by Nina Milne
But somehow for Gabe each and every glorious note evoked images of the children he’d once thought to have, and grief and loss for a now impossible future swirled in his gut.
On some level Gabe registered the next couple of hours. The choice of pieces was a perfect mixture of the haunting and the lively, and the conductor was both knowledgeable and witty. When a pair of ballerinas came onto the stage they were greeted with a universal murmur of appreciation, and after their performance applause rang out. Next up was an opera singer, whose voice soared and dipped with notes so pure and melodic that Etta gasped next to him.
Yet throughout, his whole being was attuned to Matteas Coleridge, his body feeling cold and hot in turn, taut with the fight-or-flight instinct.
At one point he became aware of Etta’s glance and then her hand reached out and covered his. Damn. No doubt she’d sensed his discomfort, and for a moment he wanted to accept the unspoken comfort she offered. No. That way lay weakness; he would not allow any closeness with Etta other than their physical connection.
He had to pull himself together and man up, and so gently he pulled his hand away. Forced his emotions into shutdown, made himself focus on Matteas Coleridge with calm. Then he turned to Etta with a smile, refusing to acknowledge the hurt in her brown eyes.
‘The finale should be magnificent,’ he murmured. Almost as if he were speaking to a chance acquaintance.
In truth the finale was more than magnificent—the Viennese orchestra played in complete harmony, with an intensity that left their audience spellbound and captivated, and when the last strains of the music graced the high-vaulted room there was a moment of silence before a standing ovation.
But even the beauty of the music couldn’t permeate the ice he’d generated around his emotions, and Gabe was glad of it.
‘Back to the hotel for a late supper?’ he suggested.
‘Sure.’ Etta looked up at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I just want to pick up a programme on the way out. It’ll make a great souvenir.’
Gabe considered a protest, then decided against it. Etta might well simply buy the programme and not study it in detail. So he merely nodded, waited whilst she purchased the glossy bound booklet, and then they set off through the Viennese streets back to the hotel.
Gabe knew he should try and manufacture some sort of conversation but somehow it seemed beyond him—perhaps once they were back at the hotel, surrounded by the chatter and bonhomie of their fellow guests, it would become easier. But he did derive some strange solace from Etta’s presence as she walked beside him, their steps in time as they passed the still brightly lit shopfronts, and after ten minutes they reached the now familiar environs of the hotel.
‘Can we pop upstairs quickly before we eat?’ Etta asked.
‘Sure.’
Once in their suite Etta vanished into the bedroom, sliding the door shut behind her. Gabe walked to the window and looked out into the Viennese night. Matteas Coleridge existed; he’d seen him in the flesh and his mission to Vienna had been accomplished. No, not fully. It was Christmas tomorrow, and he wanted the day to be special for Etta—however unfestive he felt himself. Then, after Christmas, he would go home and face the music.
Gabe frowned, wondering what Etta was doing. It was unlike her to change for a meal—especially as she had looked pretty smokin’ in the green dress she’d worn to the concert.
As if on cue the door slid open and Etta stepped forward, halted on the threshold of the palatial lounge area. Foreboding issued him with a qualm. She hadn’t changed—stood tall in the simple green dress, which was given a twist by the fall of its asymmetric hem which emphasised the length of her legs. She had the concert programme folded open in one hand, and as he met her tawny gaze he flinched inwardly at the hurt that lurked behind anger.
Gabe steeled himself—he’d known this was a possibility and he had a strategy in place.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That “Matt Coleridge”, a cello player in that Viennese orchestra, is Matteas Coleridge, your newly discovered distant cousin.’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
Disdain narrowed her eyes. ‘That doesn’t fly, Gabe. You must have known I’d be interested. Is that why we’re in Vienna?’
‘In part. I was curious. And when I found out he was in that Viennese orchestra I figured, why not? I wanted to get away for Christmas so why not Vienna?’
Nice and casual. No big deal.
But Etta wasn’t buying it—that much was clear from the frown on her face and the twist of her lips.
‘But you didn’t want anyone else to know? Not your sister, not April, not anyone?’
‘No. Poor bloke—I wouldn’t want to unleash April onto him just because I wanted to satisfy a curious impulse. As for Kaitlin... She has enough on her plate.’
‘You don’t get curious impulses.’ Etta’s voice was tight. ‘If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, fine, but don’t insult my intelligence. You didn’t want anyone to even know you’d commissioned the new family tree. Why not?’
‘That’s my business. I hired you to do a job—you did it and you’ve been paid. Subject closed.’ A small voice told him that this was the wrong approach. A louder voice informed him that he was being a complete arse.
‘No.’ Etta strode forward, her pleated skirt swirling in the angry movement. ‘The subject is not closed. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know I’ve been manipulated. You hired me as your cover—your fake girlfriend. What happened?’ Her voice broke and she gave an angry shake of her head in denial. ‘Is that what all this has been about? You and me? An additional cover to make it real for April’s spy, so no one suspects why you’re really here?’
The revulsion in her tone was directed in equal measure against him and herself.
‘That is not true.’ He didn’t want her to believe that—not when he knew what a leap of faith it had been for her to trust her feelings, trust her physical instinct. ‘I wouldn’t use you.’
Disbelief gazed back at him from her eyes. ‘But that is exactly what you’ve done. You used my professional expertise and then you used me. This whole fling has been an illusion, created to throw dust in everyone’s eyes for reasons of your own—a master strategy.’
Damn it. He couldn’t let her believe that, but the alternative...the alternative was to trust her. She had already worked out some of the facts...could already do damage.
As if she could read his thoughts she gave a small scornful laugh, devoid of all mirth. ‘Don’t worry, Gabe. I won’t go blabbing your secret to April or to anyone else. We had a deal and I’ll keep my part—I’ll even keep up the fake girlfriend charade for the next couple of days.’
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and for a second she looked lost.
‘But I don’t care who April’s spy is—we aren’t sharing that bed. And I will be out of here on the first available flight on Boxing Day.’
Let it be.
That always worked. Only it didn’t. He couldn’t let Etta believe he’d used her, that the past days had been fake, an illusion.
‘I can’t have children.’
The words reverberated, caromed off the patterned wallpaper and lingered in the air, each syllable a portent of fate. The act of saying the words out loud banded his chest with harsh reality, and his lips twisted in a grimace as he took in her expression.
Etta’s mouth opened and closed, and shock etched each delicate feature even as her tawny eyes filled with compassion and near-empathy. His gaze twisted from hers. He didn’t want her pity—couldn’t bear to see her commiseration.
‘Gabe...’
The programme fell from her grasp, swished to the floor, and as if the soft thud had galvanised her she closed the gap
between them. She reached up and cupped his jaw in her palms, angled his head so their gazes locked.
‘Look at me. I’m sorry. More sorry than words can express.’
The sincerity of her voice and the feather-lightness of her touch mingled and grief threatened to surface. Gabe shoved it down—no way would he give in to misery.
‘It’s OK. You don’t need to say anything.’ Gently he lifted his hands and removed hers, squeezed gently and then let go and stepped back. ‘I’ve had a while to come to terms with it.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Nine months. Since then I’ve seen three separate experts—top men and women in their field. I’ve looked into treatment options, but I am one of those rare cases for which they don’t believe treatment will result in success.’
The bitter tang of disbelief was still there—he’d been so sure he could fix the problem.
‘So the unbroken father-to-son Fairfax line will be broken. But what worried me most was the idea that the title might die out altogether. Thanks to the convolutions of the law and the way the Fairfax peerage was originally set up the title can’t be passed on via a female. So any children Kaitlin and Cora have can’t succeed.’
‘So that’s why you hired me?’
‘Yes. I needed you to find out if there was anyone out there to suceed me. You found him—Matteas Coleridge. The possible one day Duke of Fairfax.’ Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the acid note from his tone. Stupid. He had wanted another heir to be found, for Pete’s sake. This way there was a chance for the future. ‘Potential founder of a new dynasty.’
The words made her flinch. ‘Gabe. This sucks. You must be devastated. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because no one knows. I wasn’t sure how the news would affect my father’s health. I was worried it would tip him into another attack.’
‘So is that why you split with Lady Isobel?’
‘Yes. Isobel and I have always known our parents wanted us to marry—we talked about it when we were young and we agreed it suited us both. She wasn’t interested in love any more than I am—she wanted a title, the position of duchess, to be the mother of a future duke. She was very clear that she wants children, so I figured it was probably worth making sure I could back up what I had on the table. When I found out the truth I knew we couldn’t go ahead and get engaged as planned. But I still thought there must be a fix—a treatment of some sort. So I told Isobel I needed to postpone the engagement and I took off for America, because I figured it would be easier to avoid publicity there whilst I got the problem sorted.’
‘But Isobel must have been curious?’
‘Isobel didn’t seem to mind—after all, what difference would a month make?’
‘So what happened?’
Gabe shrugged. ‘You’ve got me there. I have no idea. Next thing I knew she gave that press conference without any warning at all—the one that denounced me as a heartbreaker. I called her and she said she was sorry but she didn’t want to get married any more, and she’d figured the best way to get herself out of it was to stage that interview.’
Etta looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Why didn’t you expose her?’
‘Because there was no point. I hadn’t been totally up-front with her, she would no longer want to be my a wife, so why stand in her way? There was nothing in it for me. And it meant I didn’t have to tell her the truth.’
‘So what will you do now?’
‘Explain the situation to my parents. Following Dad’s heart attack my parents are understandably keen for me to marry and produce the next Derwent heir. They need to know that although I can’t do that there is another possibility—that way the family can take Matteas in, groom him... Could be my parents will ask me to abdicate my position so they can take him in hand.’
The whole thought made the blood turn to ice in his veins but it was an option that had to be considered. Now that he had seen Matteas in the flesh he knew it to be a feasible reality.
‘No. They wouldn’t—they couldn’t do that.’
‘If he’s the right type of guy they could do exactly that. If they think it is better for Derwent Manor, for the future of the title of Duke of Fairfax, of course they will.’
‘And will you agree?’
‘Possibly.’ Though every emotion revolted, he knew that in reality he would have no choice. ‘If I agree that it’s best for Derwent.’
‘But what about what is the best option for you?’ Etta’s voice was gentle. ‘What about you, full-stop? All you seem to care about is the effect on Derwent. You must be devastated on a personal level about not having children. Have you taken the chance to grieve for yourself?’
‘Grief won’t provide a solution. One way or another Matteas Coleridge might.’
It almost helped to speak the words out loud as he paced the carpeted floor.
‘Option one: I remain in line for the title, marry a suitable duchess, look after the estate and imbue Matteas and his family with centuries of heritage. Or I stand aside now and he takes my place when my father dies. It depends on Matteas.’
‘No, it doesn’t. It depends on you. In any case, your parents will want you to succeed them. You are their son. They love you.’
Gabe shook his head, touched by her misplaced certainty. ‘The Derwents don’t work like that. Love isn’t in the Derwent vocabulary. My parents will transfer their loyalty to Matteas if they believe he is a worthy heir.’
‘That has to bother you.’
‘They believe the future of Derwent is more important than all the emotions and dramas of today.’
‘But it still must hurt to believe your parents could transfer their feelings so easily. I know it does, so don’t try and con me into believing you aren’t feeling something.’
‘There is no point in giving in to feelings.’
‘Maybe. But those feelings exist, however much you suppress them. If you don’t want to talk about it I truly get it.’ Etta hauled in a breath, met his gaze square-on. ‘I was fourteen when my mum fell pregnant with Rosa. When she was born I worked out that something wasn’t right... There were questions Mum couldn’t answer, or the answers she gave didn’t ring true. Also they were different with Rosa than they were with me—tactile, demonstrative, loving, happy. They adored her—truly adored her—and it was as if I didn’t exist any more. They wouldn’t even let me help look after her.’
Gabe could see the remembered hurt and bewilderment on her face and he stepped towards her. This time it was her turn to step back, with a small shake of her head.
‘The point is I eventually worked it out—I’m adopted, but they hadn’t ever told me. I asked them and they admitted it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was—one minute I had an identity, and the next, kaboom, the whole facade tumbled down, leaving me as the debris.’
Gabe knew how that hurt—the collapse of a lifetime’s belief—and the pain on her face caused his chest to tighten as he imagined a teenage Etta, caught in a maelstrom of pain and confusion, hurt and anger. So much made sense now—her fear of losing Cathy’s love, her belief that Cathy would transfer her love to Tommy.
‘Etta, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s not why I told you. I told you because you’re treating something devastating as something logical, and it isn’t. You thought you had a future and now that future has been snatched away from you. Well, I thought I had a past and that was ripped away from me. And it sucks. This I know.’
Warmth touched him that she had shared something so personal, so distressing, in order to help him, and for an instant he almost felt an urge to allow the emotions he’d leashed so tight for months to run loose. But that would mean letting Etta closer, and he’d let her close enough. Anything further would smack of weakness—but he was in control and he would find a strategy to move forward.
‘Come here. I appreciate what you have told me, and I promise you that it outweighs anything I’m going through. I will deal with my parents—however it pans out, and whatever goes down. But right now there is one thing I need you to know.’
He stepped forward, cupped her jaw in his hands, and tilted her face towards his.
‘I didn’t use you in the past few days. I didn’t sleep with you to pull the wool over April’s eyes. I slept with you because I wanted to.’ He smiled, wanting—needing—to change the mood. ‘I still do. And it’s important to me that you believe that.’
She surveyed him, her brown eyes soft with emotion. ‘I do. I do believe that—and thank you for telling me the truth. I promise you can trust me, and if you want to talk—not about strategies and logic but about how you feel—I’m here.’
‘Thank you.’
That would happen when hell froze over—he wouldn’t know where to begin, even if he had any desire to invite Etta to a pity party.
‘In the meantime, let’s skip supper and go to bed.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GABE ENTERED THE bedroom where Etta still slept, curled on her side. One hand pillowed her cheek and she looked so beautiful his heartstrings tugged.
She opened her eyes and surveyed him drowsily before she rolled onto her back and then pushed herself up against the ornate splendour of the headboard.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, surprised to feel anticipation unfurling in his gut as she grinned at him.
‘Merry Christmas!’ A stretch and she inhaled appreciatively. ‘What is that heavenly smell?’
‘Rise and shine.’ He tugged at the duvet and she snatched at it. ‘I ordered Room Service. Pancakes, Viennese-style. I know it’s not the same as having Cathy here, but I thought it might help to have your traditional breakfast.’
Her smile illuminated the whole room and made him feel about eight feet tall.
‘Thank you, Gabe. I’ll be out in two minutes.’
