You May Kiss the Bride(106)

Really, he thought with a sort of cold, analytical lucidity, could they be faulted? They had been thrown together. He had virtually ignored them. They were both young and attractive. He couldn’t even find it within himself to be angry at Hugo, for he was such a handsome, pleasant, easygoing fellow—

“Unlike myself,” he muttered out loud, bitterly. No, he was a monster of blind selfishness.

But no more.

He knew what he had to do.

He would let her go.

It violated one of the most sacred precepts of Polite Society for a man to renounce his engagement, but it was his very love for Livia that would galvanize him into doing something so unorthodox—so dishonorable.

He loved her and he would set her free.

And he’d do everything in his power to help the young couple begin their lives together happily and comfortably. Money, whatever else they needed, no matter how Hugo might protest.

He would not think of himself.

And he wouldn’t waste a moment.

Gabriel looked blankly around his study. Remarkable, how one could be alive and yet feel dead. He turned around and reached for the doorknob.



Hugo gave Livia’s hair one final clumsy pat. “It’s awfully nice to hug a girl without having to worry about one’s intentions being misread—like I’d hug the mater or little Gwendolyn. By the way, I’ve completely mussed up your hair. I am sorry.”

Livia pulled away, smiling at him. “It was worth it.”

“To be sure!” Hugo replied cheerfully, then jumped to his feet. “Done crying, Liv?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m off to the stables, then. Adieu, as those beastly French say.”

“Goodbye.” Livia watched him go, then stood up and went to the window which overlooked the front of the Hall. Why, there were laborers out there, cleaning the ornamental pool, and gardeners, too, at work. How lovely it would all look, and soon. She stepped back a pace so that she could vaguely see her own reflection in the glass. Quickly she put her hair back into a semblance of proper order.

“Livia.”

Gabriel’s voice. Cold, stiff, as if he spoke from atop a tall mountain. She turned; summoned up a little smile of greeting.

He said:

“Forgive my brevity, but in such cases as this, it’s doubtless for the best. I release you from our engagement. I wish you well. Please know that all possible steps will be taken to see that you’re well provisioned.” He fell silent. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, lifted, then dropped.

“Wait,” Livia said. Her smile was gone. Surely he hadn’t said what she thought she heard. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Our engagement is over. As it must be.”

Behind her, one of her hands groped for one of the heavy velvet draperies, and clung to it, as if to steady her. She hoped she didn’t clutch it so hard it brought the entire long drape down upon her. Although if that did happen, at least she might be buried beneath it, where she could shut out the sight and sound of him looking so cold and saying such awful things.

“I still don’t understand you,” she said.

“It’s over,” he repeated. “It’s doubtless for the best. I wish you well. And I tender my congratulations. If you’ll excuse me?”

He was congratulating her?

“Wait,” she said again. There was a kind of roaring in her ears as a mad confusion overtook her. “Stop. Just a moment.” She let go of the drape, quickly crossed the room, and in a curious reversal of what had happened between them during that fateful evening at the Orrs’ ball, she reached up to take him by the shoulders and she tried to kiss him. Anything to make this madness stop. But he pulled away, with horror in his eyes.

“You can’t do this. We can’t do this. I must go.”

Livia watched with her own sense of horror as he bowed slightly, formally, and turned to leave the room. All at once a rush of bitter anger swamped her and she cried out, “Go! I couldn’t care less! I hope I never see you again, Gabriel Penhallow!”

He paused, turned back for a moment to say, stiffly, “I’m sorry,” and then he had turned again, walked away, and left the room.

For a panicky minute or two, Livia was afraid she couldn’t breathe. Her hands flew to the bodice of her gown. And fiercely she made herself bring air into her lungs. In, out. In, out.

Then, with a calmness that struck her as slightly ludicrous given the circumstances, she went and sat down again on the sofa.

Well.

That was that, then.

It was really, truly over.

All the conflicts and misunderstandings; all the quarrels and hostilities; all the tenderness and the loving.