dance then, you silly gentlewoman.” He held out his elbow again.
She took it. “Yes, let’s.”
As they walked onto the dance floor, she breathed a mental sigh of relief; she never wanted to upset Andrew, but she also didn’t need him behaving like an overprotective brother.
Especially when she wanted the attention of a certain Mr. Silas Hayward.
Julia and Andrew took the final spot in line just as the music began. She curtsied, he bowed, and they danced, weaving in and out of formations, coming back together, and turning in the patterns the quadrille required.
Midway through the set, Andrew struck up a conversation. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Oh? What is that?” Julia pressed her lips together in a small smile. She assumed he was still in the jocular mood of a few minutes before and expected a question along the lines of being gentlemanly or not.
A bright-blue cravat caught her eye, and she couldn’t help but stare, nearly stumbling over her slippers as well as Andrew’s boots while her attention was drawn to Mr. Hayward. He stood at the edge of the floor with a glass of port in one hand, his eyes on her. At first she questioned whether he was looking elsewhere, but when he noted her looking back, he raised his glass, his lips curved into an intriguing line that sent her heart pounding.
Another near trip over a different set of slippers—those of the woman beside her—tore Julia’s attention from Mr. Hayward and back to the dance. She quickly murmured an apology to the unknown lady, then hurried to Andrew’s side, still holding his hand but not entirely sure what part of the dance she’d missed or where to pick up. Watching the other couple for a measure solved the problem, and she slipped back into the correct step.
As she and Andrew promenaded down the center of their group, she remembered that he’d spoken before Mr. Hayward had drawn her attention. “You were saying?”
“It was nothing.” His tone and expression weren’t ones of anger, but distance. He seemed out of sorts, and Julia determined to figure out what, precisely, was bothering him. “Did you hurt yourself just now?”
“With my stumble? No, I’m quite well,” she said. “Though I’m not entirely certainly the same can be said for the woman in the brown gown over there.”
In answer, Andrew gave a weak smile, took her hand, and kept dancing, but his temperament seemed changed, and Julia guessed that the shift had something to do with her careless misstep a moment before.
“I’m truly sorry I got distracted,” Julia said. “I’m quite sure that my incompetent dancing won’t reflect poorly on your abilities.”
“I’m not the least bit troubled by that, so long as you are unhurt.” Andrew’s shoulders went back as he straightened his stance, and he let out a breath that might have been a sigh.
Julia glanced over her shoulder, as if by seeing the spot on the floor they’d been standing on a moment before, she’d be able to witness the moment again and better surmise what had upset Andrew, for she knew he was upset. She’d known him long enough to recognize that weak smile for the mask it was, though the cause remained a mystery.
He’d been about to ask her something. She held that thought and dove back into the conversation, hoping to return the mood back to the pleasantness of a minute before. “What were you going to ask me?” She gave Andrew her best smile, and even with another flash of a bright-blue cravat from the side of the room, she did not trip or lose her focus at all.
“Merely what we brushed upon earlier on our way to the pavilion: what happened at the beach when you went on ahead yesterday morning.”
Her stomach went sour, and she suddenly noticed that her grip on Andrew’s hand was a bit too viselike. She forced out a chuckle. “Caroline had been complaining for some time about wanting to return to the inn, so I returned sooner than I otherwise would have.”
“Ah,” Andrew said with a nod.
They danced for several bars before either spoke again. This time, however, Julia was the one feeling out of sorts, desperately curious as to what Andrew saw in her to suspect that anything out of the ordinary might have occurred—and precisely what he suspected in that regard. Certainly not that she might have eavesdropped upon a handsome gentleman smuggler and a member of his crew.
She wove in and out of the couples, then returned to Andrew. “Why do you ask?” She hoped her voice was as airy as intended, but if she could sense from the slightest shift in Andrew’s demeanor that something was awry with him, then he could most definitely sense the same in her. She’d wager that any other man, her father included, wouldn’t have noticed anything different about her countenance when she returned from her solo walk. None would notice her pretense now, either. Only Andrew, unless she could feign lighthearted denial well enough to fool someone who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.
“You were rather flushed,” Andrew said. “Cheeks bright pink.”
“I’m amazed that you’d wonder at that, what with the morning chill and the fact that I was walking about—two things that naturally bring about color in a lady’s face.”
“But your complexion was a deeper pink when you returned compared to when you left us. It went from cherry-blossom pink to the deep pink of your father’s peonies.”
She lifted an eyebrow in feigned disbelief and chuckled again. “Andrew, please.”
“There’s more.”
Oh, heavens.
“Pray tell, what else?” Her smiles were beginning to feel like drying plaster and her laughter like a high note on an off-pitch violin.
Andrew’s eyebrow went up, a twin to hers, only in curiosity. Drat. He’d noticed the tension in her voice and face. Of course he noticed. And if he hadn’t already, he was about to note that her fingers had gone cold; he’d be able to feel their iciness through her thin gloves.
“You were breathing heavily, as if you’d been running—as if you’d been running from something. Or someone.”
Hand in hand, they skipped and hopped along the dance floor, belying his serious tone. His hand tightened around her fingers protectively, though he couldn’t have had any idea what had startled her or why she’d been afraid. The gesture crumbled her walls of pretense. Remembering the moment at the shore, and practically feeling the weight of Mr. Hayward’s stare yet on her a moment ago, Julia felt heat creeping up her neck.
“Let’s go outside,�
�� she said suddenly. “I need a breath of air.” Whether she’d confess all to Andrew out of doors, she could not say, but she certainly needed to remove herself from the pressing heat and airlessness of the vast ballroom.
“Of course.” Without another word, Andrew slipped her arm into the crook of his and led her off the dance floor, then wove through guests milling along the edges of the room until they reached the tall glass doors leading outside. A footman nodded as they passed through the exquisitely carved doorway and entered the elaborate gardens filled with shrubs and flowers that were unfamiliar to her. They walked several feet along a path, and then she turned to look at the pavilion and sighed in awe at the bulbous spires reminiscent of India.
“I’ve never seen the like,” she said.
“Most impressive.” Andrew placed a hand over hers at his elbow, and they walked forward in silence. She admired the view, amazed at how luxurious and fantastical the gardens and pavilion exterior were. The gentle sound of lapping water seemed to come from all around, a reminder that the pavilion was built upon a pier.
After a time, they reached a stone bench, and Andrew suggested they sit on it to chat. What should she tell Andrew? Could she safely tell him anything about what she’d seen and heard on her walk that morning?
“If you’d rather not relate what happened,” Andrew began, “I understand. But I hope you know that you may confide in me about anything, at any time.”
Dear, dear Andrew. She smiled again, only this time, it was as natural and genuine as an apple blossom. “I know I can.”
Yet . . . his words seemed to imply something far more than the assurance that she could confide her troubles in a friend. Was it possible that Andrew had deeper feelings for her? The thought sent a swarm of wings alight in her middle—a sensation both delicious and unsettling. If he did see her as more than a friend, more than practically a cousin or a sister, what did that mean for her? For their friendship?
She’d never contemplated Andrew in such terms, yet now that the concept had been presented, she found herself drawn to it—drawn to him. For the first time in memory, she admired his jawline and the slight wave in his hair, near glowing under the silvery moonlight. The bright blue of his eyes—kinder and warmer than Mr. Hayward’s icy blue—and the fact that Andrew was the perfect height for her to walk with, talk with, dance with, and even fall asleep beside. She’d done the latter in the family drawing room accidentally when the family was there after supper, reading and talking. One night in the winter, the crackling warmth of the fireplace had lulled her to sleep, and she’d wakened suddenly only to realize she’d slept with her head resting on his shoulder. They matched in so many ways, as if they were created to fit like puzzle pieces.
“Julia, I have something I must tell you.”
A sudden fear of the unknown, of possible change, gripped her, and she broke in, unable to bear the loss of her friend. “Andrew, you’ll never know just how grateful I am for you.” Even as she tried to head off his attempt at changing their status quo, she felt betrayal in her own heart. Perhaps she should want such a change, should welcome it.
Before she could go on, before she could analyze her feelings at all, her words cut off, as did all thought, because Andrew was altogether so close, entirely filling her senses as he gazed into her eyes in a way he never had. For the space of several heartbeats, they sat in silence, side by side on the cool bench under the night sky, warmth—and something else, far more intense than she’d experienced with anyone else—passing between them. The sensation washed from him to her, engulfing her heart and senses, then returned to him in a wave, only to return to her a moment later.
What was this feeling? She could not think or speak, and while she wanted the moment to last and last, she feared its continuing as much as she craved it. Was it connection? Attraction? Love?
Could it be? Love Andrew? But he’s my friend. A chum . . .
He’s also a dreadfully handsome man.
She swallowed nervously, which broke the tension enough for her to inhale, then remember her name and his. Looking away, she stared at the grass bordering the path. For his part, Andrew kept his gaze on her, but she needed a moment without seeing his warm blue eyes to formulate her thoughts.
“Julia,” Andrew said again, now taking both of her hands in his. Once more, the push and pull of wanting to be near him and wanting to pull away warred within her, forces of equal power. “We have known each other for some time, since we were but children, yet since my father’s passing, since living with your family and learning the banking trade from your father, I have found our friendship to be one of both happiness and misery.”
“A misery?” Julia scooted closer to him, terribly worried. “Andrew, how have I wronged you? Oh, please tell me; I cannot bear to think that I’ve offended or wounded my dearest friend.”
“Dearest friend,” Andrew repeated, a wan half smile settling onto his face. “Therein lies the misery.”
“How so?” Julia asked, then immediately wished she had not. The fear of losing her friend, of settling for the commonplace when there were exciting, adventurous men in the world, began to be victorious over the new pull of attraction toward Andrew. In regards to excitement, Mr. Hayward outshone anyone.
“Every day I pray that you might look upon me with favor, that perhaps you might come to . . . to love me as I have found myself most ardently loving you.”
She felt as unable to move as stone and wished she had not drawn quite so close to Andrew a moment before; she was all too aware of his presence, of his leg beside hers, his arm against hers, the warmth of his body . . .
“Julia?” he said after a moment. “Please say something. I can’t bear the silence.”
What could she say? She could scarcely form a thought, much less a coherent statement about her emotional state, when she did not yet know what it was for herself.
In the distance, she heard the door to the pavilion open, and she used the interruption to her advantage, turning from Andrew to see who was entering the gardens. Surely he wouldn’t want witnesses to this private moment—though he’d apparently had no issue with the dozens of people meandering about the gardens already, each couple in a world of their own.
Instead of another pair emerging from the doors, a single man appeared—tall, with a dark coat and boots. He paused, seemingly looking about, then headed toward their bench. Light from a nearby lamp spilled onto his chest, revealing a bright-blue cravat. Such timing. Julia’s mind raced for how to handle the forthcoming situation, but Mr. Hayward reached them before she’d formed so much as a kernel of a plan.
He stopped in front of them, his boots sending a few pebbles skittering away. “The second dance is about to begin, Miss Hughes,” he said with a bow. “I believe the honor of being your partner is reserved for me?” He held out a hand expectantly.
“Alas, Miss Hughes is unwell,” Andrew said. “She will have to enjoy your company another time. We retired from the quadrille because she needed air.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Hayward said, his tone one of challenge rather than question.
“Indeed,” Andrew replied with a stone face.
The two men seemed to stare daggers at each other, though neither wore a matching expression. Who knew so much could be communicated with nothing but one’s eyes?
“I-I’m quite well now,” Julia said, standing. Andrew reluctantly released her arm. She turned to him, and their eyes locked, sending the same wave of heat and emotion over her. Mr. Hayward extended his hand further, and she took it. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Gillingham,” she told Andrew, but the look on his face sent a dagger to her heart. She’d wounded him, more deeply than anything she might have guessed at when he first began talking of misery.
What could she do now? She’d already promised the second dance to Mr. Hayward, and she’d already taken his hand and stood. She couldn’t very well rebuff the man now.
The best she could do was a silent apology, which she did in the
form of a hand sign, a fist over her heart, rotating it in a circle. She hoped he would accept her apology and understand. What she would say next time they spoke, she hadn’t the slightest idea.
Andrew bent his fisted right hand at the wrist, an affirmative reply. She tried to smile, and he gave an even weaker one than before in return. The next thing she knew, she’d left Andrew behind and was taking her place for the reel with Mr. Hayward. He smiled, and his penetrating gaze sent a different kind of heat through her—one not entirely comfortable, though very exciting.
As she curtsied to begin the dance, she had the uneasy premonition of having left her childhood friend in the gardens. From that night, her friendship with Andrew would never be the same.
Julia hadn’t been dancing with Mr. Hayward more than a few seconds before her thoughts and worries about Andrew vanished like butterflies in the wind. Something about the mysterious Mr. Hayward, from his dashing looks to his adventures and risk-taking drew her to him like a moth to flame.
I trust he will not doom me to the fate of a moth, she thought wryly, and, when Mr. Hayward led her into the next step, she returned his broad smile with her own.
“You will inform me if such a moment arrives in which you need a bit of air again,” Mr. Hayward said, “won’t you?”
“I do not think that will be necessary. I feel quite well.” Julia felt somewhat better than well, a fact that made her feel not a little guilty over leaving Andrew behind as she had.
Knowing he was yet in the gardens was enough to convince her to not request fresh air; if she took a turn outside with Mr. Hayward, it would serve only to make Andrew feel worse than he did. She did not want the two men to have any additional harsh words between them, even if the general idea of two men fighting over her sounded romantic. Books with such stories were certainly enjoyable, but the reality wasn’t at all pleasant.
What did happen between Mr. Hayward and Andrew? She couldn’t be entirely sure—and thinking on it only muddled her mind further.
A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13) Page 12