Flora stood on the opposite side of the room, leaning against a chair and watching the dances, yearning on her face. Alex put his glass down and weaved his way over to her. He had drunk more than he usually allowed himself to; everything felt fuzzier, softer. Sweeter.
‘Hi, have you been released early?’
‘Time off for good behaviour. Having fun?’
‘You know what...’ she blinked at him, owlish in her solemn surprise ‘... I have. There are some really lovely people here.’
‘Dance with me.’ It wasn’t a request and she obediently took his proffered hand, allowing him to lead her back onto the floor. She sank in close, her hand splayed on his back, and he could feel where every part of her touched him as if they weren’t separated by layers of material but as if they were back in the ski lodge, learning each other anew.
Her head was on his shoulder, nestled in trustingly. They had trust. They had friendship.
They had passion.
It was a lot.
Alex stopped. ‘Flora?’
‘Mmm...why aren’t we dancing?’ She looked up at him, her mouth curved invitingly, and that was all he needed. Alex dipped his head and kissed her, a sweet, gentle caress.
She smiled up at him. ‘That was nice. What was that for?’
‘I wanted to.’ He began to move again, slowing the steps down so that they were out of time with the music, dancing to their own private beat, their lips finding each other again, a deeper, intoxicating kiss. He was dimly aware that they were still moving, that the violins were soaring, the lights were low, but none of it was real. Only they were real. Just the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent of her. He wanted to sink deeper and deeper, to be absorbed by her, into her.
Only she was real. She made him real.
‘Not here.’ Flora’s breath was ragged as she broke away. ‘Not like that.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly, still lost in the memory of her warmth.
‘I mean...’ She squeezed his hand, running her thumb over his palm, trailing fire with her touch. Fire that threatened to consume him. ‘We’re in the middle of a dance floor. I think we should take this back to our room.’
Of course. How could he have forgotten? How could he have been so swept up in the moment that he had lost track of where they were, forgotten that they weren’t alone?
He swallowed. ‘I warned you that the waltz was a scandalous dance.’
‘You did,’ she agreed. ‘Am I quite compromised?’
‘‘I think so...’ His earlier thoughts came back to haunt him. Peace, stability, a family of his own... ‘Unless we marry. What about it, Flora? Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER TEN
THE WALK BACK to the room seemed to take for ever. Every few steps they bumped into a group of Flora’s new friends wanting to drag her off to the bar, to after parties, for midnight walks out in the snow.
She turned each of them down with a laughing non-committal reply but the whole situation didn’t seem real. Her voice was too bright, her smile too wild and there was a buzzing in her ears as if she were in a waking dream.
Alex didn’t say anything at all. His hand clasped hers tight; his eyes burned with that same strange intensity she had seen on the dance floor.
And his words echoed round and round in her head. Will you marry me?
Of course he had been joking. Of course. There was no doubt. Just because his fingers were gripping hers tightly, just because she had daydreamed a similar scenario more times than she had imagined winning the lottery didn’t make it real.
Only...he had sounded serious.
What if he was serious?
No. Of course he wasn’t because dreams didn’t simply just come true. A dance floor, a waltz, beautiful lighting, champagne; that was the stuff of fairy tales, not real life. Not Flora’s life.
But he looked serious.
She had been so desperate to get him back to the room but as they approached the door an unexpected caution hit her. Whatever was done and said when they got inside couldn’t be unsaid, couldn’t be undone. And his face was so very set. The passion and laughter wiped clear as if they had never been.
Flora took a deep breath as they walked into the room. It was her imagination, that was all, working on his words and twisting them into something more serious than intended. She needed to lighten up, enjoy these last few hours before it all changed back and she was back in her rags clutching a pumpkin.
Okay. Lightening up. ‘Alone at last.’ She smiled provocatively at him but there was no answering smile on his face.
‘I meant it, you know. Marry me.’
Flora reached up to unclasp her necklace but at his quiet words her hands dropped helplessly to her side. ‘No bended knee, no flash mob, no ring in my ice cream?’ She tried to tease but the joke was flatter than one of her father’s failed soufflés, and Alex didn’t acknowledge it with as much as a flicker of an eyelid.
She walked over to the window and stared out. Ahead was darkness but if she looked up then the stars shone with an astonishing intensity, unfamiliar to a girl used to London’s never fully darkened skies. Below Innsbruck was lit up like a toy town. Not quite real.
Like this moment.
‘Why?’
She held her breath, hope fluttering wildly in her chest. Would he say it? Because I love you. I have always loved you.
He didn’t answer, not straight away. She heard him pace back and forth, imagined him shrugging off the tuxedo jacket, undoing his bow tie, running his hands through his disordered curls.
‘Does it matter why?’ he asked at last.
She still couldn’t turn to face him but at his words hope’s flutters became feebler and nausea began to swirl in her stomach.
‘I think so, yes.’ Tell me, tell me, she silently begged him. Tell me what I need to hear and I’ll believe you.
Even though she knew it wouldn’t be true.
‘No one knows me like you do. You know everything, all the darkness, and you’re still here.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘We know we’re compatible. I think we could lead very comfortable, happy lives together. The sex is good—more than good. And marriage would tick other boxes too.’
Flora swallowed. Hope finally gave up and withered away. Her stomach still twisted with nausea but most thought and feeling drained away to a much-needed numbness. ‘Great,’ she murmured. Marriage as a box-ticking exercise. Just what she had always dreamed of. Maybe they could make a list and follow it up with a presentation on the computer.
‘It would make things a lot easier for you as you change focus. I know money has been tight. That wouldn’t be an issue any longer, and there’s plenty of space at my house for a studio and storage.’
‘Money, storage...’ she repeated as if in a dream, the practical words not quite sinking in. ‘And what about you? What’s in it for you, apart from good sex?’
He didn’t seem to hear the bitterness in her last words, just continuing as if this were a completely sane conversation. ‘For me? No more dating, trying to be someone I’m not. Freedom to work—you wouldn’t mind when work took me abroad, wouldn’t expect me to check in every five minutes. There wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, any expectations—you wouldn’t want more than I can give.’
‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Not now anyway. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her, was it? She had chosen not to listen. Not to guard herself against this.
She wasn’t numb now, she was cold. A biting chill working its way up from her toes, bone deep.
He hadn’t noticed, was still listing soulless benefits as if it were next week’s shopping list. ‘And there would be no real adjustment. We know each other’s bad habits, moods, and I get on with your family. Think about it, Flora.
It makes perfect sense.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ She turned at last. He had discarded his jacket and his tie, his shirt half untucked and unbuttoned, his hair falling over his forehead. He looked slightly dangerous, a little degenerate like the sort of regency rake who would kiss a girl on a dance floor and not care about the consequences.
And yet here he was offering a marriage of convenience. If she said no—when she said no—then everything really would change. They might be able to sweep a week of passion under the carpet. They wouldn’t be able to sweep this away.
Especially when every traitorous fibre of her wanted to say yes.
‘I can’t...’ she said before she allowed herself to weaken.
His eyes blazed for one heartbreaking moment and then the shutters came down. ‘Right. I see. Fine. Silly of me to think you would. Let’s not mention it again.’
‘I need more from marriage.’ The words were tumbling out. ‘I want love.’
A muscle worked in his cheek. ‘I do love you, you know that. As much as I can.’
‘But are you in love with me?’
She couldn’t believe she’d asked that. The last taboo, more powerful than the kisses they had shared, the whispered intimacies. This, this was the big one. But she had to know. She took a deep, shuddering breath and waited. Would he? Did he? All he had to do was tell her he loved her and she would be in.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do I care about you? Yes. Desire you? Absolutely. Like your company? You know I do. Isn’t that enough?’
Flora shook her head. ‘I wish it was,’ she whispered. ‘But I want more. I want the whole crazy, passionate, all-consuming love. I want to be the centre of someone’s world and for my world to revolve around them.’
But he was shaking his head, a denial of her words, of her hopes and dreams. ‘That’s not real love, Flora. That’s a crush at best, obsession at worst,’ and with those calm words Flora felt something inside her crack clean in two.
‘Oxytocin, serotonin. Hormones telling you lies. Love? It’s unstable, it can’t be trusted. But you’re right. Marriage between us is a bad idea.’ He stepped back and picked up his jacket, shrugging himself into it. ‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you. If you’ll excuse me, then I am going to get a drink. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.’
* * *
The plane was buzzing with festive spirit. Bags stuffed into the overhead lockers filled with brightly wrapped presents, people chatting eagerly to their seatmates—even strangers—about their plans for the next few days. Even the pilot made some flying reindeer jokes as he prepared them for take-off.
But the buzz didn’t reach their two seats. They were ensconced in roomy first-class comfort. There were free drinks, legroom, food—but Alex and Flora sat stiffly as if they were crammed into the most cramped economy seat.
Flora was sleeping—or, Alex suspected, she was pretending to—and he was looking through documents as if the fate of Christmas depended on his memorising them by heart. If that had been the case then Christmas was in trouble; no matter how often he skimmed a sentence his brain could not make head or tail of it, his brain revolving round and round and round.
She’d said no. Even the person who knew him best, who he thought loved him best, didn’t want to risk her happiness on him.
And now he’d done exactly what he had sworn he would never do. He’d broken Flora’s heart, tainted their friendship, ruined his relationship with her family. Because how could he possibly turn up there tomorrow ready to bask in Christmas cheer when he couldn’t even look at Flora?
Especially as she couldn’t look at him either. Oh, she was trying. She made stilted conversation, her smile too bright, her voice too cheery, but her eyes slid away when they reached his face, her body leaning away from his whenever they were close. Luckily his monosyllabic replies hadn’t seemed too out of character when other people were around—most of the departing guests were similarly afflicted, suffering the effects of overindulgence the night before.
It wasn’t a hangover that affected him, although heaven only knew he’d tried his best. Sitting in the bar until three a.m., drinking alone at the end, trying to block out the voices from his head.
You taint everything.
I can’t marry you.
I want love.
What could he answer to that when he didn’t even know what love was? The twisted obsession his father had had for his mother, so jealous he didn’t even want to share her affection with their child? The grateful desperation he had shown towards his stepmother for deigning to notice him and the dark turning that had taken?
He didn’t want or need that selfish emotion. There was a time when that made him feel invincible, as if he had an invisible armour protecting him from the follies that befell so many of his friends.
Now he just felt lost. Stuck in a labyrinth he didn’t have the key for—only there was no princess holding a ball of string ready to guide him out. And there was no monster. He was the monster.
How could he return to Kent with her now? It was her home, not his. The only place he belonged to was the house he had designed in Primrose Hill. But he didn’t want to return there alone, to spend Christmas alone in a house without a heart.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to grab a last-minute flight and head out again. He looked around the plane at the bland décor, the packed seats filled with strangers, the almost soothing signs telling him to sit back, switch his phone off, keep his seat belt on. He could spend Christmas Day on a flight. It almost didn’t matter where to.
‘Do you have to pick up presents and things before you head back home?’ His throat scratched as he forced the words out, as if unaccustomed to speaking.
Flora’s eyes opened a fraction. ‘Yes, if that’s okay.’
‘I’ve ordered you a car. It’ll run you back to yours and wait for you, as long as you need, then take you home to Kent.’
She sat up at that, any pretence at sleep forgotten. ‘You’re not coming back with me?’
‘Not tonight, I have too much to do.’
‘Too much to do on Christmas Eve? Everything’s shut for the next few days. What on earth can’t wait? But you are driving down tomorrow?’
He couldn’t answer.
Her eyes flashed. ‘We promised, Alex, we promised that we wouldn’t let things change.’
Had she really believed they wouldn’t? Had he? He closed his eyes, exhausted. ‘We lied.’
There was no more to be said. Not for the last hour of the flight, not during the tedious business of disembarking, immigration and baggage collecting. Not as he saw the sign with his name on it and steered a mute Flora towards it.
‘Can you drop my bags and skis off at my house on your way out?’ he asked. ‘You have your key?’
She turned to look at him, her face paler than usual, the white accented by the deep shadows under her eyes. ‘You’re not even travelling with me? How are you getting home?’
He shrugged. ‘Train, Tube. My own two feet.’
‘You’re getting on the train? On Christmas Eve? It’ll be packed!’
He couldn’t explain it, the need to wander, to be anonymous in a vast sea of people where nobody knew him, judged him. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need some space.’
She stared at him sceptically and then turned away, the dismissive movement conveying everything. Hurting far more than he had expected. ‘Suit yourself. You always do.’
He stood and watched her walk away. ‘Merry Christmas, Flora.’ But she was too far away and his words fell unheard.
* * *
The train was as unpleasant as Flora had forecast. Alex was unable to get a seat and so he stood for the fifteen-minute journey back into London, barricaded into his spot by other people’s suitcases and bulging bags of presents. The carriage stank of sweat
, alcohol, fried chicken and desperation, the air punctuated by a baby’s increasingly desperate cries and the sounds of several computer games turned up to a decidedly antisocial volume.
No wonder he rarely travelled by public transport. Alex gritted his teeth and hung on; he deserved no better.
Not that anyone else seemed to be suffering. His fellow travellers seemed to be as full of Christmas Eve cheer as those on the plane, upbeat despite the conditions. But once he had finally got off the train and stood under the iconic glass curved roof of Paddington Station the last thing he wanted was to disappear underground and repeat the experience on a Tube train full of last-minute desperate shoppers, Christmas revellers and people freed from work and ready to celebrate. It was a couple of miles’ walk to Primrose Hill but half of that was through Regent’s Park and he could do with clearing his head.
Besides, he didn’t want to risk bumping into Flora when she dropped his bags off. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to say to her.
It was hard not to contrast the grey, unseasonably warm day with the crisp air and snowy scenes he had left behind. Hard not to dwell on the fact that for the first time in a week he was alone.
Hard to face the reality that this was his future. He’d always thought of himself as so self-sufficient. Hardened.
He’d been lying to himself.
Alex bought a coffee from one of the kiosks, curtly refusing any festive flavourings, and set off, the last week replaying through his head on repeat, slowing down to dwell in agonising detail at every misstep. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t have allowed her to kiss him.
He shouldn’t have proposed.
It shouldn’t hurt so much that she said no...
He wandered aimlessly, not caring much where his feet took him. The back streets were an eclectic mix of tree-lined Georgian squares, post-war blocks and newer, shabbier-looking business premises. Like all of central London, the very wealthy rubbed shoulders with the poor; wine bars, delis and exclusive boutiques on one street, a twenty-four-hour supermarket and takeaway on the next.
Proposal At The Winter Ball (Harlequin Romance) Page 13
