by Ava March
“Yes.” Chin tipped down, Simon adjusted his waistcoat, straightening it beneath his coat. “Meeting a friend.”
That was good to hear. Simon spent too much time ensconced in his bedchamber with his nose in a book. “Well then, have a good evening.”
“You, as well...or as good of an evening that you can have at a musicale.” Satisfied he’d righted his waistcoat, Simon looked up only to roll his eyes. Then he sidestepped around Anthony. “And be sure to tell Penelope and Mother they look lovely,” he said as he went down the stairs.
“I always do.”
Anthony proceeded on to the study and found the fire lit in the hearth—at least one of the maids had anticipated that the planned seven o’clock departure had simply been a fantasy. But no bother. The musicale wouldn’t begin until after eight. It wasn’t as though he was eager to attend, but his mother preferred to arrive before the musicians—and Anthony used that term lightly—picked up their instruments.
He tossed his gloves on the console table and flexed his right hand. His knuckles were still sore from his sparring match at Gentleman Jackson’s earlier that afternoon. But it was a good sort of sore, and his gloves would cover the bruise he’d sustained while knocking his friend Stoddart to the floor.
Before settling in on the couch, he crossed to the little-used desk, where a neat stack of letters awaited him on the silver tray. Without bothering to even flip through the stack, he shoved the letters in a drawer to join their unopened fellows, then poured a glass of brandy and made himself comfortable on the couch.
Another evening of polite conversation was ahead of him, but it made his mother happy when he escorted his sister, Penelope, and her to functions on occasion. Given it was something he could do for his mother with some degree of proficiency, he readily agreed whenever she asked for his arm.
As the minutes ticked by, Anthony occupied himself by making plans for the morrow. This afternoon’s rains had kept him indoors. If tomorrow didn’t hold a repeat, then he could take a ride about Hyde Park. He nodded to himself. Yes, that’s what he would do. A gallop amongst the trees. Then maybe after, a stop in at Angelo’s Fencing Academy.
The light tap of feminine footsteps approached the study, then his mother walked through the open door. Setting his glass on a side table, Anthony got to his feet.
“Beautiful as always, Mother.” With her pale blond hair pulled back into a chignon and a violet silk gown draping her trim figure, she was the epitome of elegance. And he was certain he didn’t just believe that because she was his mother. The Dowager Viscountess Rawling was truly a beautiful woman. It was no wonder his father had been besotted the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
“Why thank you, Anthony.” She presented her cheek to him, which he dutifully kissed. She smelled of roses and lilacs, a scent he’d forever associate with her. “Penelope should be down shortly. And you look quite smart tonight. So distinguished and dapper. I’m so fortunate to have such a handsome son.”
She beamed up at him, the pride she had in him radiating from her. Yet her pride felt so false lying across his shoulders. A cloak he shouldn’t be allowed to wear. He fought to keep from glancing toward the fire in the hearth, and instead fell back onto his preferred tactic to cover discomposure.
“That’s what all mothers say to their sons,” he said with a deliberate smirk. “Before you’re allowed to pop one of us out, you have to agree to believe we are handsome. Requirement and all.”
She gave him a light tap on his forearm with her closed fan. “Anthony Albert Hawkins. You shouldn’t speak with such vulgar language.”
Vulgar? He gave his head a little bemused shake, but decided it best not to argue the point. He might be three-and-twenty, but he still didn’t relish the idea of inciting her disappointment.
“And it’s not a requirement,” she continued. “Lady Westhill’s eldest is a homely fellow, and even she can see it. Whereas you are a handsome man.” Her gray eyes grew soft. “You remind me so of your father when he was younger.”
Please, no. Not the comparison with his father again. He wasn’t half the man his father had been. He might look like his father, but that was where the similarities ended. His father had been intelligent, responsible and an astute businessman. All things Anthony was not. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he wished his father hadn’t waited until he was forty-three before he’d married, for then his father would still be alive. Still be managing the viscounty and still be in Anthony’s life.
Anthony forced his lips into a smile. “Well, it’s good to know I don’t remind you of him when he was older. My ego couldn’t withstand being compared to a sixty-four-year-old man.”
That comment earned him another tap of her fan, but this time the remonstrance was more in jest. “Oh, do stop, Anthony,” she said, with a very unladylike roll of her eyes.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. She was fun to rattle too. “Would you care for a glass of Madeira while we wait for the illustrious Miss Penelope to grace us with her presence?”
As he poured her a glass from the decanter on the console table, she launched into a discussion of the evening’s upcoming function. He nodded whenever she paused to take a breath and added a “You don’t say?” when she relayed a bit of gossip surrounding the harpsichord player.
“Indeed. Fancying a son of a solicitor with her being the daughter of an earl. And one of the Tilden brothers is newly arrived in Town. You were good friends with one of them at Eton, spent a summer at their country house, did you not?”
“Yes. Pearce, the youngest Tilden son. I was sixteen that summer.” The summer of hell. Then he gave himself a mental shove to the shoulder for being ridiculous. That had been seven years ago. Really, he had moved past it.
A tiny frown touched her mouth. “Was Pearce married?”
“No, he hasn’t married yet.” While Anthony was no longer close friends with Pearce—Pearce lived in Wiltshire and they had drifted apart once his old friend had gone off to Oxford—he hadn’t heard the man had married.
“This one was married. His wife passed away earlier this year.” She pursed her lips in thought.
It couldn’t be Stephan, as Stephan was in the Commons and lived in London. Anthony’s pulse picked up. An echo of the old pain glanced his heart. He knew what his mother would say before the name was out of her mouth. There were only three Tilden boys, after all. Even Anthony could apply the process of elimination.
“Gabriel.”
The name echoed in his ears.
Had that been his own voice?
“Yes, Gabriel, like the archangel,” she said, her expression brightening, as he offered the name. “Gabriel Tilden is in London keeping his sister, Mrs. Sarah Blackwell, company while her husband is away on business. Very kind of him. They were invited to the musicale this evening.”
Gabriel would be at tonight’s function. The knowledge slammed down onto Anthony.
“Did you know Gabriel Tilden?” his mother asked, all innocent query.
There had been a time when he thought he knew Gabriel, but apparently he had been wrong. Anthony cleared his throat. “I was acquainted with him.” He kissed me, yet he chose another. “He was Pearce’s brother, after all, and also attended Eton.”
As casually as he could, Anthony crossed to the side table, picked up his glass of brandy and took a long swallow. Then another swallow.
Anthony hadn’t been the only person to stumble upon Gabriel’s rendezvous with Charlotte in the rose garden that day. If gossip could be believed—and in this case Anthony had had no reason to doubt it—Charlotte’s uncle had come upon the pair at some point after Anthony had darted away, and Gabriel had offered for her on the spot. It had been the scandal of the house party. Whispers of it had flooded the corridors and every corner of the house. Anthony hadn’t been able to escape the constant reminders
that Gabriel had given his heart to another and would soon be married to the flirting, pretentious Charlotte Dunlop. What had Gabriel seen in her? Anthony had been stuck at the estate for three more days until the party had officially ended and he’d been able to return home. And not once during those three long days had Gabriel said a word to him.
The summer of hell, indeed.
For a moment, he debated conjuring some excuse to avoid the musicale. Maybe the roast mutton he’d had for dinner at White’s wasn’t sitting well. His mother wouldn’t push him to attend if he wasn’t feeling up to it. But...
He had already gone through the effort of donning appropriate clothes for an evening function, including tying his cravat in a neat Mathematical. Gabriel was in London, and Anthony would likely bump into him at some point. Might as well get the moment over with. And it wasn’t as if Gabriel meant anything to him anymore. Definitely not.
And they had been but adolescents at the time. It had happened seven years ago. Clearly Anthony had read far more into that night at the pond than Gabriel had intended. Maybe Gabriel had simply been confused about his desires, and had tested out a slight attraction to men with Anthony. Really, he shouldn’t hold the incident against Gabriel. And it wasn’t as if Gabriel was the only man to have kissed him then chosen another. Anthony had kissed—and done much more than kiss—quite a few men since he’d moved to London five years ago. He well knew a kiss wasn’t akin to a promise of forever.
Resolved, Anthony turned from the side table, almost-empty glass in hand.
“Since he’s newly arrived in Town, perhaps you could offer to show him around or introduce him to some of your friends,” his mother said, ever kind and helpful to others.
Anthony gave a noncommittal nod and drained the last of his brandy. It would be the kind thing to do, would show he held no ill feelings toward Gabriel, and he doubted Gabriel had developed a fondness for social functions over the past seven years. The man likely would be uncomfortable at the musicale, and the least Anthony could do would be to take pity on him so he wouldn’t be standing off by himself all evening.
Yes, he would do the right thing and show Gabriel some kindness.
“And when you have a moment, could you please talk with Simon?” his mother asked. “He has made a few comments of late that led me to believe he does not want to return to Oxford for Michaelmas term.”
Anthony nodded absently. Would Gabriel still be as gorgeous as ever, or had he turned into one of those portly country gentlemen, the type who was rife about the countryside?
He couldn’t decide which he’d prefer—an adult version of the too-gorgeous eighteen-year-old, or a portly fellow who bore no resemblance to the adolescent object of his infatuation.
“Anthony?” she prompted, jolting him to the present.
He focused on her expectant face, then ran his mind back to her last question. “Yes, I’ll speak with Simon.”
“He really should return to university.”
“I agree.” Anthony might have bypassed university, but his younger brother was an intelligent boy. And as the Rawling title would someday pass from Anthony to Simon and his future son, it really was best for Simon to complete his education and not follow in his older brother’s footsteps. “Simon’s left for the evening. Said something about meeting a friend. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning, speak with him then.”
His mother gave him a smile. “Thank you, Anthony.”
The light tap of feminine footsteps approached the study once again.
“Shall we depart?” Penelope stood in the open doorway. “We don’t wish to be late.”
“Did that concept just occur to you?” Anthony asked, setting down his glass and picking up his gloves.
“Why yes, Anthony, it did.” She threw him a cheeky grin. Heaven help the man who won her heart—the fellow had better be prepared to be on his toes at all times. Clad in a pale pink gown, his twenty-one-year-old sister was a replica of their mother. Beautiful and elegant...and proving damned picky. Three Seasons, and she was still unwed. But regardless of the expense of yet another London Season in the spring—an expense he wasn’t completely certain his bank account could bear—he would rather her wait for true love than to settle on the first man who asked for her hand.
As he followed his mother and Penelope down to the front door, one thought rose above the mass in his head—Gabriel was no longer married.
* * *
“I was so sorry to hear about your loss.” Pity pulled at the older woman’s features.
Pity that hit him square in the gut.
Gabriel tipped his head. “Thank you for your kindness, Lady Westhill. If you’ll excuse me, I should seek out my sister to see if she has need of anything. I do not wish to be remiss in my duties as escort.”
So much for his hopes for a diversion. Already six matrons had offered him their condolences this evening. He really did not need more reminders that he was a widower. He had jumped at the opportunity to keep Sarah company while her husband was on the Continent and had left Derbyshire to escape such reminders, after all.
Doing his best to avoid another sympathetic matron, he wound through the crowd in the large drawing room. Chairs were positioned in neat rows before the harpsichord and three music stands, waiting for their hostess to give the word that the performance would begin. He spotted Sarah’s brunette head in the midst of a small pack of other women. With a glass of wine in hand, his sister appeared happy and content. She didn’t need his presence at the moment, so he found a spot along the wall, near a potted palm and not near the door so it wouldn’t appear as though he was trying to make his escape.
The palm was too short to do much good at hiding him, but hopefully the other guests would pick up the hint that he didn’t wish to be drawn into an idle conversation laced with heavy doses of pity.
He pulled out his pocket watch, glanced at the face and managed to hide the groan. Not even an hour had passed yet. The performance would take some time—Gabriel didn’t know how much time, but at least a few pieces’ worth—then Sarah would wish to chat afterward with friends. A good couple of hours stood between him and walking out the door of the stately town house on Grosvenor Square.
He had known before he had left Sarah’s house that the evening would likely include a few kind words in regards to his late wife’s death. He had steeled himself and prepared the appropriate polite response. But he hadn’t expected that every person he was introduced to would bring up Charlotte. Why did people feel they needed to say something to him about her? Why couldn’t they just let him be? She had passed six months ago. If their condolences came from a sense of social obligation, then they needn’t bother. And if by chance it came from actual kindness, then the true kindness would be in avoiding the topic. He couldn’t fathom how anyone who had experienced a loss—be it a loved one or a distant relation—would wish to have it put before them over and over again.
And what did they expect him to say in reply? Certainly not the truth.
Thank you for your condolences, but I’m relieved to be free of my marriage.
A wave of guilt coursed through him.
He should have known better than to accompany Sarah tonight. Should have known his late wife’s death would be the topic of every conversation. Then again, it wasn’t as if he could have bowed out tonight. His excuse for coming to London had been to escort Sarah to functions in her husband’s absence.
Another check of his watch confirmed he still had hours left at the musicale. Once he saw Sarah home for the evening, perhaps he would go over to Cheapside again. The sounds of dice and cards, the shouts of victory and defeat, the anticipation as the roulette marble clacked around the wheel did wonders to muffle the guilt. And maybe luck would shine down on him tonight, as it surely hadn’t the past few nights.
With nothing better to do with himself, he cast
his gaze over the crowd before him. Would the musicians ever perform? He let out a sigh at the sight of two more ladies and a gentleman walking into the drawing room. Obviously the musicians were not planning to take up their instruments anytime soon if guests were still—
Gabriel’s heart lurched in his chest.
Seven years had passed, but he would recognize that carefree smile anywhere.
He couldn’t stop himself from staring, from soaking up every detail, as Anthony Hawkins made his bow to their hostess. Gone was the gangly frame of an adolescent, in its place the body of a man. Broad shoulders, strong arms and powerful legs, indicating Anthony didn’t spend all his time ensconced behind a desk. The once-fair blond hair had darkened a shade to a sandy blond. The strands around his ears still curved up in a way that made Gabriel’s fingers itch to trace those curls. In a crisp black coat and a white waistcoat, Anthony was...too handsome for words.
A sense of acute loss radiated through him, like a physical force. Gabriel’s breaths stuttered, as though he had been punched. Not a day had gone by since he’d last seen Anthony when his thoughts didn’t stray to Anthony at least once, when his heart didn’t give that squeeze of regret. Still, he hadn’t realized just how much he had missed Anthony until he laid eyes on him again.
He had lost the opportunity to watch Anthony grow into that handsome man. Lost seven years with him.
Seven years of smiles and teasing laughter. Seven years’ worth of kisses. A lifetime of happiness.
And it had all been his own doing.
What he wouldn’t give to take back that afternoon. To go back to his younger self and scream at him not to be a coward. To do anything but hurt Anthony.
Yet he had done that very thing.
As their hostess spoke to the two women who had arrived with Anthony, he turned his head in Gabriel’s direction.
