Daisy didn’t blink at this, and Judith didn’t offer any assistance. It was not how their friendship was constructed. She knew that Daisy noticed that she purchased a small sack of sugar, just as she could not help but be aware that Daisy asked for soup bones at the butcher, picking the meatiest ones because she could not afford chops.
There had been some months early in their friendship, before Judith had sold her first clockwork design, when their fortunes had been reversed. They were friends because they could show these things to each other. The shopping was simply the shopping: a voracious beast that must be fed, a thing that they did together because the only way to alleviate the dull reality of the world was to deny it its power.
Daisy didn’t know any of the details of Judith’s life. She’d never heard of the Worth family. Judith’s father’s suicide had never been a topic of conversation. With Daisy, she could be just another lady shifted by poor luck into this not-quite-respectable neighborhood, struggling to find the gentility in her poverty.
When the last of the bones had been wrapped in paper, Daisy raised her head and turned to Judith. “Well,” she said, “I did not see any gloves that were worthy of my hands. My last pair had a matching set of diamonds right here.” She pointed to the hollow of her wrist. “I find I can’t accept anything less.”
“No, dearest,” Judith said. “Why should you settle? We never should.”
“I’ve nothing else, then.”
They had walked about halfway home when Daisy turned to Judith. “My mother says that you had a gentleman caller yesterday.”
Ah. She had managed to forget that. Judith shut her eyes. “I did.”
“Anyone of interest?” That was said a little more slyly.
Men, and their attentions, were not typically covered by the game. Men, unlike gloves, could be mocked or praised as the situation demanded.
“He was a marquess,” Judith said simply. “We have known each other for years, and of course he was once in love with me. He asked me to marry him, but I didn’t like the set of his chin, and so I told him no.”
Daisy did not blink at this. Men were not typically covered by the game—but they both understood the game for what it was: a way to politely beg off a topic. And while she’d told Daisy nothing but the simple truth, she knew how the other girl would take it.
“A plague on those pushy marquesses,” Daisy said with a toss of her head. “Once, I had a pair of dukes fighting over me. They were the most ridiculous things. One of them took a knife; the other grabbed a pistol. And, well, you know how those things work.”
“No! Did they kill each other?”
“Certainly not,” Daisy said. “But they lost all interest in me, because they were trying to determine whose weapon was larger.”
Judith let out a laugh. “Isn’t that always the way of it?”
Daisy let out a sigh, and then looked upward. “Isn’t it, though. So you’ve sent him on his way?”
“As much as one ever can.” Especially when she had an appointment to meet him as soon as her solicitor set the time.
Not for the first time in their friendship, Judith felt a twinge of regret. She and Daisy told each other horrible lies all the time; that was the point of their game. But they both knew that it was all falsehoods, and so in a way, those lies had more veracity and substance than many a whispered secret among friends. Telling her friend the bare truth and pretending it was a lie?
It wasn’t right. It was the sort of thing that might hurt, if Daisy found out the truth later. Much like the facts of Judith’s birth, the truth about Christian was not something she could admit.
But this was not the time for Judith to complain that the damned marquess who had once wanted to marry her had come to her assistance. Not when her best friend was squabbling over soup bones.
“They always do turn up again,” Daisy said with a shake of her head. “I advise you to keep to viscounts. They at least know their place.”
“Well,” Christian said. “It has been rather a long time since we went on a drive together.”
Drives in the summer were usually pleasant, the cool breeze making the heat bearable. But no breeze would cool the annoyance Judith felt at this remark.
She sat eighteen inches away from him on the single front-facing seat of Christian’s curricle. She’d attempted to refuse his offer to drive her, but his return message had rightly noted that he could hardly claim to take a friendly interest in her family’s affairs if he left her to arrive on foot.
He had been right.
She hated that he was right about anything, and hated that she was reasonable enough to admit it.
She glanced over at him on the bench. He held the reins loosely in his hands. His trousers were the kind of buff that attracted dirt: filthy paw prints, coal smears… She’d never thought about those things until she had to clean them. His boots glistened in the sunlight. He looked utterly at ease, smiling at her as if he’d forgotten the harsh words they’d exchanged a few days past.
Anyone who saw them together might imagine them a handsome couple enjoying a ride together. He was handsome enough with that little smile of his, that impish gleam in his eye tempting her to remember everything she’d tried to forget about him.
“Your memory is faulty,” she informed him. “We never went on a drive together.”
They’d only talked of it. That one summer after Anthony and Theresa and her father had returned home from China, they had talked about everything. She’d been unable to look at him without blushing, which meant that she’d spent a great many hours blushing. Their eyes had met at every opportunity, and they’d made excuses to spend time in each other’s company. They’d been obvious, so damned obvious that even Anthony had noticed.
She glanced at him now. His eyes met hers; his twinkled in response, as if he were mocking her because she was still looking.
“You can court my sister when she comes out,” Anthony had told Christian with Judith standing right beside him. “You can drive her in the park and all that other rigmarole. Until then, please refrain from making eyes at her when I’m around.”
Judith had punched him in the shoulder for that one, but Anthony had shrugged it off.
“That’s what elder brothers are for,” he’d remarked with a grin. “Getting in your way, despite your own inclinations.”
There had been no drives, no walks in the park, no courting, no coming out.
“There is nothing wrong with my memory,” Christian said beside her. “I wasn’t wrong. It has been a long time since we drove together. Infinity is a very long time. There aren’t many times that are longer.”
“Lord Ashford,” Judith said. “We must pretend to be civil with one another for the next hour or so. Did you ever consider that there might be some danger in cracking jokes with a woman who would rather crack your head?”
He tilted his head to consider her. “No,” he said slowly. “As a general proposition, I do not use humor to incite violence. I believe I am not abnormal in that regard.”
On foot, the way to her solicitor’s office would have wound through Hyde Park. In Christian’s curricle, they merely skirted the edges. The park seemed an impossible haven of gentility to her right, a gathering of brightly colored parasols and lush green grass.
“You know what I meant,” Judith said stiffly.
“Look! It’s a joke! Kill it!” He raised one eyebrow at her in a superior expression. “Now there’s a refrain heard in all the best drawing rooms.”
Judith sniffed. “I see it more as: Look, someone is angry with me! Let me laugh at her.”
He considered this as he directed the horses on to one of the driving paths through the park.
They were in his half of London, a part of the city where the houses were wide and the walls were kept ridiculously white. Here, streets were swept regularly and little flowerboxes adorned the windows.
Christian made an indignant noise. “You can’t honestly believe I’m laughing at
you.”
Nobody here made pots of common stew containing don’t-ask-what in the middle of narrow, cobbled streets. Even the sky seemed bluer here, closer somehow, as if the sun shone more warmly on the wealthy. Judith shifted in her seat, feeling out of place.
Everything felt hostile when her shoes pinched.
“No,” she said. “Not precisely that.”
The silver mirror of the Serpentine flashed at the edge of her vision. A pair of swans floated in the water, and another pair waddled on the grass next to the street. This was how everything always looked to Christian: cool, inviting, comfortable.
“It’s not that you’re laughing,” Judith said. “Sometimes, it’s downright cruel to crack jokes. People get upset for good reasons. Trying to cheer them up denies what is happening to them.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Christian set a hand on the seat between them. “It’s a way of recognizing their very legitimate feelings of distress and wishing that person well. You cannot reasonably think that it’s cruel to hope that an unhappy person will feel better. It’s like saying ‘my sincerest condolences’ at a funeral.”
Once, they’d argued like this.
They’d sat on the grass in the country, very carefully not touching, and let all the heat they felt express itself in contradictions and laughter and careful innuendo. It had been as close as they could come to touching.
Now, they were still arguing. And he was looking at her with that gleam in his eye, the one that had always made her want to throw all caution to the wind.
Judith pointed at the packed dirt road ahead of them. “Watch where you’re driving. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. You cannot honestly believe that offering gentle, appropriate sympathy to a bereaved woman at her husband’s funeral is equivalent to asking her, ‘Who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?’ One of them supports her in her grief; the other attempts to cajole her out of her very real emotions because it’s inconvenient for her to be glum.”
Christian considered this. “I take your point. I agree that there is a time and a place for jocularity. I simply think that there are more times and places for humor than others care to admit.” He glanced pointedly at her. “We are not presently at a funeral.”
She couldn’t think of him at her father’s funeral. He shouldn’t even have come, shouldn’t have offered his support. He shouldn’t have found her alone afterward. He shouldn’t have asked her to marry him, as if marrying the man who was the cause of her grief would make it all better. He shouldn’t have.
“By the by,” he put in, “who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?”
“Hamlet’s uncle.” Judith shut her eyes. “He did murder most foul.”
Christian looked over at her. His eyes widened. “Lady Judith, I am outraged. You dare take me to task when you were delivering a pun of that magnitude? There is no time, no place, for a joke like that. Ever.” A smile indicated that he was joking. Of course; he was always joking.
“Only a mallard like you would say that,” Judith said primly. “I find the murder of fowl extremely depraved.”
The fowl were out in force in the park today. Ducks wandered the green, and another swan ahead was snapping at bread offered by a…well, that child was technically not offering the bread to the swan so much as holding it above his head and trying to fend the bird off.
Christian smiled at her, leaning an inch closer. “If I were a mallard, I’d think you would be more inclined to fowl-murder.”
Once she’d loved this about him—that they could talk any subject upside down and inside out. Now, she could feel the pull of their old friendship, of that magical summer together, those hours spent wandering the apple orchard, “accidentally” running into each other day after day.
If she wasn’t careful, she might fall into friendship with him again.
She looked straight ahead. “You’re not a mallard. You’re far worse. You’re a…a…”
Ahead of them, the child panicked and threw his roll. The swan that had been on the grass darted into the driving path to snap it up. It happened so fast; the bird spread its wide, white wings and lowered its beak, a mere ten feet ahead of them. No, six. The distance between them was dropping all too fast.
And Christian was looking at her, not watching the road.
“Swan!” she said. “Swan!”
His grin broadened. “I’m a swan? That’s utterly delightful!”
She grabbed his arm. “No! Swan! In the road!”
As she took hold of his wrist, the swan hissed, rising up and spreading its wings. One horse reared; the curricle rocked. Her stomach dropped, dizzyingly, and she held on tightly. The other horse whinnied in a panic and pawed the air. For a second, as the curricle tilted precariously, Judith feared the conveyance would overturn. She braced herself, gritting her teeth, expecting the worst.
The bird took to wing at the last possible instant. Christian pulled on the reins, and after pawing the air one last time, the horses quieted.
Judith’s pounding heart was left as the only evidence that anything had transpired. That, she realized, and her hands—both of which she’d clamped firmly around Christian’s arm. She’d reached for him without thinking.
She could feel him through those layers of wool and linen—the curve of his arm, the tautness of muscle tensed from holding the horse back. Taking hold of him had brought her entire body next to his, and she felt the warmth of him now. He might have heard the beat of her heart, it was thumping so loudly.
He turned to her, looking into her eyes.
Her pulse was only pounding because the swan had given her a fright. That was it, surely. It had nothing to do with the sparkle of his eyes, the way his gaze dropped to her lips, briefly, before sliding back up to meet her gaze. Slowly, she unwound her hands from his sleeve and did her best to scoot—surreptitiously—a good six inches away.
He’s not your friend.
Apparently, some dormant part of herself still hadn’t comprehended that after eight years. She could just as easily have grabbed the edge of the seat instead of his arm.
She hadn’t.
Christian knew now that her first reaction was to reach for him, and he was not the sort to let that sort of slip go by without a taunt or seven. Judith swallowed and clasped her hands together. He could taunt all he liked; if she pretended nothing had happened, he’d find no headway.
“Well.” Her heart was still racing. “I suppose that swan will have a story to tell his friends tonight.”
How could she tell he was smiling when she wasn’t even looking at him? That mischievous look of his was detectable from the corner of her eyes. Oh, he knew that she was not entirely indifferent to him, no matter how she wished otherwise. He was laughing at her.
“You don’t need to chortle at me,” she snapped. “You need to pay more mind to where you’re going.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said. “Just imagining what sort of story that swan would tell, if it had friends.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t.
She resisted for four entire seconds. But that was the worst thing about Christian. He’d always roused her curiosity. He didn’t need to taunt after all. He just smiled, and in the end, she could no more have kept silent than the horses could have stopped from rearing. She crossed her arms in front of her like a shield. “Very well. What would he say?”
“Well,” Christian said, in an exaggerated Cockney accent. “You’ll never guess what I did today, Fred.”
Judith found herself blinking in confusion and turning to him. “What are you doing? Who is Fred?”
“I’m acting it out for you,” Christian said, as if playing swans were a perfectly ordinary everyday event. “The story that swan there is going to tell his friend—that’s Fred—tonight.”
She shook her head. “Swans are regal birds. They’re the property of the queen. So why would a swan have a Cockney accent?”
“Why, Judi
th. I never thought to hear such words from you. Accents aren’t all that important. They’re simply one way to separate out two groups on the basis of an irrelevant characteristic. Don’t be so damned class-focused. Besides, it’s irrational to object to the idea of swans speaking with a Cockney accent when swans have a limited English vocabulary to begin with.”
“I—” She was unable to come up with a response that didn’t involve pelting him with fruit. “That is the most ridiculous thing.”
“What is ridiculous,” he said piously, “is your attempt to import your limited local prejudice into the swan community. Swans have no care for such things. They’re much more egalitarian than our species.”
Judith sat back and gestured with an exaggerated motion. “I see. Do forgive me for that dreadful error. Please continue. What is our dear Cockney swan telling Fred?”
“You’ll never guess what I did today, Fred!” Christian said in his Cockney accent. And then, supplying a different, somewhat lower voice, he answered himself. “What did you do, Bill? Pray tell.”
“Stop.” Judith held up a hand. “I can accept a Cockney swan, but why does Fred speak with a Liverpudlian accent? Should there not be some consistency in the swan community?”
“There’s none in the human community,” Christian pointed out. “Why should swans be less varied?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to object again—after all, if swans were not importing prejudice from humans, why would they import variety?—but from the gleam in his eye, she could tell he wanted her to argue. She bit her lip and folded her arms. “Very well, then,” she said with poor grace. “Go on with your story.”
“Well, Fred,” Christian continued in his Bill-the-Cockney-Swan voice, “today, I ate a horse.”
She could not have heard him correctly. “What did you just say?”
“Come now,” Bill-the-Swan continued. “Don’t look at me like that, all disbelieving-like. Would I be having you on, when it’s a matter so closely touching my honor? You know I would never do that, my dearest darling.”
Even in that put-on accent, even with that gleam in his eye, the words dearest darling sank into her skin. He was looking at her as he said it. It tripped off his tongue so easily, as if she were his darling. As if there were no swans, Cockney or otherwise, between them.