Page 10 of The Gods Time Forgot

Ten

Finn was inundated with mail. It was astounding to see the kind of doors that opened to him simply by spending time with Annette Fitzgerald.

“Is all of that for me?” He was going to have to hire someone else to go through it.

“It is, my lord,” the valet answered.

He picked up a handful off the top of the pile. An invite from the Applegates, another ball at the end of the week, a charity event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

He stared down the mountain of mail long enough to let the doubt find its way in and ruin it. Was this what he wanted? A life spent pandering to peers at social engagements?

Shaking his head, he tossed the letters back on his desk. It was tiring, the promenading and the smiling, the drinks before dinner, the cigars at the club. Not a moment of peace was to be found. But he thought of his business aspirations, knowing he couldn’t have one without the other.

“The water is ready when you are, sir.”

Finn looked to the valet; his shaving kit was laid out at the ready. He had the Randalls’ dinner tonight.

“Thank you,” he said, dismissing the valet with a nod. He’d never let another man hold a blade to his neck.

Finn bent over the basin and splashed the hot water on his face, then began to shave.

The Randalls’ dinner was an event as exclusive as they came, a Who’s Who of the social set—though Gloria Fitzgerald would argue that they were letting anyone in these days, her remark no doubt directed at the Harringtons.

He’d seen it in action, the way Flossie Harrington quite literally pushed her way into things. She was forward and unscrupulous, impervious to the fact that the social elite did not want her and her new money. Richard had seen Ned’s millions and welcomed him in, but money wasn’t enough to grant access to their world. True acceptance was imparted by the women, women like Gloria Fitzgerald and her friends.

They were waiting for Rua to slip up—hard evidence to prove Richard had made a mistake in taking a chance on Ned. He couldn’t help but feel there would be a domino effect. If Ned toppled, Finn was next.

He paused to look in the mirror, careful as he let the sharp razor glide across his cheek.

Nasty business, the lot of it.

His mind wandered to Rua. It had been days since he’d last seen her, and he dreaded the thought of another event in such close proximity.

The first of the trunks from Malvina Webster’s shop arrived a week after Rua had her measurements taken and just in time for the Randalls’ dinner. It wasn’t a coincidence. The dressmaker was well aware of the social calendar, and she was sending up Rua’s wardrobe as it became ready.

Rua didn’t know who the Randalls were, but they were important enough for the Fitzgeralds to attend their event, which meant the Harringtons would be tagging along too.

“The dresses from Malvina’s are perfect,” she said to Mara.

Made for her, not Emma. A simple truth that lifted a thousand pounds off her shoulders. It was almost enough to make her look forward to the dinner this evening.

“Your mother wants you downstairs in the breakfast room,” Mara said, organizing the gowns for the chambermaids to put away in their appropriate places.

“Very well.” Rua smiled, sliding her hand across the many skirts as she left, excited to have something of her own.

“You’re in a cheery mood,” Mara noted as they descended the staircase.

“How can I not be? This evening will be different,” she said, finally feeling like she was gaining some footing. She’d spent the last few days in the library, out of Flossie’s way, reading guidebooks on acting like a proper lady. For once, she felt prepared to venture out of the house.

Reading up on social etiquette wasn’t necessarily the best use of her time—she was still memoryless and not Emma—but she hoped it would earn her a reprieve where Flossie was concerned. If the events she attended went well, she would be able to search for the truth without the stress of the asylum hanging over her head.

“I hope so,” Mara said, waiting for her to walk into the breakfast room.

Rua sat down at the table alone while Mara stood behind her. A footman set tea and sweet scones on the table.

“Thank you,” she said, to no response.

As she buttered her blueberry scone, she wondered if the Lord of Donore would be at the dinner. Part of her hoped so. She wanted to get to the bottom of whatever it was about him that had her so vexed. Though she doubted she’d get within two feet of him, seeing as Annette had her sights on the lord.

“You’d better hurry up with that scone before your mother catches you,” Mara said.

“If I wasn’t supposed to eat it, it wouldn’t be on the table,” Rua quipped.

The pastry was on its way to her mouth when Mrs. Harrington burst into the room and swatted it from her hands. The buttered scone dropped to the floor, tumbling under the table.

“Dear god! Whatever were you thinking , putting something like that in your mouth? You have dozens of Malvina Webster gowns that you need to fit into! Mara, I’ve warned you to watch her. I’ll have to have a word with Mrs. Smith about your duties.”

Eyes downcast, Mara nodded. “Apologies, Mrs. Harrington.”

“She tried to stop me,” Rua interrupted, but Flossie held up her hand to shush her.

“Have you learned the names of tonight’s attendees?” she asked Rua.

“Oh, yes, I memorized every last one of them.” Rua laughed, assuming Flossie was joking, but she should have learned by now that the woman didn’t make jokes.

Flossie’s eyes narrowed. “Go on, then, name them.”

Unprepared, Rua pressed her lips together.

“That’s what I thought,” Flossie said, as though Rua’s failures were inevitable. “Tonight’s event will be far more intimate. Perhaps you might even have a second chance with the Lord of Donore. If you are prepared.” With that final warning, Flossie exited the room, the skirt of her dress sweeping behind her.

“The names of the attendees?” Rua turned to Mara.

“I’ll get the book,” Mara said, looking flustered. “I keep forgetting you don’t remember anything .” And just like that, Rua’s confidence in her abilities to impress Flossie vanished. Not that she’d ever thought she could impress her, but she’d thought she could at least not annoy her.

Rua bathed in record time so she could put on her new gown. The bodice, made of an orange silk faille material, was closely fitted, with boning in the seams, short puffy sleeves, and lace trim around the d é colletage. The waist was extended, coming to a point in the front in a ruched basque.

The only part of the underskirt that was visible was the tiered ruffled lighter-orange hem. On top of that was the knee-length overskirt, with more ruffles and ribbons, bunched up in a polonaise style over the bustle.

The final touch was the short white gloves she pulled on as she walked down the staircase.

Rua knew she looked good, though Flossie merely nodded. She was beginning to think it might actually kill Flossie to pay her a compliment.

“You both look magnificent,” Ned said, guiding them out the front doors to the carriage.

On the impossible chance that Flossie would forget she was there, Rua sat in silence, staring out the window. She couldn’t risk Flossie asking her to rattle off the guest list, because she simply could not.

Rua turned her focus to a woman walking on the dark sidewalk, barely visible under the dim lampposts. For a moment, Rua was jealous of the woman’s freedom. Why was she allowed to walk by herself outside but Rua couldn’t? But she reminded herself that staying with the Harringtons, and following their rules, was her choice.

She sat forward as they kept pace with the woman. Her gait was familiar, long and hurried. A gust of wind kicked up, blowing off the woman’s hood, revealing Mara.

Rua wasn’t sure why she was surprised to see her walking on the sidewalk. It had never occurred to her to ask Mara what she did in her free time or that she even had any. Perhaps she was sneaking off to a lover or visiting the hellmouth.

They arrived at the Randalls’ home exactly on time. It wasn’t as monstrous as the Harringtons’, but it was no less elegant.

“Good evening.” A butler greeted them at the door. The foyer was empty, but Rua could hear laughter and chatter echoing from the room to their right.

“Mr. Harrington, if you will follow me.” Another servant appeared. “The men are on the veranda.”

Ned smiled and walked off to join the others.

“Flossie.” A woman Rua assumed to be Mrs. Randall found them in the foyer. “So lovely that you could make it.” She smiled.

Liar , Rua thought.

“Emma, this is Mrs. Randall.”

They exchanged pleasantries and followed Mrs. Randall into the salon.

Luxe tapestries coated the wall, and smartly appointed furniture filled the room with warmth, complementing the well-lit sconces and candelabras.

About a dozen women were scattered about the room, some on couches, others hovering by the floor-length windows. There were a few open chairs nestled nearby where Annette Fitzgerald was making a show of looking at Rua and giggling with her friends. Lily Stevens was among them, though she offered Rua an apologetic smile.

“Smile and say hello,” Flossie hissed.

Rua would have preferred to gouge her own eyes out. Fortunately, the rest of the women had collectively decided to ignore her presence, saving her the trouble. They cast their glances sideways and returned to their conversations with their noses stuck up in the air.

Undaunted, Flossie pushed her way in, leaving Rua to her own devices.

She waited awkwardly with her back to the door, looking in on conversations that she’d never be privy to. The women’s exclusionary tactics did not inspire in her a desperate need to fit in; rather, they filled her with a simmering hatred that was sure to boil over.

She imagined Emma Harrington, the one they were really trying to hurt, to be timid and softspoken, a woman who likely did want their acceptance. But rather than allowing her the privilege, they’d bully her until her diabolic mother decided she could handle no further embarrassment and send her away. Too bad for them, they had Rua to contend with now.

Out of nowhere, the chatter grew to a fever pitch. Rua looked to Flossie, who was making crazy eyes at her, mouthing and motioning for her to turn around.

But she didn’t need to turn her head to know what had caused the commotion. The way Annette’s smile softened and her eyelashes flittered told Rua exactly who had entered the room. What was he even doing in here? The men were on the veranda. Perhaps the Lord of Donore just needed a quick boost to his ego.

She could feel his presence directly behind her. Indomitable and imposing. If she took a step backward, she would land in his arms. The thought sent an irritating flurry to her stomach.

Before Flossie gave herself a stroke, Rua gave in, turning to look at the lord. Her heart gathered speed as her eyes traveled upward and found his. The intensity in his gaze left her breathless. And for a brief, mind-altering moment, they were the only two people in the room.

Rua fought hard against the haze threatening her consciousness. The one that offered her bliss in the form of sweet-smelling flowers and masculine strength.

He leaned toward her, turning her own body against her. They were so close she could reach out and touch him. His eyes moved to her mouth, sending her pulse racing and the world grinding to a halt. He was going to kiss her; she was sure of it. Her traitorous lips parted at the thought.

“Miss Harrington,” he said, his breath deliciously warm against the nape of her neck. She swallowed hard, anticipating his touch. “Has the cat got your tongue?”

Rua sucked in a mortified breath and faced him. He grinned, leaving her with a wink and a taste for blood.

The lord continued farther into the room, and mothers and daughters alike descended upon him. Incensed for more reasons than she cared to count, she watched disdainfully as he chatted with Annette. They looked the perfect couple, ideal specimens in their own right, she with her delicate beauty and he with his godlike presence. She wanted to strangle them both.

Rua’s stomach growled just as Mr. and Mrs. Randall announced it was time to be seated for dinner. She saw the rest of the men had returned to the foyer.

As the room emptied, the snubbing continued with a few sidelong glares and upturned noses. If only these women knew she preferred ostracization to their companionship.

The guests moved to the dining room, which looked impeccable. Not one inch of the tablecloth was visible under all the plates of food and greenery. Servants stood behind each chair, waiting to pull them out so the guests could sit.

The table was set for twenty-four. As one could expect, Annette and the lord were to be seated together near Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald and Ned and Flossie by the Randalls at the head of the table. Conveniently, Rua was left out of all consideration and left standing while everyone she knew took their seats.

“Heavens me,” Mrs. Randall said, feigning ignorance as she noticed Rua standing by herself.

Rua looked around for an empty seat and found one at the opposite side of the table. A walk so far from where she was standing, she’d likely die from the daggers they shot before she got there.

“A simple oversight, I’m sure.” Mrs. Fitzgerald smirked, looking at Mrs. Randall.

“There’s room there at the end,” Annette offered, wearing a grin that Rua wanted to strike from her face.

“Not to worry!” Flossie jumped out of her seat. “Might you move down a chair?” she asked the woman in the seat beside her.

Rua groaned internally, feeling the brunt of Flossie’s outrageous request land squarely on her shoulders.

The woman was so shocked by the request that she did exactly as Flossie asked. The subsequent shuffling of a dozen people as they moved down one chair each had Rua’s insides reeling. The angry murmurs turned to proclamations of disgust, and she was no longer sure she was safe to sit down. But how could she not, after that debacle?

Rua was humiliated, a feeling she hadn’t thought possible. It turned out disdain was not stronger than ignominy.

“There now, all settled,” Flossie said, tapping the chair beside her, oblivious, intentionally or otherwise, to the scene she’d just caused. The empty seat was conveniently across from the Lord of Donore.

Searching for a forgiving face, she found Lily Stevens, the girl who had offered her membership in her club, but she was seated in the middle of the table and of no use to Rua.

Inadvertently, she glanced over at the Lord of Donore, but he didn’t see her. He was too busy watching the game of musical chairs continuing at the end of the table.

“Sit down, Miss Harrington. It’s the least you can do,” Mrs. Randall said sharply.

Rua didn’t move, because rigor had set in. Never could she have imagined a scenario as absurd as this one. But as the hostess’s words sank in, Rua’s mortification quickly melted into offense.

She wasn’t the one in the wrong here. They had deliberately seated her away from the Harringtons, and Flossie was the one who had forced the other guests to move. Taking a quick sweep of the room, she saw she had no other choice. It was either sit down or leave.

They all watched as Rua took her seat, no doubt hoping to see if she moved the wrong way, put her hand in the wrong spot, or allowed a slight bend in her back as she dropped into the chair.

Slowing her movements, she tried to remember everything she’d learned about proper etiquette. Head up, shoulders back, no fidgeting. Rua’s back was stiff as a board as she sat down.

Posture, apparently, was everything to the upper class. Flossie would go so far as to have her believe that her acceptance was dependent on it, but the way they were all staring, Rua no longer doubted that it was the truth.

Rua placed her hands in her lap and focused her attention on the bouquet of flowers in front of her. It was either that or the Lord of Donore’s face.

“Are we ready now?” Mrs. Randall asked, not masking her irritation.

Rua nodded, grinding her teeth to dust in the process.

Dinner commenced as planned, though she didn’t know how she was going to endure all ten courses.

The servants leaned over the guests’ shoulders, placing a bowl of soup before each of them. And then the chatter began, none of which was directed at Rua.

While Rua enjoyed exclusion from conversation, she was not exempt from creating other problems for herself. Problems in the form of Irish lords too handsome for their own good. It was like a compulsion—every other second she caught herself watching him as he conversed with Annette or the others around him, and on more than one occasion he caught her.

Something about him didn’t add up. She had no proof, no reason beyond her own gut feeling, but the Lord of Donore was hiding something. Though, after tonight, she wasn’t sure she’d be around long enough to find out.

“Miss Harrington,” Annette said, craning her neck over the bunch of flowers that separated them across the table, “I am afraid we never finished our conversation from the other day.”

Rua glanced up from her plate, knowing the room was alight with anticipation, waiting to see how the uncouth Emma Harrington would respond.

“Well,” Rua said, “I was certainly finished with it.” She could not bear to have Annette bring up Emma’s expulsion again.

Flossie let out a groan.

Annette’s smile never faltered. “I must comment on your gown. I simply cannot wrap my head around it.” She paused, her grin widening. “It’s so harvest-like. Surely it’s a bit early for that, is it not?”

The room erupted into a polite fit of laughter, effectively incinerating her. Rua should have run when she had the chance. This time, the Lord of Donore’s eyes were on her, but she refused to meet them. She would not see him laugh at her.

Rua gripped the edge of her spoon, almost believing she’d worn the wrong gown. That perhaps Malvina had sent the later fall gowns by mistake. But she reminded herself of the line outside Malvina’s shop and her expertise in dressmaking.

“Your attempt at insulting my gown only highlights your limited knowledge on fashion trends, I’m afraid.”

“Excuse me?” Annette tried to hide her surprise.

“We both know Malvina Webster chooses only one woman to display her latest designs each season. You’re just jealous it wasn’t you.”

“Jealous of you? A country pumpkin?” Annette spat while searching the room for validation.

Rather than responding, Rua focused on bending the utensil in her hand and imagined flinging it at Annette’s overindulged head.

“Come now. I think Miss Harrington looks delightful.”

Rua didn’t know who had tried to defend her, but the pity in their compliment was almost worse than the insult. She counted to ten in an effort to calm herself.

“Mr. Larchmont, I never took you for a liar,” Annette said with a high-pitched giggle.

Rua set her spoon down gently and leveled her gaze.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Flossie hissed at Rua, but she ignored her.

“Whether they’ll admit it or not, everyone in this room knows I look divine. So, my point stands: either you have poor taste or you’re jealous of me.”

Annette’s face went scarlet.

“So, which one is it?” Rua lifted a brow.

Flossie gagged on her wine, and Mrs. Fitzgerald looked like she’d love nothing more than to spring across the table and wring Rua’s neck.

It didn’t matter. Annette would have to find herself a new target if she was looking for someone to bully.

“That is enough,” Mrs. Randall warned from her position at the head of the table.

Rua bit her tongue as commanded, but her anger had reached new heights. She was finished with everyone in this room. As though they were all above reproach. If she didn’t have more pressing troubles, she’d spend every last minute of her life uncovering the most salacious gossip about everyone in this group, and she’d ruin them all with it. She hadn’t memorized their names before the party, but she’d be damn sure to remember them now.

Once more glancing across the table, her eyes found the Lord of Donore, only this time he was looking back. Too irate to be embarrassed, she didn’t look away. Instead, she was caught off guard, ill prepared for the softness in his eyes. No pity, no contempt, only understanding.

A silent exchange that offered no words, only a flutter of butterflies. Rua’s cheeks warmed, then she looked away.

With expert ease, the conversation switched to business as the men dominated the discussion. They didn’t care what the women were fighting about. Mr. Harrington, the lord, and Mr. Fitzgerald were soon lost in their plans for the hotel they were going to build.

Course after course, the men droned on while the women tried and failed to include themselves.

“Now, now, gentleman, you don’t want to put the women to sleep before they’ve had a chance to dance, do you?” a man chimed in.

“Why would that put the women to sleep?” Rua asked aloud before she’d thought it through.

Everyone turned to face her, and she felt a pit form in her stomach.

“Ah, Miss Harrington, you delicate girl.” The man pouted.

Rua was sure she heard the Lord of Donore grunt at the term of endearment.

Because one wrong opinion wasn’t enough, another man added, “you see, my dear, women have far simpler tastes, and many topics should be left to the men. It would only cause you distress.”

“Is that so?” Rua asked, eyeing their ring fingers to see if any woman had the misfortune of being married to them.

The sharp toe of Flossie’s laced boot met the side of Rua’s ankle in what she assumed was an attempt to get her to stop speaking, but it was too late for that. She was well past the point of no return and not over her exchange with Annette.

“Indeed,” the man continued. “For instance, while you would find reading on needlework and homemaking immensely enjoyable, it would be of little interest to the gentlemen at this table. It is the way the minds work, you see. The fairer sex cannot handle anything more than a little light reading on the gentler subjects. It is not good for your hearts. I daresay your brains would not be able to absorb the information. Allow me to demonstrate further.”

“Demonstrate what, sir? That my brain is not able to absorb information the same as a man’s?”

“If you’ll just wait and see,” he said with an irritated laugh.

“How will you demonstrate such a thing?” She cut him off. “Are you going to cut my head open?”

The women all gasped their horror, but Rua continued, “I would be very curious to know how exactly you expect to prove such an absurd statement. Are you a doctor? At the very least a scientist? Do you have an operating table?”

“Stop it this instance,” Flossie said, slightly louder than a whisper. Rua continued to ignore her protests.

“Young lady, your behavior is abhorrent,” the man said.

“What is abhorrent, sir, is that you had the nerve to say something so stupid so loudly.” She’d had it with them all.

“Well, I … Miss Harrington, I advise you to mind your manners.” He turned to Ned and Mr. Fitzgerald and gave them a knowing look.

Anger rushed through Rua, and all she saw was red.

“Please, pay my daughter no mind. She gets carried away,” Flossie said, trying to ease the situation. The servants continued plating the next course as though they were used to such raucous affairs.

The corner of Rua’s mouth twitched. Leave it to Flossie to openly admit to a roomful of their peers that she thought her daughter was ridiculous. She would be the one to take them all down with her desperate need to reach the top. She should be propping Rua up, not belittling her, but the bigger picture was lost on her.

Rua bent the soup spoon in half and then straightened it once more. Over and over and over until finally it snapped.

They all stared, waiting to see if Ned would scold her or have her leave the table after Flossie’s dismissal.

She looked down at the broken piece of silverware clutched in her white-knuckled fist and thought about jamming it down that man’s throat. What was stopping her? They all thought she was crazy anyway. If she was going to be sent to an asylum, she should at least do something to deserve it.

“Please accept my daughter’s sincerest apologies,” Ned said. Rua gaped at him. Ned nodded. “Go ahead, Emma.”

She’d sooner shove the spoon down her own throat.

“Foul woman,” the man spat. Fed up, Rua jumped out of her seat and leaned forward, placing her hands on the table.

Gasps were heard around the room.

The Lord of Donore rose to his feet suddenly. “Miss Harrington, could I interest you in some fresh air,” he said, almost pleading, “and issue an apology on behalf of Mr. Crowley here. His commentary on women would have offended the pope.”

Shocked expressions showered the two of them as they towered above the elegant dinner table. Rua was equally confused, but as her anger dissipated and she took one glance around at the Randalls and their appalled guests, she knew she’d crossed a line.

But what she didn’t understand was why the lord was throwing her a life raft. A raft that was liable to sink them both, because a turn about the garden in the middle of dinner was certainly not any more appropriate than her trying to maim Mr. Crowley.

But she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “That would be delightful, my lord.”

Annette let out a little whine, the sound like music to Rua’s ears.

Then she turned to Flossie, knowing that her return indoors, to this gilded life of leisure and lies, was dependent on the expression the matriarch wore.

Rua would either go for a walk with the lord, or she would jump the gate and never come back.

Her chest tightened as she looked upon Flossie’s stony face. She was going to have to run. Where, though? And how? She had nothing to her name.

And then Flossie spoke. “A marvelous idea, my lord.”

Relieved but unsure, Rua began her walk toward the door. On the opposite side, the Lord of Donore did the same. A death march played to the sound of contemptuous silence.

By now, the end of the table would be rehashing the events of her outburst. She could hear them repeating the story, leaving out and adding details at random. Anything to make it more scandalous than it already was. They should thank her for providing them with a season’s worth of entertainment all in one night.

And still she could not fathom why the Lord of Donore was here by her side.

“Miss Harrington,” he said, offering her his arm when they met by the door.

“My lord,” she said, taking it. A thrill rushed through her as he tucked her arm protectively beneath his. She rested her fingers on top of his arm, resisting the urge to squeeze it.

“Please, call me Finn,” he said.