Come the Night. Susan Krinard
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results of that deception were plain to see.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Mr. Kavanagh and I have not spoken in many years.”
“Because you didn’t tell him about me.”
“I shall make my decisions based upon your welfare and nothing else.”
Toby glared at her, jaw set. That expression had been all too common of late; he was poised on that terrible brink between boy and man, cub and wolf. Gillian could feel him beginning to slip out of her grasp, and she wasn’t ready to let him go.
There is no need to rush. He will Change when the time is right. He will Change…
She shook off her pointless worries and herded him toward the bed. “Go to sleep, Toby,” she said. “I will inform you of my decision in the morning.”
“But if you—”
“Sleep.”
He crawled into bed, defying her with every movement of his rapidly growing body. She waited until he’d tucked himself in and then switched off the bedroom light.
There was no delaying the inevitable. She smoothed her skirt, made sure that her chignon was still in place and walked back to the sitting room.
Hugh was standing by the mantelpiece, a drink in his hand and his shoulders hunched. Ross hovered a few feet away, arms held loosely at his sides, as if he might spring into action at any moment. His head swung toward Gillian as she entered the room; the impact of his stare almost broke the measured rhythm of her stride.
She didn’t stop until she had reached the sofa. “Won’t you be seated, Mr. Kavanagh?” she asked.
“I prefer to stand, Mrs. Delvaux.”
“As you wish.” She glanced at Hugh. He looked deeply uncomfortable, and she had no desire to inflict the coming unpleasantness on someone who’d had no part in creating it.
“The evening is very mild, Hugh,” she said. “We’ve had little opportunity to see the city. Perhaps you’d enjoy a walk.”
Hugh shifted from foot to foot and looked from her to Ross. “I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Gillian’s heart turned over. She’d always understood that Hugh needed protecting, even though he was Father’s favorite. He was good-natured to a fault, but foolish and feckless; the more formidable wolf characteristics Sir Averil had done so much to encourage were almost never in evidence behind that ready grin. But now he was prepared to give up his own comfort in defense of his sister, and Gillian loved him the more for it.
“You’d better beat it, kid,” Ross growled. “This is between me and the lady.”
The way he said “lady” was clearly not meant as a compliment. Hugh’s head sank a little lower between his shoulders.
“Since the subject under discussion involves my nephew,” he said, “it also concerns me.”
Ross gave Hugh a long, appraising look. He made a rumbling sound deep in his throat; his lips stretched to show the tips of his upper teeth. Quarter werewolf or not, he dominated Hugh as easily as a collie does a sheep.
“I’m sure your sister will fill you in,” he said. “Make yourself scarce, and we won’t have any arguments.”
Hugh’s face revealed the progress of his thoughts. He passed quickly from anger and indignation to uncertainty and, finally, resignation.
“All right,” he said, making an attempt at severity, “but if you need me, Gilly, I won’t be far.”
He gave a little jerk to his tie, spun around and walked through the door, trailing a wake of wounded dignity behind him.
“Hugh doesn’t deserve your scorn,” Gillian said once Hugh had closed the door. “He was a child when you and I knew each other.”
Ross shrugged. “I have nothing against him.” He glanced toward the hall. “Is the boy asleep?”
“He will be presently.”
“Then we can speak freely.”
She held his gaze, struggling to disregard the half-familiar scent of his body beneath the inexpensive suit. Surely that warm, masculine fragrance hadn’t been quite so potent in London. Surely his shoulders hadn’t been so broad, his movements so steeped with barely leashed power. Surely she hadn’t forgotten so much…
“I always knew you came from money,” Ross said, leaving his post by the door to wander around the sitting room. “I just didn’t realize how much until now.”
It wasn’t the way Gillian had expected the conversation to begin. Accusation had seethed in his voice when they’d spoken outside his apartment building, and Gillian could still feel a suggestion of violence beneath his deceptive calm. But he was attempting to approach their differences in a relatively civilized manner, and for that she should be grateful.
“I guess that’s why Warbrick offered to buy me off,” Ross said, picking up a fragile vase of intricately engraved crystal. “You’d hardly notice losing a thousand bucks.”
Gillian turned to face him, the solidity of the sofa at her back. “I must apologize,” she said, “for any insult Mr. Warbrick may have unintentionally given you. He and I had not discussed—”
“Unintentionally?” Ross laughed. “Where is your friend, by the way? He seemed pretty anxious to spare you any inconvenience.”
“I don’t know where he is at the moment,” Gillian said. That was the truth; she’d tried calling Ethan’s hotel when she and Hugh had arrived, but he hadn’t been in. “I assure you that he meant no harm. He—”
“Tried to make me believe that Toby wasn’t my son.” Ross set down the vase. “Was that your idea or his?”
Gillian revised her hopes for a civilized discussion. “I didn’t authorize him to deceive you,” she said.
“Even though that’s what you’ve been doing for the past twelve years?”
There was no sense in denying obvious fact, no point in stammering excuses that would only ring hollow. “I’m sorry that it has come to this, Ross,” she said, pushing past the barrier of his name. “It was never my intention to cause you pain.”
She expected another harsh retort, but Ross surprised her. His face emptied of all emotion. “I don’t remember saying anything about pain,” he said.
That was when Gillian realized he wasn’t going to speak of what he’d felt on the day she’d left him. She had assumed that a large part of his anger was directed at her—not because of Toby, but because she’d cut off all contact with him the day after he’d made his declaration. She couldn’t blame him; she had endured months of confusion, unhappiness and self-reproach before she’d come to terms with her decision and recognized its inevitability.
She had gradually erased all speculation about Ross’s feelings. Even if part of her had wished he would search her out and sweep her away, she had known such an act would be a terrible mistake. And when he hadn’t come for her, she’d assumed that his love had been like hers, built on a transient passion that would never have endured.
Apparently Ross had come to the same conclusion. If he was bitter, it wasn’t because he still loved her. If he was angry, it was because his pride had been damaged, not his heart.
Strange how little relief she felt.
Gillian released her breath. “I assume,” she said slowly, “that you have questions about Toby.”
Ross walked to the window and pushed back the silk drapes. “When did you marry Delvaux?”
Again he’d caught her off guard. She briefly considered telling him the real story, which Toby would have discovered for himself if her diary had