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“What is there to know?”
“Your brother has yet to take a wife. Why is that?”
Ah. Here was her plan. “I gather he hasn’t fallen in love.”
“Love? You Yorks are all so very romantic.” She tilted a flirtatious smile in his direction. “Sentimental, even.”
Aidan waited for his muscles to turn to rock beneath his skin. She was undoubtedly referring to his ancient grief. Making a weak witticism about what he’d lost.
He waited for the tide of anger that would devour all his other feelings as it always did. But instead of fury, he found himself beset by mere irritation. Narrowing his eyes, he drew to a halt and waited. She gave him a puzzled look and tipped her head toward Edward.
“If you’ll deliver me to your brother, I’d like to tell him how pleased I am that we shall all be family.”
He didn’t make a pleasant reply, but he did march her directly to Edward, who raised an
eyebrow in question.
Nanette’s smile grew stiff at the edges and her fingers dug into Aidan’s arm in clear irritation at his less than delicate approach, but she looked beautiful, all the same. She smiled coyly at Edward. “Our families get on so splendidly that I can’t help but thrill at the idea of this alliance, Baron York.”
Edward offered only the barest pleasantries, and Aidan fought off the urge to warn his brother against this woman’s claws. Edward seemed disinclined to be trapped by them, after all. And Aidan had moved on to a more urgent concern: how to escape from this party early without offending his family. Though perhaps they couldn’t be offended. They expected it of him. They called him sensitive and impatient and moody. But really, all he’d ever been was angry. Angry at himself and his mother and the ton. And truth be told, angry at Kate. For running off. For dying. For throwing his love in his face as if it meant nothing.
Now he could forgive it all, but he still wanted to leave the party. He was measuring the distance to the door when a footman stopped before him, offering a tray. Upon it sat one plain square of neatly folded paper. “Sir, you asked to see any correspondence immediately?”
“I did.” And this was his ticket out of the ballroom. Aidan took the letter and held it conspicuously at his waist as he slipped toward the door. He’d congratulated Harry and Miss Samuel before the guests had arrived. His duties were done. No one would miss him.
As soon as he slipped into the corridor, Aidan turned the envelope over and studied the script. It was Kate’s writing, he was almost sure of it, though it wasn’t quite the same. The girlish loops were narrowed to more insistent points. The drawn-out flourishes now disappeared into impatient stops.
Aidan felt a swarm of sparks swell beneath his fingertips as he eased the seal open and unfolded the letter. He was so aware that it was his first letter from her in a decade that it took him nearly a full minute to decipher the message within the words. When it finally got through, he read over the lines again to be sure he had it right.
Kate was coming to London. To see him.
Allowed the space and time to think, Kate was changing her mind, it seemed, about him and about their relationship. She was open to more. She must be, to risk a trip to his home in London. His mind spun with the possibilities, and when he looked up to see Jude Bertrand stepping from the ballroom, Aidan latched on to the biggest possibility of all.
“Jude. Might we speak in the library for a moment?”
Jude’s brows lowered warily. “As long as you don’t plan to apologize again. That was painful enough the first time.”
Aidan, embarrassed that he’d behaved badly enough to necessitate an apology, snapped at his old friend. “I’d acted terribly and I owed you an apology.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure the circumstances of my betrothal to Marissa—my last betrothal to Marissa—absolved you of any bad behavior on your part. I was happy to escape with my bullocks intact.”
“You may thank my sister. She insisted we let you keep them, though I assured her they were worthless.”
“Ha.”
“Now,” Aidan snapped, “will you come to the library or not?”
“I see you’ve used up all your pleasantness for the evening. Good thing I’ve no use for it.” Jude walked toward the library, his steps light as a stalking cat despite his intimidating size. Aidan had called him a lowborn bastard—and worse—just a few months before, but Jude had seemed to forgive him without another thought. His easy pardon only made Aidan feel more churlish. Jude had been a good friend to him, and it dishonored Aidan to admit he hadn’t thought the man worthy of his sister.
“I am sorry,” he said again as they stepped into the library.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, man. Leave off. You seem to think me as sensitive as a child.”
Aidan felt his mouth turn up at the edges. “Perhaps I’m only afraid I’ll never be allowed to visit your mother’s salon again.”
“Waxing sentimental over Marie?” Jude asked, referring to one of the beautiful courtesans Aidan had met there. Jude’s mother was a former French courtesan, famous for her beauty and for the love of a certain duke. Jude was the product of that union, and seemed entirely comfortable with his unusual heritage. And now Aidan was counting on Jude’s odd family for help.
He poured two drinks and handed one to Jude before inclining his head toward the chairs nearest the fireplace.
