Page 61 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“No, you’ve had enough brandy to sink a Man O’ War though,” his less romantic brother pointed out dryly.

“Don’t be a tosser when I’m declaring… something.” Gideon looked confused and rubbed a weary hand over his face. Hetty’s heart, which had leapt at the sound of those romantic words, crashed once more. Well, he was drunk. She’d seen Hart in a sorry state plenty of times and knew anything a man said under the influence was not to be trusted. In her experience, in vino veritas was sadly overrated.

She sighed and turned to Cilly. “We’d better put a stop to this before anyone sees them. Gee-Gee might think it a lark, but Hawkney won’t.”

Cilly nodded her agreement, and so Hetty squared her shoulders, tried to forget she was wearing her nightclothes, and strode to the gates.

“You there,” she said crisply. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, disturbing people in the middle of the night, but—”

“Hetty!” Gideon exclaimed, his expression brightening to such a degree that Hetty was momentarily set adrift.

“Mr Bramwell,” she replied cautiously. “You are drunk.”

Gideon shook his head, his expression grave as he wagged an unsteady finger. “No, my lady. You are mistaken. I’m piss—”

“Mr Bramwell!” Hetty exclaimed, struggling to keep a face and look affronted when all she wanted to do was laugh.

Gideon snorted and lay back down on the path. “God, I’m tired,” he murmured.

“You can’t sleep there!” Hetty exclaimed, horrified. “You’ll get run over.”

“Good evening, ladies, Lady Henrietta, Lady Ceci—Cillia—Lady Cilly. Silly Cilly,” the viscount chuckled to himself as he tried and failed to bow, dropped his hat and stared down at it curiously as if he expected it to get up and walk away.

Hetty glanced at her sister, who was watching him with avid interest.

Hetty cleared her throat. “I think you had both best go… go to wherever it is you came from,” she said firmly, realising she did not know where best to send them.

“No.” Gideon sat up again, and then scrambled to his feet, which was a miracle from the way he lurched sideways. “No. Must apologise. S’what I came for. Sorry. Sorry, m’lady. I was… wrong. Rude too. Ungrateful. Ungrateful brute,” he amended with a frown, apparently thinking the description lacking.

“Well, yes, you were rather,” Hetty replied, though any resentment she’d felt had long since disappeared. She understood the desire to protect oneself with anger, a reaction she was guilty of herself. “But it’s all right. I rather think we had better speak once you’ve sobered up, though.”

He walked to the gates, his long fingers curling around the wrought iron, his grey eyes stormy as he gazed at her. “Friends?”

Hetty’s heart hurt at the question, but she put a brave face on it. “Friends,” she agreed.

He still looked troubled, gazing at her with those eyes full of thunderclouds. “More than friends?”

Hetty’s breath caught as she stared at him, wondering if he knew what he was saying. More than anything, she wished the gates were unlocked. Yet she hardly knew what to say, so she just nodded. He grinned then, a bright, wicked grin that made him look like his brother.

“Go home, Gideon,” she told him gently. “Call on me tomorrow, when you feel up to it,” she added with a smile. He’d have the devil of a headache in the morning.

He nodded, turning away before looking back over his shoulder. “Hetty?”

“Yes?” she said, heart hammering all over again.

“I like your nightgown.” He winked at her before strolling away, hands in his pockets as he weaved precariously from one side of the road to the other.

The viscount attempted another bow, noticed his hat still on the ground, and used the motion to pick it up. “Good night, ladies, May sweetest dreams attend your sleep, and gentle thoughts your slumber keep.” He intoned gravely before lurching off in the same direction as his brother.

They watched them go until they were out of sight, and Hetty smiled as Cilly took her arm.

“More than friends?” Cilly murmured, her tone teasing.

Hetty elbowed her. “Hush,” she scolded, but she smiled all the way back to her room.

The Grand Hotel Building Site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 3rd August 1816

“You’ll be wantin’ the hair of the dog what bit you, sir. If you don’t mind my remarking it.”