Page 7

Six

WAYLAND’S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

TOM

I’d never hated a scrap of fabric more. Well, it wasn’t a scrap. It was certainly a piece of ridiculously expensive silk. Most likely spun entirely by a single worm in Japan that was watered only with the tears of an angel. Then stitched by a dauphine with thread made of actual gold taken from the place settings at Versailles. Such facts didn’t make me loathe the black glove any less.

It had taken a moment to decide whether I was more amused, relieved, or devastated that he didn’t remember our first meeting. That he hadn’t recalled any of our other interactions wasn’t a surprise. Those had involved me staring at him desperately from behind a convenient pillar. But the first, our only conversation—humiliating though it might have been—had meant everything to me.

Still, his poor memory did afford me an opportunity now, one I was eager to seize.

Xander didn’t remember me at eight and ten.

But I could ensure that tonight was unforgettable.

I had him flustered, that much was clear. He was making those vexed, flailing hand movements with every sentence. The ones he so often made when his sister was being particularly troublesome. I shouldn’t find them so charming, but I did. I had a lot of shouldn’ts where Xander was concerned, and not a one of them had prevented me from years of lustful pining.

None of those shouldn’ts waivered even slightly when one gloved hand reached behind his head to tug at the ribbon and pull his own domino free. There was something intimate about the gesture, private. And I was greedy for more.

A glance at the clock above the mantel confirmed what I already knew. We didn’t have enough time. Twenty-seven minutes until midnight. And that was only if the clock was right.

“Well, if my time with Xander is limited, I suppose I should take advantage.”

“Take advantage, how?” he asked with an irritated divot in his forehead. His brow was heavy, some might say overgrown, but I liked the way it contrasted with his pale complexion and the way it drew my gaze to his dark eyes. They were brown, but so dark I was almost certain they were actually brown and not some other color that only looked brown to me.

“I want to know you.”

“Again, I ask you, how?” His hands danced in front of him while he spoke. I adored the way he did that, as if every single word from his lips deserved the emphasis of a gesture. Nothing he said was unimportant.

“If I ask you something, will you be honest?”

“Absolutely not.”

His affronted tone had a laugh ripping from my chest.

“If I promise to answer the same?” I asked between chuckles.

“Irrelevant. I have much more to lose here,” he insisted, annoyed.

“That is true,” I agreed, dragging the final word along for a beat. “Very well, you’ve left me no other choice. I’ll have to ask my questions and wonder if you’re being honest.”

“Very well,” he said and tipped back his drink.

I used the opportunity to study the long lines of his neck, peeking out from above his cravat. This man… He was every bit as intoxicating as he had been the first time I met him. As mesmerizing as he had been every time I’d studied him since. This night, these twenty-seven minutes in this office… It was everything I’d wished for from the moment I first set eyes on him.

“Well?”

My tongue darted out between my suddenly dry lips. “If you could wish for one thing, what would it be?”

“That?” he sputtered. “That is what you want to know? I thought you would ask me my favorite color perhaps, or worse, something scandalous.”

“I already know your favorite color—not that I particularly care about colors anyway. And I’m saving the scandalous questions for when you’ve finished more of your drink.”

“And what, precisely, is my favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Wrong,” he retorted, twisting his lips to one side thoughtfully. Everything about him was fascinating. He was so expressive. I wanted to memorize each change to his visage, to learn what they all meant.

“What is it then?”

“No, you had your chance for that answer.” He stretched out, legs reaching toward the fire. A sardonic curve slipped across his lips. “I would wish for Gabriel.”

My stomach dropped, twisting with jealousy. Desperate to press the knife a little deeper into my heart, I asked, “Who is Gabriel?”

“My brother.”

The evil demon that had momentarily taken root inside me loosened its hold, replaced with a swirl of relief. His heart wasn’t already claimed—at least not by Gabriel.

He continued, “The title should have been his.”

And then the true extent of my doltishness revealed itself. His brother was gone.

Guiltily, I asked, “You were close?”

“Oh, Lord no. And to be quite honest, he would’ve been a terrible duke. At least before he married Cee. She tamed him a bit.” Now I remembered. Lady Rycliffe—the French widow Michael had taken up with.

“Then why would you?—”

“Wish for him? I suppose it’s not really a wish for his presence as much as a wish for someone else to be me. For Mother and Dav, even Celine, to be someone else’s responsibility. To walk away from it all. I’m the second son. I wasn’t built for a dukedom.”

“I don’t think it works like that. Firstborn sons are not born with innate leadership qualities.” At least, Hugh hadn’t been. Not that he was father’s firstborn. But he was the first legitimate son.

“I know, but sometimes it’s all I can do to stay here, chaperoning the chaperone, shuffling Mother away from the worst of the gossips, paying Davina’s way out of whatever mischief she’s found today. Gabriel was a notorious gambler and a degenerate. Years before he died, he won an estate in Scotland off some baron or other. And he gifted it to me, as a present with some flimsy excuse. I’ve never even laid eyes on it, but some days I wake up and I can almost taste the crisp Scottish air.”

He’d gone wistful, far away.

“Is the air in Scotland particularly crisp?” I asked, drawing him back to me.

“I’ve no idea. That’s hardly the point.”

“No, I know. I just… I understand what you mean. My family is less prone to scandal—actually, no. That’s a lie. They are merely less frequent with it. But my elder brothers, oil and water. I’ve spent my entire life—until recently—acting as an amicable buffer. And my mother… Well, at least yours means well.”

“Do you ever want to run away?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat and propping the empty glass on his knee. One corner of his mouth was pulled up curiously.

“I hadn’t considered it before. I’m lucky, I suppose. I have bachelor lodgings. But my brothers both found wives.”

“And you don’t like their wives?” he asked.

“I adore their wives. But they’re sickeningly happy. And I want that. I want to fall in love. I want to be able to reach out and brush a lock of hair off the forehead of the ma—person I love. And my brothers, they know they’re lucky, that they don’t deserve their wives. But they don’t realize what a privilege it is… A gift, to wake up every morning next to the person you love. And not everyone receives such a gift.”

“And you don’t think you’ll have that?” His question was barely a breath.

“I cannot.”

“You’re young—how young are you?” Now he wore a scandalized tilt to his brow.

I leaned back, chuckling a little. “Younger than you.”

“Rude,” he said with a pinched mouth but with no force behind it. “And I was trying to be reassuring.”

“That is not the reason.”

“What is?”

I considered for a moment. I didn’t know . Not truly. But I felt it. Something about Xander called to me—to the place deep inside my chest, the one that ached when I lied to my family and the ton . The nagging tangle in my chest that tightened painfully every time I half-heartedly agreed when Hugh made a jest about the evenings I spent at the theater. That part of me sensed a kindred spirit in Xander.

My gaze caught his as I finally settled on, “You know.”

His eyes widened and he practically fell back in his seat. “I assure you, I do not.”

A knot began to form in my throat, twisting, tightening. “Right then. I suppose it’s just me.” My voice was a pathetic croak.

Xander’s lips parted, almost as if he wanted to take it back. But that was likely wishful thinking, desperation brought on by a dream rapidly fading to nothingness.

Floundering for a way out, my gaze fell on the black mask resting on his knee. “What is your favorite color then?” I tossed out. I wouldn’t be able to appreciate it, but it wasn’t likely to add to my heartache.

He glanced away, to the mantel clock. My gaze followed. Thirteen minutes.

“Prussian blue.”

“That is… oddly specific.”

“It’s a deep shade of blue with hints of green.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re wearing it,” he explained.

My eyes dropped down, searching for something I wouldn’t be able to see.

“Your mask,” he interrupted my futile search.

My hand found my cheek and made to pull the domino away before I remembered myself. I had a secret to maintain—more necessary than ever with his rejection—and I wouldn’t be able to see his world anyway.

“You’re really not going to take it off?”

“I’m not that easily fooled. And it wouldn’t matter anyway,” I retorted with a teasing grin.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t… I can’t see colors—not the way everyone else does anyway. The best I can tell, they look to me the way browns look to you.”

“Really? All colors?”

“No. Reds and greens are the worst. I cannot tell them apart at all. But a blue with hints of green—I probably wouldn’t see it the way you do.”

“That is… quite sad, really,” he murmured.

“It’s not. Not truly. I do not know any different. Though I do find your clothing a refreshing change—even your waistcoats. I always know what color they are.”

He dragged a hand over the aforementioned waistcoat, drawing my attention to the angle of his waist. “I’m glad to be of assistance. Most find them dull. Or intimidating.”

“I like the way you dress. Can you… Your eyes, they’re brown, right?” It was impertinent and inappropriate and I couldn’t live another second without confirmation. To know that I saw him as he truly was.

“They are. A rather dull shade, I’m afraid.”

My breath escaped in a relieved sigh. “No, not dull. Everything about you—” I caught myself just in time.

“Everything about me, what?”

“I apologize. That was… too far.” A sideline glance showed the truth of it. Two minutes until midnight. I’d wasted my twenty-seven minutes.

“I lied,” he said—blurted.

“What? Your eyes aren’t brown?”

“No, they are. I just—I knew what you meant. Before. I understand.” His fingers twisted, one hand tugging at the seam of the other glove.

Elation warred with frustration. The minutes were gone. Only seconds left. But I hadn’t been wrong. Far from wrong; I’d been right. “Why now?”

“I-I don’t know. It’s a terrible idea to reveal it. But I just… needed you to know.”

“Thank you. For telling me.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone else?”

“Never,” I vowed.

“Ten… nine…” The world outside the door broke in. Shattering our last seconds.

Without a word I grabbed the domino from its perch on his knee. He stood to meet me. He was shorter than me, half a foot perhaps. I pressed the mask to his cheek and one of his fingers came up to hold it in place. The fastening ribbons were fine and black. I traced them until my fingers met behind his head. Inky, silken strands brushed my skin as I retied the knot.

Task complete, I allowed myself one last indulgence. I dipped down and pressed a kiss to the place on his cheek where mask met skin.

“Good night, Your Grace. It has been a pleasure.”

“I… You’re really not going to tell me who you are?”

“The real world is calling, Your Grace,” I said before grabbing my glass and striding over to the drink tray.

He sighed before replying. “Good night then.”

The door creaked angrily when he opened it. The raucous cheers from the crush spilled into our sanctuary. When the latch clicked back into place, the roar dulled. And our sanctuary was mine alone.