Kate Noble (24 page)

“It made it easier, to have a friend along,” Gail said quietly.

“Yes…and harder, too.” He frowned. “I knew he was going to have the chance to be on a ship like that one day—and I wasn’t. So when I was about twelve or so, I decided to run away. I packed a bag—mostly full of cheese and books I believe”—he smiled as Gail chuckled at his boyish folly—“and went to sign up as a cabin boy on one of the ships headed out to sea. The captain knew who I was, of course, and escorted me back to Longsbowe, where my father locked me in my room for a week. Never in my life had I seen him so angry. He yelled, railed, told me I was ungrateful for not wanting to stay and be who I was to be. That leaving the country was foolhardy. When he finally let me out, I was sent immediately to Eton.”

Max’s voice cracked, and he had to cough into his hand to cover the effect this distant childhood memory had on him.

“Eton wasn’t too bad,” he continued. “My father approved of it only because it’s where generations of Fontaine men had attended, and it was nearly as stuffed with history and tradition as Longsbowe. I know some gentlemen emerge with only horror stories of ruthless pranks and strict headmasters, but I didn’t mind so much. I was a viscount, with an ancient name, so the bullies were careful not to dunk my head in any chamber pots. Holt came up the same year as me, so we remained mates. And I liked to study,” he said wryly, indicating the pile of books he had left on the center table. “When I went home for holidays, my father and I, we no longer saw eye to eye. I started to notice that he had changed. A little at first, then rather dramatically. He began spending all his time at Longsbowe Park, stopped attending the House. My mother died while I was at school, and…I know that they had little affection for one another, but having her gone I think gave him permission to stop being in London. In the world, really.”

Max sighed, leaning forward on his knees, moving his shoulders as if to protect himself from imaginary blows. “I thought that if I waited until I was grown, I could do as I liked, and my father couldn’t stop me. He was a recluse by now, what would he care if his son spent a few years abroad? But I was wrong.

“When I came down from Oxford, I was ready to see the world. Holt and I set out on our grand tour. However much my father objected, he couldn’t very well forbid me—it was part of the consummate British experience, I had argued. I intended to go about Europe and maybe even Russia for at least a year. But two months into my travels, I received a missive that my father was on his deathbed.”

Gail sucked in her breath. Max nodded in agreement. “As you see. I rushed home, at record speed, and when I arrived, it was to see my father sitting up in bed eating a luncheon of hearty stew. I spoke with the doctors—they had been gravely worried about my father’s health, but it seemed he had beaten back the severe cold that had threatened to take him. I was relieved. I couldn’t believe how much I was relieved,” Max said almost to himself. “I stayed at Longsbowe with him for a month, every day he got stronger. When the doctors felt his health had been fully restored, I packed my bags, intending to rejoin my friends abroad. But on the eve of my departure, it rained. And my father showed his true colors. He stood outside in the damp the whole night. By morning, all the repairs to his health that had been made in that last month were undone, and he was on his deathbed again.”

“That’s horrible,” Gail whispered. “Why?”

“Because he wanted me to stay! He didn’t want me out of England, out of Longsbowe, and out of his control. It only took him three weeks to recover this time, but once he had, I called him out on his behavior. And we had the biggest row in our history—and believe me, my school days were peppered with some thunderous arguments. He accused me of not living up to my duties to Longsbowe. He thought I should remain in England, learn about the estate, become his drone, his copy, his Earl. As he was a copy of the one before him…I told him to go to hell.” At Gail’s taken-aback expression, Max smiled ruefully. “But I said it less politely.”

Gail was on the edge of her chair. “What was his reply?”

A cynical smile twisted his lips.

Max remembered very well what his father had said in reply.

“
YOU
can’t live without me boy! So you shall live where I tell you.”

His father’s gruff voice echoed in his head. They were in the study of Longsbowe Park, a grand room that had not changed in seven generations of Fontaine men. The high shelves of unread books were the same. The wood and leather were the same. Even behind the large mahogany desk was the same chair, in which the Earl sat, lord of all he surveyed. Including his son.

“You’re cutting me off? Fine—I don’t want your money,” Max said with more bravado than he felt. He was still young enough to have the idealism bred in university, but it was quickly lost when he pictured having to face the prospects of a world that turned on gears greased with cash and prestige. His father simply cackled.

“You won’t last three weeks in the world without what Longsbowe provides! You will stay here and learn to appreciate it, learn to run it, and learn to love it.”

“You’ve drilled into me the lessons of running an estate since I could walk,” Max fired back. In every one of his letters to his son, the Earl would include a detailed lesson on crop rotation, tenant farming, or the estate’s maintenance. It had gotten to be a bit of a joke between Max and his mates, for every time a letter had arrived, they would ask, “What’s the Earl’s lesson this week?”

“Time to put them to use then. I’m not as young as I used to be. You will now run the estates. I will oversee, advise when I think you are going astray, but I will have the stewards take orders from you. You will become Longsbowe, lad.”

And Max saw it. His future stretched out in front of him. All the new ideas he had drying up like dust. A long life of checking his work with his father, getting approval before proceeding. Always the Earl’s son, never his own man. Never leaving Longsbowe. Never discovering a damn thing about anything. Max’s throat closed in on itself, choking, suffocating.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely.

“What?” His father, who had clearly thought the issue was settled, looked up from his desk.

“I said no,” Max repeated, more resolutely this time.

“No?” the Earl asked, incredulous.

“I will not stay here and be your lackey.”

“Do you know what you are saying?” Desperation crept into the Earl’s voice. He sounded old. “You want to leave? Fine! You do it without my money! You won’t last a week without an allowance. You have
nothing
that is your own.”

It was the ultimate dilemma. His father refused to let go—but Max would die by inches if he stayed.

“I’m a sick old man,” his father had pleaded in a weak voice. “What will happen to me if you leave England?”

Max shook his head. “England is a big place. It will have to be big enough,” he said resignedly. “But I won’t live here under your rule.”

And with that, Max stalked out of the room. He calmly packed a bag and left the house, only venting his frustrations on an antique vase near the door. But that could have been considered an accident.

When he got to London, Max had only the money in his pocket and what was left of his last quarterly deposit in the bank. The Earl had been true to his word and quickly severed financial ties with his son. His father probably thought if Max couldn’t live high, he would come crawling home. Well, he would have to show the old man he was made of sterner stuff. Max set up house in an unfashionable but respectable part of town and began going about the business of becoming his own man.

Independence was his goal. Now, while the gentleman in him abhorred the idea of working for a living, the twenty-one-year-old in him was much more frightened of the prospect of marrying for money. So he learned to economize and looked for work.

“
INITIALLY
, some of my professors from Oxford assisted me,” he told Gail, who listened with rapt attention. “They had been impressed with my head for languages and liked me well enough, so they recommended me for some translating work. Then the government started commissioning similar work from me, as did publishing houses. I was soon earning enough money to pay my rent and expenses each month. But I wasn’t exactly living very well. Holt convinced me to invest a bit of each of my payments into Holt Shipping. And the rest, as they say, is history. I live economically, but I can’t say I want for anything. Very few people know I’m cut off. Most people just think I’m aloof,” Max finished with a sigh, settling back into his chair.

Gail looked at him for some minutes, twisting a lock of hair that had fallen out of her coiffure between two fingers. Late at night, Max would think about that lock of hair.

“But that can’t be the end of the story,” she said quietly. He looked at her expectantly.

“You have your own money now. The only reason you stayed in England was your father’s threat to cut you off. That’s no longer a threat. So why do you remain?”

Max exhaled a long breath. He looked at an innocuous spot on the floor—Gail’s gaze was too questioning, too direct.

“Fear,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Fear of what?” she whispered back.

“What he’ll do. I’m afraid he’ll make himself ill again. When he was out all night in the rain…” His voice broke. “I was so frightened. I was so very frightened of what would happen to him. You haven’t seen him. He’s not…strong anymore. He used to be the strongest man I knew. I have to keep my end of the bargain. I will stay in England. The world outside of it is a foolish place anyway.” He stared into the fire, forlorn.

His offhand comment made Gail frown. “That is your father talking,” she spoke, her voice resolute but her eyes soft and forgiving. She walked over to Max, kneeled before him. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she drew his attention away from the grate.

“Max,” she said in soft kindness. “Couldn’t he see he was making you unhappy?”

Max was caught in her eyes, eyes that pleaded for that little boy, for that man who was still held back by the strong arm of his father. His voice came out lower, more hoarse than expected. “He can’t see beyond Longsbowe, beyond keeping things the same, within his control. He…manipulated me then. He still does, just in new ways. But I can’t risk it.”

“But how long? You have shut yourself off as effectively as he did. How long can you hold your true self in? How long before you are allowed to live?” Her hand was grasping his, a lifeline he didn’t know he needed. His other hand reached out, lightly fingering the softness of that errant lock of hair before seeking the warmth of the side of her neck and face. His thumb rubbed absentmindedly along her jaw, drawing her closer to him. Mere inches away.

“I shouldn’t have told you all this,” he whispered.

“I’m glad you did,” she whispered back. “I think I understand you a bit better now.”

“Then you have the advantage over me,” he replied, lowering his forehead to rest against hers. It was a gesture of deep need and closeness. Both closed their eyes, taking comfort in the simple existence of the other. “Promise me that someday, you will tell me all about your deepest anxieties and frustrations. Then we may be on even footing.”

Gail sniffled, followed by a short chuckle. “Do you have a year?” she asked with a smile.

Max brought his head up, regretting the space between them, even if it was only inches. He looked into her eyes (which had become decidedly shiny) and murmured, “The world seems to have forgotten us.”

She kept her eyes locked with his, something shifting in her golden gaze. It became darker, molten. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Indeed, it seemed as though she couldn’t.

But Max could. The space between them slowly began to close. As his nose lightly caressed hers, Max could feel the light stutter of her breath warming his cheek. Her eyes became hooded and flickered closed, as their lips met for the first time.

It was warm. Gail was so surprised by the warmth that flooded her face, her chest, down to her toes at the simple brush of his mouth against hers. His hand slowly stole from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her even closer, deepening the kiss.

As for Max, he felt the fire of her, and it inflamed him. His mind raced, filled with questions: How could he do this? How could he not? How long had he wanted her just this way? But he refused to answer any question as long as he could simply
feel
Gail—on his lips, beneath his fingers, all around him. Her hand wound its way into his hair—slowly, softly gripping him to her. A shot of lust went straight to his groin, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her onto his lap.

This shift from gentle and sweet to hot with need thrilled Gail as much as it frightened her. She could not have stopped him, and found that she didn’t want to—especially when he opened his mouth, his tongue inviting hers to come out and play.

So
this
was kissing, Gail thought, as she tentatively met his movements in equal measure. Before, she hadn’t understood its appeal—why the maids blushed and giggled, why the matrons were so rigid in their belief that it was a sin—and that wasn’t the only thing rigid right then. Gail could honestly not blame anyone for what was deemed base desires, because the only desire she had as she felt his hands running over her back, holding her to him, was
don’t stop.