He fumbled for a cigarette. A mistake, for it revealed how much his hand still shook. It would take a long time for the physical reaction to subside. But he got the damned smoke out and stuck it between his lips. “I was upset at the sight of my sister.”
Miss Gifford shook her head. “No, this is not anger. This is panic. I understand now. You’re suffering from shell shock.”
“I am not. There is nothing wrong with me.”
“There are many things wrong with you, Langford, and this explains them all. No wonder you didn’t want to talk about war. I apologize for everything I said. You’re obviously suffering.”
“I am not suffering.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“I am not ashamed. And I am not weak.”
Her plucked brow arched. “You’re afraid to admit there is anything wrong with you. Good heavens, how could there not be? My brother died in France. He wrote letters home. He tried to be strong and stoic for a long time. Then he began to fall apart. He wrote about how he couldn’t stand the shooting and the shelling, the mud, the wet trenches, the sickness any longer—”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, Miss Gifford. The only things I brought back with me from the War are the scars on my face and on my soul. My mind is completely intact.”
She shook her head. He despised sympathy, but her soft, sad expression ladled it over him by the bucketful. “You can’t deny what you feel. You may actually have to face your emotions—”
“I do not have emotions. Now, return inside. Dance in whatever shocking way you want with Sebastian. But send Julia out to me. I am taking her home.”
Her look of concern hardened to iron-strong determination. “Why? So she can be alone, with nothing to do but think of the man she lost? That is not going to help her get over grief. That will force her to wallow in it. She needs dancing and excitement and fun, Langford.”
“You cut her hair, for God’s sake.”
“Even you can’t be afraid of a woman’s haircut.”
“I am not afraid. There is no reason for Julia to change. She is a lady, not a dance-hall floozy.”
“You can’t lock her away as if this were Victorian England.”
“Julia is under my protection. I shall take care of her as I see best.”
For the first time, he realized his voice had risen. Everyone in line outside the club was staring at them. Blast Miss Gifford.
“She is not your chattel, Your Grace. Julia is a grown woman, and every change she made today is one she chose to do. If she wants to cut her hair, she can. If she wants to go to university, she could do that, too. The world is changing, Your Grace.”
“My world bloody well is not—”
A flashbulb exploded in his face. All he could see were spots before his eyes. The instant his vision cleared, a horn blared so loud, it sounded as if it were inside him. Jolting back, he took in the scene in an instant. A weaving car, going too fast.
Miss Gifford froze. Nigel caught her up in his arms. She weighed almost nothing—far less than a wounded soldier. He jumped back as the car lurched into the curb, its tires crunching over the spot Miss Gifford had been standing on.
The door opened, and the drunken driver fell out as he tried to get out.
“Oh, God, I could have been crushed like ice,” she muttered.
He set her on her feet and turned her roughly. “It’s not a joke,” he said heatedly, his chest heaving, his heart pounding. Something was burning through him, something he didn’t understand. It wasn’t the usual cold that hit him before the battle memories attacked him.
He looked down; she looked up. Her eyes were huge violet circles beneath the bright club lights, but her usual expression was back on her face. Jaded amusement. She had no idea what danger was about. She made him want to—
“I should thank you,” she said, “for saving my life—”
His mouth slammed into hers.
Heat. The sweetness of a cocktail. Lightning shot through him, riveting him to this moment in time. Her mouth answered his fierce kiss with hunger. Her kiss was scorching. She was so utterly unlike any woman he’d known before. Vibrant, infuriating but so damn alluring.
Her tongue found his, making him sweat beneath his evening dress. His body had been cold for as long as he could remember. Now he was heating up.
Brilliant light exploded around him. The glare of it froze him. His brain registered two words—scandal-mongering newspapers—just as Zoe Gifford pulled out of his embrace.
Sebastian shouted something at him in an inebriated slur, and his brother hit him for the second time in two days.
AT THE SAVOY HOTEL
Several hours later, Nigel pressed a towel filled with ice against his eye, the ice chipped from a block in the kitchens of the Savoy Hotel around the corner from Murray’s. If he were to open the door of his suite, he would hear the strains of the orchestra in the ballroom downstairs, playing jazz for the partying crowd. Drunken laughter. And witness more couples stumbling through the hallways, sinking to the floor to kiss passionately and indecently before they even reached a bedroom. Indecent.
He had ripped off his tie. Now he paced his hotel room like a caged cat.
He had told reporters he was Oswald Warts, Oxford student, and the girl he’d kissed was an actress’s understudy. Luckily, none of the press recognized him, as he was practically a hermit at Brideswell—except for the few times he came up to London to see his man of business and to visit his friend Rupert, who had been badly wounded at the Somme and was in a charity hospital. Given the late hour, he’d insisted they spend the night at the Savoy, and he had taken two suites: one for Julia and Miss Gifford, one for Sebastian and him.
A snore sounded from the adjoining bedroom. Sebastian was sprawled across the bed, fully dressed and unconscious.
“I don’t know what in hell to do.” He wouldn’t sleep tonight. After what had happened, he was certain he would have nightmares. He didn’t want to wake his brother with his screams and have Sebastian witness them.
What could he do? He couldn’t let the wedding go ahead, but what could he do with Sebastian? The problem was not just the rumors; it was Sebastian himself. He was drinking more. He’d grown even angrier, edgier.
Nigel didn’t know how to give his brother any peace. He couldn’t just say: do your duty and prefer females. Father had tried that and it had sent Sebastian on a self-destructive path that had seen him spend much of his time dead drunk.
If the blasted marriage ended in divorce, wouldn’t that lead to more rumors about Sebastian? Of course his wife kicked him out—he was batting for the other team.
Sebastian wasn’t going to be able to fool Zoe Gifford. Her kiss had been hot enough to melt the soles of Nigel’s shoes to the sidewalk. He had never been kissed like that.
It made him hot, when he was so accustomed to feeling empty and cold. It made him hunger for more. But—
“It cannot happen again,” he muttered to his brandy glass. “Not with my brother’s fiancée.”
A soft knock sounded at the door. It was 3:00 a.m. The party in the ballroom was still roaring at full speed—he could feel the rhythm of the music through the floor.
Groaning, he got up. What if he hauled the door open and faced bobbed blond hair, huge violet eyes and