Chapter Twenty
Hugo had endured no less than a quarter hour lecture from his mother the moment they returned to their box.
A lecture that had not relented, even when the curtains rose and the performance resumed.
And then she had turned it over to his father to continue.
Finding him speaking with Adaline Girard with apparent interest had sent both of them into an apoplexy.
They didn’t outright accuse Adaline of being a fortune hunter, but they said everything but.
“I do not like to speak ill of anyone,” his mother had said.
“But what else am I to think when this woman ignored a grave insult in order to accept the proposal she thought had come from Edward only to then turn her sights to you. She acted as though she hated you for months—as she rightly should. Only now we find you in the foyer with her, mooning over you like some besotted fool. If you turn her down, will she then turn to Arthur?”
Hugo had scoffed at that, of course. But…
she was not mistaken. At least according to the gossips, who had taken their tales straight from Henry Girard.
In his version of the story, Adaline had agreed to marry Edward.
Eagerly. And she had hated Hugo for his part in the deception.
And now…it seemed she did not, perhaps, hate him so much after all.
But her brother’s words kept ringing through his head.
“Are you saying that your friendship with him might result in a match?” Obviously they had not meant for him to overhear.
But he couldn’t help wondering…was their friendship just another attempt for the Girards to align themselves with his family?
It was enough to cause him to pause, his mind spinning.
The one thing he had never detected in his encounters with Adaline was deception.
If anything, it was very much the opposite.
The woman had no qualms about telling him exactly what she thought of him, at all times.
So he had difficulty believing that she was involved in some sort of grand matchmaking scheme designed to make her a part of the Brelsford family. Just the thought of it was ridic—
A ripple of movement in one of the lower boxes across the theater drew Hugo’s attention.
Adaline. She sat, the golden glow of a thousand candles catching the coppery undertones in her brown hair as she laughed with the woman beside her.
He smiled faintly. He enjoyed being her adversary.
Her sharp barbs prompting his even sharper retorts.
Their exchanges had always been exhilarating, even when they had been filled with acrimony.
But now, there was an extra layer to them that he couldn’t quite decipher, but that left him breathless more often than not.
And yet, the memory of his family’s grim warnings, and Henry’s words in the lobby just now, shadowed every word, every glance.
He continued to watch her, ignoring the chattering his family continued to aim at him.
Adaline sat, a smile playing about her lips as the lady beside her whispered conspiratorially in her ear, occasionally pointing or nodding at various people around the theater.
Lord Calendish. Sir Reginald. A few others scattered about. All eligible men who had been making the rounds of the marriage mart.
Hugo’s breath froze in his lungs as he finally recognized with lady with whom Adaline conversed.
Lady Markham, a woman notorious for her scandalous attachments to wealthy gentlemen.
One who had herself made a very surprising match with an extremely affluent and titled man far above her own station.
Why would Adaline be speaking so closely with one such as Lady Markham?
Could she be seeking advice on procuring her own match?
The doubts he had barely suppressed surged anew. Had she sought him out tonight simply to test the waters, to see if he might yet be persuaded into proposing? Or was she as adrift as he, simply searching for someone with whom to forge a connection?
Hugo swallowed, his throat tight. As the curtain rose, Adaline’s gaze swept the theater again.
Searching for him? Or some other eligible bachelor for she and Lady Markham to target.
For a heartbeat, Adaline’s eyes found his.
Their gazes held. And then she smiled. Hesitant, shy even, though that wasn’t a word he would have ever applied to her before. Hopeful.
He did not smile back.
The moment stretched, fragile as spun glass. Adaline’s smile faltered, and she looked away, her composure slipping for just an instant. Lady Markham whispered something, and Adaline’s shoulders stiffened, her mask settling once more.
A pang of regret lanced through Hugo. He sucked in a deep breath, filled with guilt. And confusion. He continued to stare at her, willing her to look his way again. But he could not remedy his momentary lapse. Her eyes did not return to him.
The drama played out on the stage below, but Hugo’s thoughts wandered, circling hopelessly back to the women who divided his heart.
Millie’s gentle wit and the solace she offered in every letter would be very welcome right now.
Though, so would Adaline’s. They both challenged him, excited him, comforted him.
He was beginning to look forward to his meetings with Adaline as much as he looked forward to letters from Millie.
For very similar reasons. In fact, they were very similar in many regards.
Which made his inner turmoil all the more perplexing.
“Are you even listening, Hugo?” Arthur asked, his face clouded with concern rather than his usual mischief.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the epitome of a younger brother who would rather be anywhere but here. Still, he’d always stood by Hugo, even now, when their family seemed firmly against him.
Oh, Arthur agreed with them, of that he’d made no doubt. But he did at least try to see things from Hugo’s point of view. Tried to be sympathetic to his feelings and desires. And so Hugo attempted to focus on what Arthur was saying.
“I am,” he replied, though his gaze drifted to the stage, where the stage hands adjusted the scenery.
“Are you?” Arthur persisted, his voice softer now, full of sympathy. It made Hugo twitch. “You’ve scarcely said a word since we left your Miss Girard in the foyer.”
“I’ve hardly had the opportunity,” Hugo said wryly.
Arthur chuckled. “They are persistent.” He glanced at their surrounding family with a fond exasperation. “And what passed between you and your lady to dampen your spirits so?”
“The only thing to dampen my spirits is the constant berating of my family every time I deign to speak to a woman they have no cause to hate.”
Arthur pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say no cause. We do have cause for concern, Hugo. Considering her brother’s actions.”
“Actions we instigated,” Hugo reminded him. “Besides, now that I’ve become better acquainted with her, I wonder if the stories about her have any merit. She does not seem the type of woman who would act in the way she’s being accused.”
“Perhaps. But do you truly trust that she and her brother are not aligned in their desire for revenge? It is clear that he is holding a grudge against us.”
Hugo snorted. “Because showing an interest in me obviously smacks of depravity.”
Arthur chuckled. “Your words, brother. Not mine.” He sat back, though remained close enough the others would not hear them. “So, what did you speak of then.”
Hugo sighed. “Nothing of import. We spoke of trivialities, as one does.”
Arthur arched a brow. “Trivialities do sound like you. But I do not believe it.”
“No?”
“No. You’ve been mooning about ever since you got that first letter from…your lady. And it has only grown worse since you’ve struck up this…” He waved his hand, searching for the correct word to use. Hugo chuckled inwardly. Good luck with that.
“Friendship,” Arthur finally said, “with Miss Girard. Leave it to you to fall in love with two women who could not be more unsuitable.”
Hugo gaped at him. “I am not in love.”
Was he?
“So says you. But your attentions to Miss Girard have not gone unnoticed. Regardless of the current state of your affections for either an imaginary woman or a physical one, you, dear brother, are going to have to make a choice. Soon. Before the whole of London does it for you.”
The line of Hugo’s jaw hardened. “You sound like Father.”
“Perhaps because I have the same fears.” Arthur’s tone was gentle, but his words struck with precision. “Adaline Girard is a lady with a cloud of rumors over her head.”
Shame burned Hugo’s cheeks. The scandal had been partly his doing, yet Adaline had borne the brunt of society’s censure.
“Rumors we had a hand in creating,” Hugo reminded him.
“We made the offer. But Girard ran with it, incriminating his sister at the same time. So, you surely understand why her apparent interest in you is understandably confusing and concerning to most people.”
“Perhaps after becoming more acquainted with me, she has realized I am not the devil and has forgiven me.”
Arthur’s smiled, though his skepticism was palpable.
“Perhaps. Though I am not sure you will convince our parents of that. Especially as her brother is still in search of a match for her. Given the history between you, a friendship is…odd, at best. It is not so unreasonable that our family might have concerns.”
“I know.”
And he truly did not know what to do about it. He had tried to get over his fascination with Miss Girard and could not. Nor could he forget the other…
His hand moved to the interior pocket of his coat, where a bundle of folded letters pressed close to his heart.
Millie. The name itself was a comfort. A mystery, to be certain.
But one which he could not relinquish. He’d never seen her face, but still knew her as he did few others.
Though, sometimes he wondered if she, too, was an invention he had conjured by his longing for a connection.
“Then there is Millie,” Arthur continued, as if reading his thoughts. “You write to a woman whose name may not even be her own. What if she is Adaline, playing at some revenge game? Or someone worse? You are not a boy, Hugo. The time for illusions is past.”
The world spun a little. Could it be? Adaline did remind him of Millie. And their letters were delivered through her cousin’s shop.
But…no, it could not be. Surely, she would have revealed something during their encounters that would have betrayed her identity as the author of the letters if they were one and the same. No. They must be two different women.
Women who both haunted him, left him restless.
And he could not have both.
“What would you have me do?” Hugo asked quietly.
Arthur’s mouth curved in a half-smile. “Decide. That is all. You owe it to yourself. And to them.”
Hugo fell silent, his mind a tumult of longing and guilt.
The orchestra’s tuning faded, replaced by the distant laughter of ladies dripping in diamonds, the clatter of gentlemen’s boots on marble.
All around him, the theater blossomed with color and intrigue, but his world had narrowed to two faces, two sets of memories.
Bold and clever Adaline always seemed to be one step ahead of him.
Her laughter mocking at times. Though she might be the only person who had ever laughed at him who made it feel as though she were laughing with him instead.
Even with the laughter though, there seemed to be a lingering sorrow hidden behind her eyes.
Though she had, of late, allowed him to see glimpses.
Could he trust her now, as she seemed to trust him?
Was he ready to defy his family’s wishes, to risk everything for a happiness so uncertain?
And Millie. He did not know her voice, her eyes, only the sense that she understood him in ways no one else had. Was it love, or a trick of his wanting heart?
“Whatever you choose, Hugo, make sure it is your choice. Not Father’s.
Not Society’s. If you pursue Miss Girard, you must be prepared to defend her when the next storm comes.
If you do not love her, let her go. Spare her the pain of false hope.
If you prefer the safety of your anonymous Millie, be certain she exists beyond the page before you destroy everything else you hold dear. ”
Hugo nodded, grateful and resentful in equal measure. He envied Arthur’s certainty, his ability to see the world in stark lines, while Hugo’s own heart was a chaotic tangle of what ifs. Then again, Arthur’s world had never been challenged. Let alone his heart.
“And for the love of all that’s holy, man, forgive yourself for our misguided actions. She apparently has.”
He slapped Hugo’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to find more jovial company.” Then he grinned at Hugo, and left him alone with his thoughts.
And the echo of the smile he had refused.