Unforgivable(64)

She didn’t need to be kind to Thorpe. The other guests would have preferred if she had not been, and Thorpe probably wouldn’t have noticed either way. But she had.

And really, why did that make him feel so damned wretched? As though he’d lost something?

Because… whispered a voice inside him… it means…

What?

For weeks, he’d been reminding himself over and over that he didn’t know Rose. The woman he’d met at Grayson’s ball, his perfect woman, had been a chimera. The real Rose was a liar. A cheat. She had made a fool of him.

But even pretending to be someone else, there had been something about her that was real and true. And it was this; this thing that made her defy her malicious guests merely to be kind to a boy who didn’t even really deserve her kindness. It was this thing that made her bright and determined and so very alive. And all at once, in this ordinary little drawing-room moment, it was as though Gil had caught a glimpse of something rather profound. He wanted to go away and puzzle at the thought. But his drawing room was full of guests, and one of them—Lady Gressingham—was demanding his attention with a question about his great-aunt’s health.

Soon after, Tilly took her leave, promising an invitation to a dinner very soon. Then Mrs. Marsh and Preston made their farewells, just as Neville Grayson was announced. Rose glanced at Gil when the footman came in with Grayson’s card on a tray, and Gil deliberately kept his expression bland. After a moment’s hesitation, Rose walked forward to greet the new guest, wearing her brightest smile. The hothouse blooms Grayson presented put Thorpe’s violets to utter shame.

The man proceeded to monopolise Rose for twenty minutes, maneuvering her neatly onto a small sofa and leaving Gil to entertain Lady Gressingham, her daughters and the now monosyllabic Thorpe.

The fire fairly blazed in the grate as Lady Gressingham delivered a strident lecture on the need to keep servants in their place. Gil’s eyelids began to droop, from weariness, as well as the sheer heat of the room. He felt like groaning, or begging for mercy, when the drawing room doors opened yet again. Happily this time, it was a friendly face. Ferdy, with his sister Gertrude. Gil stood up with tactless haste while Lady Gressingham was still mid-flow and made his way over to his friend. Ferdy looked shifty and apologetic.

“Hello, old man!” Gil said, grinning at his friend. “And Gertie, always a pleasure!” He bowed formally over her hand.

“Don’t you Gertie me!” she hissed under her breath. “You’ve been neglecting that poor little wife of yours. Leaving her to the mercy of all the tabbies in London while you gallivant round London with your friends.” She bestowed a look of purest scorn on her brother as she spoke the last word, and Ferdy blushed like a schoolboy.

“She made me come,” Ferdy mumbled with a sidelong glance at his sister. Twenty-nine years old, Ferdy was. The Honourable Ferdinand Dudley. But Gertie would always be two years older.

Gertie ignored him. “Still, you’re here now,” she continued in a slightly less hostile tone. “So that’s something. You’d better introduce me to her.”

Gil didn’t bother protesting but simply led Gertie and Ferdy over to Rose and performed the demanded introduction. Within two minutes, the indomitable Gertie had displaced a stunned Grayson from the sofa next to Rose, delivered a subtle but effective put-down to Lady Gressingham and extracted a promise from Rose to become involved in her latest charity venture. Something to do with fallen women that made Lady Gressingham flush with indignation. Even more pleasingly, the displaced Grayson was cornered by Lady Gressingham and was forced to listen to the remainder of her lecture. He sat, meekly listening, an uncharacteristically hunted look on his handsome face.

“Amazing woman, your sister,” Gil said to Ferdy as he pondered this satisfactory turn of events. When Ferdy was silent, he turned to look at him. It seemed as though Ferdy hadn’t heard him. He was staring at Rose with an expression of mild astonishment on his face. When he realised Gil was watching him, he started guiltily.

“Sorry, old man,” he mumbled. “Frightfully rude of me. Staring at Lady Stanhope. Not done. ’Pologies. But it’s true what they say, what?”

“I don’t know, Ferdy,” Gil said. He forced a smile. “What do they say?”

“Oh—nothing.” He blushed deeply. “You know me, Gil. Mouth. Always running away with me. Stupid.”

“I know that Rose and I are the subject of gossip at the moment. I’d rather know the worst of it,” Gil replied.

“It’s really not bad!” Ferdy protested.