“Not you?”
“Never me.”
“Why not, Octo?” Her voice was an angel’s plea.
“Because some rules cannot be broken.”
He left her then, quickly, without his six bottles ofvin rouge.But he was wildly desperate to be alone. Away from her probing and poking. She was not his to have and hold. Not. His. And could not be.
Because….
Because some rules cannot be broken.
Chapter 5
She threw herself into the festivities. Why not? She’d come for the fun. The fine people. Good conversation. Gaiety. If she’d also come for him, well, she had time to discern how to attract him to her. At least he had noticed that other men found her interesting. Most did. Her title, her family name and her wealth had always spoken first for who she was. All her life, she’d sought to negate those in favor of exhibiting the person beneath that folderol. Furthermore, she’d done it with everyone, regardless of birth, position, money or potential.
But when she saw that over the next day and the one following, Octo did not even deign to look at her, she was crushed. Had she assumed too much? That he had cared for her for so long and so deeply that neither time nor wars nor separation might diminish that?
By Christmas Eve, she was alternately furious or undone. But she had another piece of her plan.
* * *
Christmas Eve had always been an event in the Christian calendar he had enjoyed. The singing, the carols, the dedication of people to find the goodness in each other for a few hours. In church or out of it, on a battlefield or in a deserted chateau northeast of Paris, men and women could celebrate the coming of hope.
Tonight, Simms did not feel the joy as much as he had. Oh, Eliza was here, but not his to be near. Were it not for the dozens here in the house, he’d relent and find a way to be with her. She’d always liked Christmas Eve too.
Instead, he was weary tonight. Cross because he was tired, he found a few minutes to sequester himself in the garden. Snow had fallen the other day and while the amount had dwindled, the chill remained. He didn’t care. He needed the solitude and found it in the boxwood maze toward the south end near the coachhouse.
“Hard to find you,Saint Ives.”
He swung around to find James Stanley, Lord Riverdale, grinning at him from the path.
“You were always able,Monsieur.” Simms used Riverdale’s secret name.
He strode forward and grasped Riverdale’s hand to shake heartily like the men-in-arms they’d once been. In truth, they’d worked hand-in-hand for more than two years, running bulletins on French regiments through enemy territory up to the Belgian insurgents. Their names for each other, fake French that they were, consoled them when in service. Now, too, that they were home and unemployed.
“You look extremely well,Monsieur.” Riverdale, stately and dark-haired, had gained at least a stone and stood at bit more erect than when last Simms had seen him off to Ostend. Before Waterloo, Riverdale had suffered with pneumonia and Simms—ratherSaint Ives—had nursed him back to health. His illness lasted over two months and throughout, they both thoughtMonsieurmight be meeting his Maker soon.
“Fortunate for me, too, I must say,Ives, since I have no kindly nurse to feed me brandy and soup.”
Simms gave him a rueful eye. “Not found a woman to do that for you yet?”
“Doubt I’m looking. At least, just yet.”
Riverdale was an extremely handsome fellow and a baron of considerable means with a profitable estate in Yorkshire. The same age as Simms, the man needed a wife and an heir. “Why is that?”
“I’m considering returning to the field.”
“Christ in His Grave.” Simms glared at him. “Why in hell would you do that?”
His friend arched his dark brows and shook his head. Then he removed from inside his great coat a silver flask and unscrewed the top. “Join me? It’s damn cold out here, you realize.”
“And you were warned never to allow yourself to be chilled. That French physician in Reims was determined to save your skinny ass.”
“Drink up,Ives. Don’t yell at me. I know what I’m doing.”
“Not if you’re considering going back to the skullduggery we did, you’re not.”
