Chapter Sixteen #3
But she had not felt seen. And now she knew the difference.
The difference between him and Marchand was the difference between a scribble and a Caravaggio.
This epiphany introduced a new flavor of despair into the exciting blend of emotions already churning within her.
“When Henry told me you were in London, I simply could not resist the temptation to come and see you,” he said.
This sounded very nearly ardent, and Ginny went sharply silent, awash with trepidation.
“He mentioned you were in town on family business,” he added, into her sudden silence. “I imagine it’s something to do with
preparation for the marriage settlement meetings for Felicity and Fiona?” This he said almost bashfully.
“Yes.” It wasn’t completely a lie.
She was overcome with a sudden vertiginous dread.
It occurred to her that Francis might be here to propose.
It would be a dream come true and her worst nightmare. It was not something she ever imagined occurring while she smelled
faintly of donkey and sported purple circles under her eyes and had spent the entire previous night imagining the hands of
another man roaming her body.
But she wasn’t mad. If he proposed, she knew there could be only one answer.
Like a green lad’s, Marchand’s heartbeat sped ever-faster the closer his hired hack drew to the Grand Palace on the Thames.
And once he’d disembarked, he paused again outside of it to admire the little gargoyles on the roof edge. And to heighten
anticipation.
Because Guinevere Woodville was inside.
When he opened the door, the cheerful warmth of the place seemed to rush forward to greet him.
He drew in a long breath to settle the absurd, utterly uncharacteristic twang of nerves.
He took a few steps into the foyer.
Then froze beneath the chandelier.
Ginny was sitting in the reception room on the pink settee.
Across from her sat a very handsome young man.
In other words, a man her own age.
The man was long limbed and lean, and at a glance Marchand could see he was wealthy. It was something about the posture, the
shine on the boots, the Byronic cut of his curly hair. He looked like the young men who clamored to become members of Lucifer’s
Fall. But Marchand didn’t recognize him.
Ginny was smiling at him fondly.
Marchand’s breathing went shallow.
A pot of tea and cups occupied the table in the middle. Which suggested this was a formal social call of some duration.
Dot occupied a chair in the corner, an embroidery hoop in her lap. He supposed she’d been recruited for the occasion. Because,
of course, young, unmarried aristocratic ladies could not visit with aristocratic men without witnesses.
God only knew what they could get up to.
His absolute rigidity must have drawn their attention.
Although his glowering could have done it, too.
Ginny shot to her feet at once. The brilliant delight that flared unguarded in her face evolved into alarm, then caution.
Then guilt.
When her eyes went pleading, his gut pulled itself into a knot.
Of course, she had no reason to feel guilty at all.
He had no claim on her.
Just as there was no real reason for jealousy to be pouring through him in black, toxic torrents.
He, in fact, couldn’t breathe for it. It was a sensation utterly unprecedented in his life. He had no defense against it.
He simply stood there, amazed, and boiled in it.
“Miss Woodville,” he replied politely, when he was finally able to speak. “Good afternoon.”
He looked pointedly at the young man sitting across from her, then back at Ginny, then back at the man, who had the refined features one might find on someone whose ancestors had mated with only attractive people over the centuries.
He’d risen to his feet, too. He was regarding Marchand with the pleasant, open expression of someone who easily trusted because he’d never doubted for a moment that the world was arranged in his favor.
“May I introduce my friend Francis Balfort? His father is the Duke of Balfort. He’s visiting London and learned from our mutual
friend Lord Cambrough that I was in London as well. I happened to accidentally meet Lord Cambrough in a shop the other day.”
Ah, yes. Fleegle’s Emporium of Wonders, specifically.
“How do you do, Mr. Balfort. I’m . . .”
He halted abruptly. Ginny’s eyes had suddenly gone terrified and beseeching.
And then he understood: She was afraid he was going to say his own name.
That realization drove right through him like a sword.
Two things shocked him: how savagely that hurt.
And how wholly unprepared he was for how savagely that hurt.
His mind momentarily blanked.
“I’m Mr. Gabriel,” he completed quietly.
Two bright pink spots of shame flared high on Ginny’s cheeks.
She turned away toward the window.
The two men bowed to each other.
Francis obviously didn’t recognize Marchand by sight. But given the young man’s age and social rank, it was all but impossible
that he wouldn’t know Marchand’s name. Many of his friends and their fathers were likely members of Lucifer’s Fall.
And Francis’s expression would change pretty rapidly if he knew the Reaper not only stood right in front of him, but was personally acquainted with Miss Guinevere Woodville.
Ginny’s reputation and future prospects would be in ashes in seconds.
For an instant, a primitive, unworthy instant, Marchand imagined the aftermath of that. Would she then be forced to turn to
him, if she had no other prospects?
He was a man who would do nearly anything to get something he wanted. But when he realized he would rather die than do that
to her or to himself, he grimly realized just how far gone he was.
Dot was studying him curiously.
He prayed she wouldn’t interject.
“How long will you be staying, Mr. Balfort?” Marchand asked. “Have you taken a room at the Grand Palace on the Thames?”
Too late he realized he ought to have replied “A pleasure to meet you” first, but he was not in the mood to lie. And besides,
life was short, and Marchand would have decisions to make right away if Balfort was staying. Such as whether poisoning him
or throwing him off the roof would be the better option.
“I’m returning home to Sussex in an hour or so. I just thought it was a lovely coincidence that Ginny was in London, too.
Like kismet. I’ve been traveling a bit and it’s been too long since I’ve seen her.” He cast a blushingly wistful look at her
that made Marchand feel dirty, jaded, and a thousand years old.
“Three weeks,” Ginny said.
“Nearly four,” Francis retorted merrily.
Ginny was so pale her freckles stood out in stark relief. She had definitely sensed the tenor of Marchand’s mood. She kept her eyes fixed on him, as if she didn’t trust him not to do something—how had she put it?—unexpected. “I suppose it is.”
“What’s that in your hand, Mr. Balfort?” Marchand asked.
The boy was holding a little book.
“I was just reading a favorite poem to Ginny,” he said.
“Do you write poetry?” he asked the boy.
He looked at Ginny, and he could see in her eyes—eyes that, as far as he was concerned, were the only poem the world had ever
needed—that she remembered their conversation outside the Earl of Sydenham’s house.
“I’ve given it a try,” Balfort admitted. “Do you, Mr. Gabriel?”
“Oh, yes. Lately I’ve been struggling with one particular rhyme.”
A tentative smile appeared on Ginny’s lips.
An awkward silence ensued.
“Remind me, when did you intend to return to Sussex, Miss Woodville?” Marchand finally said to her.
“In about a week.” Her voice was frayed. “I’ve a commitment to attend a meeting on behalf of both of my sisters in Sussex.
I’m very much looking forward to seeing my family and friends.”
“And I am very much looking forward to your return,” Balfort admitted fervently.
Oh, to be so innocently, transparently, faultlessly honest, Marchand thought. To feel so entitled to hope.
“I’ll leave you to your visit,” Marchand said and made for the stairs.
Francis departed an hour later.
Haunted both by the last thing Francis had said to her before he’d bid her farewell and by the gutted expression on Marchand’s
face when he’d lied about his name, Ginny wearily climbed the stairs.
She paused at the window on the second floor. She’d caught a glimpse of her cat friends. They were crouched outside, staring
at each other, ears flattened.
They were squaring up for another fight.
“Who are you rooting for?” Gabriel’s tone was casual.
She gave a start.
She hadn’t even heard his approach.
She didn’t turn around.
She could already feel the heat radiating from his body. It took every ounce of her will not to lean back into him.
“Pumpkinhead—I call him that because of his big round ginger head—likes to do a lot of staring first, while Inkblot—I call
him Inkblot because of the black blot on his white face—likes to get right into it first. I’ve never noticed an actual winner.
The fur really does fly, however. In big tufts. And then it’s over.”
“These are friends of yours?” He sounded amused.
“They’re the nightly show from the window in my room.”
“I’m envious. My room is at the end of a corridor opposite a candle that snuffs out mysteriously. But I’ve an excellent view
of the tops of ships.”
“Seems an exhausting way to go about a life. One fight per day, every day,” she mused.
“When you understand that they’re probably fighting over the rights to a female, it makes sense.”
She fell silent.
Suddenly she was seething.
Not necessarily at him, but because of him.
And because of herself.
Because of her life.
Because the notion of him fighting Francis over her was ridiculous.
Francis would be dead in three seconds.
“How was your journey?” she asked politely, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“It was fine. Did Francis leave?”
“Yes,” she said shortly.
“Did you enjoy your little visit?”
Anger surged at this characterization of it. “It was nice to see him.”
“Nice,” he repeated, after a moment. As if that word were a profanity.
There was a pause.
“Did he propose?”