Kate Noble (25 page)

A sharp knock on the door broke the spell, freezing Max and Gail in their heated explorations.

“Hello? Miss Alton?” Mr. Ellis’s voice broke through the door and their warm, insulated little world. Max watched as Gail’s eyes went from heavy lidded and dark with lust, to wide with shock and, regrettably, horror. Her mouth a small, silent
O
, she lifted herself from Max’s lap, cool air rushing into the growing void between them. Max could see that she wanted to absorb their actions, process them, try to make some sense of it, but there was no time for that.

Quickly she moved away, straightening her shoulders and ruthlessly combing her hair with her fingers. She was acting with speed and caution, both correct for this situation, but Max couldn’t help but be saddened by it. Could she really let go of him so quickly? Only a few seconds had passed since the knock interrupted them, could she already regret?

Gail, satisfied with her hair, picked up a book from the table, and Max arranged himself more suitably just before Mr. Ellis opened the door.

“Ah! Miss Alton, Lord Fontaine. You are in here, excellent. I despaired of ever finding you. It’s six o’clock. The museum is about to close.”

If Gail’s face was more flushed than normal, her eyes shinier, her lips redder, and Max’s seated pose more carefully arranged, Mr. Ellis did not comment. Max dug for his pocket watch.

“Six o’clock! Already! Ga—er, Miss Alton, we seem to have lost the entire afternoon. Your parents will be curious as to your whereabouts.”

“Lord, yes!” Mr. Ellis exclaimed. “Although I, too, have lost many an afternoon in these rooms. I daresay, if one of my assistants hadn’t reminded me, I would have accidentally locked you in here all night. What a kerfuffle that would have been, eh?”

Mr. Ellis smiled at his own humor, while Gail and Max exchanged a glance.

A kerfuffle, indeed.

WHEN
Max escorted Gail back to Number Seven Berkeley Square, Evangeline could tell right away that something had shifted between the two, and she for one, was ecstatic. William (as Mr. Holt had insisted she call him) had been correct! His plan had succeeded, and now Lord Fontaine and Gail would be friendlier. Didn’t he smile at her as if they were on good terms? Didn’t they not once snap at each other with caustic comments?

Truthfully, Evangeline had been more than a little anxious. When she and Will had arrived back at the house (at five o’clock, nearly two hours later than they left the museum, although there was no reason to inform anyone of that fact), Romilla questioned them as to Gail’s whereabouts. Evangeline explained that Gail was perfectly safe, being escorted by Lord Fontaine and under the watchful chaperonage of their friend Mr. Ellis. Evangeline had thought Romilla would suffer a fit of apoplexy, so unhealthy was her color. Obviously, Evangeline surmised, her stepmother had noticed the acrimonious relationship between the two, and thought the same as she—that they would tear each other to pieces. But now, Romilla would see that this was the absolute best thing they could have hoped for from the situation.

HOWEVER
,
Romilla had seen, and she did not consider it the absolute best thing. Far from it. When her errant stepdaughter and escort entered Number Seven, did Lord Fontaine’s hand linger just a moment too long on Gail’s arm before releasing her? True enough, they did not exchange any hard words as had become their custom, but animosity had been the only thing keeping one at arm’s length from the other, and now…This new “friendship” worried her deeply.

Then, Romilla laughed. This was silly. It would turn out to be nothing. And what was Mr. Ellis always saying? Oh yes, that she was making a mountain out of a molehill. It wasn’t as if Lord Fontaine was about to throw over one sister for the other. Especially if that first sister was as divine as Evangeline.

Still, ’twas best to remain shrewd and alert.

THAT
night at the opera, Romilla was convinced her feelings on the matter were an overreaction. Any expression of sentiment she thought she had seen that afternoon had disappeared like smoke. Lord Fontaine was a guest in their box, as was Count Roffstaam and his wife. Lord Fontaine sat in the front, next to Evangeline, being everything that is kind and attentive. He paid no attention to Gail beyond what was polite. And as Gail was enjoying speaking in German with the Count, she and Lord Fontaine seemed content to ignore each other. Maybe they had reached an understanding of sorts, like Evangeline had hoped, wherein they never spoke to each other again. And Romilla, more than pleased with that, settled herself comfortably next to her husband to enjoy the performance of
Don Giovanni
.

WHEN
the curtain came down on the first act to thunderous applause, the real entertainment of the evening began. Gail watched as the Ton flitted between the boxes, visiting with the occupants to comment on the ladies’ wardrobes, who was sitting with whom, and which gentlemen were vying for attention from what lady. Naturally, the Altons’ box became crowded quickly.

Romilla was receiving a visit from Lady Hurstwood, who had so viciously snubbed her a few weeks ago by not inviting the Altons to her Vauxhall party. Now, here she was, dancing attendance on their stepmother! Gail shook her head—would she ever understand the politics of society? Half a dozen young admirers stopped by to visit with Evangeline, crowding their way past the MPs who wanted a word with Sir Geoffrey. Every occupant of the box was beginning to feel the crush—especially those smashed against the wall, as Gail soon found herself.

“Miss Alton,” Count Roffstaam addressed Gail in his thick Barivian accent. “It iz very crowded, iz it not?”

“Yes, I confess it is,” Gail replied, lightly fanning herself with the libretto—not easy, as her elbow was pinned to her waist, unknowingly by the portly Lord Draye.

“Come,” the Count said, offering his arm. “Let us go and seek some refreshment.”

Out in the elegantly appointed hall, it was still quite populous, but at least there was room to move. The swish of silks against the plush carpet, the murmur of voices on top of voices echoed through the chambers as Gail and the Count made their way to the refreshments.

“I think my vife vill like—cham…champagne?” asked the Count.

Gail nodded, although she herself was repulsed by the prospect of any spirits, and instead requested a simple punch. “Really, Count Roffstaam,” she said listening to his stumbling English, “we can speak German if you like. I don’t mind, truly.”

But the Count would not hear of it. “You have indulged me enough tonight in German. I am in England, I should practize mine English, yes?”

“Yes,” Gail laughed and accepted the punch that the Count handed her.

“Besides,” said a familiar voice from behind, “an evening such as this calls for Italian.”

They turned, and the only man in the house, in the world, who could have spoken that comment bowed before Gail and the Count.

“Don’t you agree, Count Roffstaam?” Max asked, looking beyond compare in his stark black and white evening kit. Gail had seen him dressed this way before, but never had the sight sent a frisson of feeling straight through her chest. He looked…beautiful. Gail’s face flushed hot. She shouldn’t be thinking this.

“Ja, I do,” the Count spoke. “German is mine tongue, and ze tongue of ze composer, but Italia, it iz like a stream. Deutsch, it iz a bevy of rocks.”

“Yes, exactly,” Gail smiled.

“You seem to be enjoying the opera, Miss Alton.”

“I am, Lord Fontaine.”

They had begun to walk down the gallery, Gail still on the Count’s arm, Max holding himself three feet away. He did not move any closer. She wished he would.

“Even though you do not speak Italian?” Max inquired, interrupting her thoughts.

“Ah…one of the best things about opera is that no matter the language it’s written in, the meaning is universally understood.”

“True. And you have the translated libretto.”

“And I have the translated libretto,” she agreed matter-of-factly.

“
Wie bitte?
Ah, pardon me? You speak ze English so fast,” the Count broke in.

“Oh!” cried Gail. “Forgive us. We didn’t mean to exclude you, Count.”

“Yes, beg pardon, sir,” Max added, but the Count simply held up his hands.

“No, no, you forgive me. I am old man, vith slow ear. Speak as you vill. I take the champagne back to my vife.”

The Count headed back to the box and his wife, leaving Gail and Max alone in the middle of a crowded hallway. With no other recourse left available to them, Max offered Gail his arm, which she took. They began to follow after the Count. Slowly.

“I assume you trust implicitly whomever fetched you that punch?” Max asked as she took a small sip.

“That depends,” Gail answered, once she had swallowed. “How much do you trust a short man with spotty English and a large moustache?”

A tight smile broke through his serious expression, mirroring her nerves.

“Strange how the Count’s English is especially spotty sometimes, and less spotty at others,” Max ventured. She looked at him questioningly, and he explained, “In his negotiations with your father, his English was easily understood. Also, that comment about German being like a bevy of rocks? Very poetic for someone with only a passing knowledge of our language.”

Gail considered this. “I suppose you’re right,” she murmured. Then, unable to think of anything else to say, Gail said nothing, letting silence descend upon them.

Max cleared his throat. “Uh, are you enjoying the opera?”

“Yes,” Gail answered, flushing hot. “As I told you before.”

“Right.” Silence. “So you did.”

The porter came out and rang the bells, letting the guests know it was time to bustle back to their seats for the second act. As people began shuffling around them, Max pulled Gail to a stop.

“Just a moment, Gai—, er, Miss Alton,” Max stuttered, Gail watching him, wide-eyed, “I didn’t come out here to discuss the opera repeatedly. I wish—nay, I need to apologize for this afternoon. Once I reflected on the events, I realized I took some liberties I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry for it.”

Gail turned as red as the velvet stage curtain.

“Don’t.” She held up a hand.

“Don’t?” Max asked, his eyes lifting from his toes to her face.

“Don’t you dare apologize. I realize I may not be fantastically beautiful or captivating, but when a girl finally receives a really good kiss, the last thing she wants is to have the man say he’s sorry for it. It’s insulting.”

“I didn’t mean to be insulting!” Max replied, almost grabbing her arms to keep her from walking away, but managing to keep them at his sides. “Gail—Miss Alton. I just meant it’s my fault, my doing that it occurred in the first place. It was very warm in the room, and…” He coughed and started again. “I’m certainly not importuning the
quality
of the kiss, but more bearing the responsibility for it in the first place.”

“Oh,” Gail replied, unaccountably relieved. “I don’t believe you to be responsible. We were both there.”

“Luckily we were the only ones,” Max grumbled. And then, with an imploring look, “it can’t happen again, Miss Alton.”

Her eyes shot up, wide. “Well, of course not. I know that.” Her cheeks stained with remembrance of his hand on the back of her neck, the zip of warmth at his lips on hers. “No. Absolutely not,” she stated firmly.

“So, we’re friends?” Max asked, holding out his hand.

Gail smiled. “At the rate we’re going, we’ll need to repair our relationship every fifteen minutes. But, yes, we’re friends.” When she shook his outstretched hand, he took hers and wrapped it around his arm, and they began walking back to the box.

Gail smiled, glad to be at ease with him again, in silent harmony. They were nearly at the door of their box when Max again pulled her to a stop.

“What do you mean, you finally received a ‘really good kiss’?”

Gail rolled her eyes. “I was so hoping you missed that.”

“Not a chance,” he said with satisfaction and that lopsided smile that made her heart flutter. It was highly annoying.

She sighed at his preening. “Well, simply put, every other time I’ve been seriously kissed, I found it rather fishy.”

The preening stopped. Max’s mouth hung open wordlessly before he sputtered a reply. “You’re eighteen! And you’ve been kissed by other men before me?”

“Only two. I lived in Europe, Max,” Gail said, as if that answered everything. Although clearly it did not, because Max’s jaw was still agape.

“Max,” Gail sighed. “Have you been kissed before?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“I doubt I could count,” he answered, bewildered. The lights were getting very low now.

“How old were you when you were first kissed?” she continued, even as other couples made their way past them to be seated for the next act.

“I guess I was thirteen or so. Sally Smithson. Milkmaid.” After a wistful pause, Max asked, “What is your point?”

“I’m simply trying to do the math,” Gail explained. “This is a societal double standard I have never been able to understand. Men have been kissing since they were quite young, and have kissed many times, and this is considered normal. Yet, women are expected to keep their lips to themselves until they are ready to be married. But if this is always so, who are all these men kissing? Either the world is blindingly unrealistic in its expectations of women, or young boys are practicing on each other.”

For a short moment, Max couldn’t speak, and then the laughter came, bubbling from his chest until it threatened to echo across the whole opera house.

“Sssh!” Gail whispered furiously, covering his mouth with her hand. “What on earth did I say that was worthy of this?”

Max gently removed the hand across his mouth, placing a gentle kiss on the palm before lowering it. “Oh, Miss Alton—to hell with it. Gail. I’m so very glad I am not grouped with your fishy European kissers. And I am delighted that we are friends.” Max smiled, his chuckles continuing as he escorted a bemused Gail back into the box just as the curtain was about to rise.

THEY
each took their seats, no one in the box the wiser to their conversation, no one commenting that Gail had left with one gentleman and was escorted back by another. That’s not to say it went unnoticed. In the back of the box, Romilla’s eyes shone and sharpened as she focused not on the opera playing out on stage, but rather on the drama of the young couples seated in front of her.