Public Relations (34 page)

“Hey!” Sid’s response was sharp, then soft. “Hey…”

Georgia sniffed, then coughed. Pressing her hand over her eyes, she leaned forward, elbow on her knee, opposite hand cradling the mobile to her ear.

“You’re jet-lagged and suffering a huge loss.” Sid sighed. “Several huge losses.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, his silence abrupt, then said, “I’m booking a flight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“No!” Ashamed that she’d worried him enough that he felt compelled to spend what little cash he had on a last minute transatlantic flight during the holidays, Georgia straightened up and hastily swiped at her face with the heel of her mittened palm. “I’ll be all right. I swear.”

“No arguments, Georgie.” There was a pause and a whispered conversation. Then he asked, “Can Carl come too?”

Georgia laughed as a shaft of giddy joy spread from their happiness and poked a little hole in the gloom and doom of her present circumstances.

“I could hardly claim not to have enough space,” she said, thinking of the twelve bedrooms in the London manse and the forty-three others at the country estate. “How long will you stay?”

Hope, an emotion she could sincerely use more of at present, filled her chest, replacing a sliver of the darkness.

“Indefinitely,” Sid answered.

Georgia laughed. “Meaning until I or the government throw you out?”

“Exactly.”

They both laughed. When Georgia quieted, she stared in front of her, looking at but not really seeing the Cunard Building’s stone facade. “I love you, Sid.”

“I love you too, Georgie. See you soon.”

“See you soon.” She hung up and stared at the phone before she stood and began her walk toward the Thames.

She might be lonely, but she wasn’t alone. Not really. Though her heart might never be the same, she wouldn’t give up a single memory of Peter for all the pain. His laugh was glorious and his smile the truest light she’d known. Hands curling with the vision, she imagined touching him, slipping her fingers through the strands of his hair as he leaned into her.

Someday, even if he never forgave her, she hoped he knew—really felt, in his heart—how much he’d been loved. Then she could live with knowing he was out there, living his life, without her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The drive to the airport was silent. Da at the wheel, using his prosthetic arm to man the right-hand controls, looked grim, as usual. Peter tried to ignore the tension thickening the air and studied the late-afternoon traffic. He could’ve had a limo company pick him up, but his mother had insisted he let his father do this for him. Though she thought it made him feel useful, Peter knew it’d only widen the rift between them. He was a reminder of everything bad that had ever befallen his family, especially his male parent.

“You have your toiletry kit?”

“Sure, Da.” Peter frowned at the odd question.

“You left it that one time, you know.”

That had been over ten years ago. What an odd thing to remember. He supposed it was his father’s way of bridging the awkward silence, and in a strange sort of way the idea was touching.

“Happens,” Peter said, playing the consummate Yankee with his one-word response. He wanted to say more though. So much more.

So why don’t you?

Strangely, it was Sid’s voice he heard asking the question. Given their conversations over the past two days, he supposed that was only natural.

“Da…” He opened his mouth and shut it a few times, wondering, now that he’d begun, what to say next.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Peter’s chest tightened. Heat permeated his cheeks, and moisture stung his eyes. His reply came out on a wave of breath suggestive of a punch. “Jesus, God. Yes it was.”

“You were too young. I knew better.” Ronan shook his head, his lips thinning. “I was trying to save some money. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

“But…” All these years. All this time. The stares and glares. The anger and cold emotion. Where had it all come from? He couldn’t have imagined it all, could he? If so, he needed a shrink. Fast. Because he’d lost his mind a long time ago.

“I know we don’t get on that well,” Ronan continued. “I suppose it’s only natural. Considering we’re so alike.”

Clutching the door rest, Peter tried to navigate the surreal turn his reality had taken.

“I thought you hated me.” He knew the words weren’t kind, but he had nowhere else to go with this conversation. There was no place left for him to hide. Not after Georgia and Niall and Carl. “For what I did to you. To the family.”

“I hate myself.”

Peter stared at his father’s too-stolid expression and knew the man had found a much better engineer for his own internal walls than Peter had hired to construct his. He wasn’t sure if he could breach that solid fortress, but he forced himself to try.

“I want to build my schooner, Da.” Clearing his throat, he blinked away tears he didn’t want to shed. Not yet. “Will you help me?”

Ronan’s face flushed, and his left hand gripped the wheel a little tighter as he pulled up to the British Airways terminal. “Do you have time for all that?”

“I’ll make time,” Peter said, and he meant it.

He got out of the truck, and his father followed to open the door on the cap. Peter pulled his luggage out and turned. Rather than escaping back to the cab, his father still stood there. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say the man looked lost. With great care, as if he approached a sleeping bear, Peter moved closer and wrapped his arms around his father’s shoulders for a hug. Ronan jerked but didn’t try to pull away. After a moment, he raised his arm to complete the embrace.

For the first time in his adult life, Peter knew he was his father’s son. He knew he’d been forgiven.

* * * *

“You’re too tall.” Georgia stood behind Sid in front of the mirror and attempted once again to tie his bow tie.

He smirked at her. “You’re too short.”

She’d helped Sid dress in his tux—the first he’d ever worn—before the full-length mirror in one of the guest suites. If she hadn’t given the staff the rest of the week off after the funeral, she would’ve called in her father’s valet.

“Let me do it facing you then.” She made to move in front of Sid, but he sidestepped to prevent her frontal attack.

“Then I won’t be able to see what you’re doing.” Lifting the ends of the tie, Sid waggled his brows—which he’d, thank God, returned to a normal shade of blonde-brown—and twirled the fabric. “What we need is a step stool.”

A tufted bench caught her eye, and she dragged it in front of the mirror. Pointing at it, she said, “Sit.”

Sid sat. “Good idea.”

As she reached over his shoulders to attempt once more to secure the bow tie, Carl walked into the room. Impeccably dressed, he paused in the doorway, a lightness of being surrounding him until he met her gaze in the mirror. Reacting as if he’d been shocked, he darted a glance at Sid and stepped forward.

“Here,” he said, brushing Georgia aside. “I can do that.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Be my guest.”

On the vanity rested two black-and-silver embroidered demimasks. The New Year’s ball at Houghton House was always a classic, yet lighthearted masked ball that allowed the aristocratic crowd to mingle and let their hair down without necessarily revealing their identities. She recalled her parents going when she was a child, and they’d always seemed happy when they’d returned. Out of all the invitations she received, or rather her father had received, to holiday events, this was the only one she’d had any desire to attend. Still, they didn’t have to go out tonight. Watching a film in the screening room with a big bowl of popcorn and her pajamas sounded much nicer.

“Why don’t we just stay in tonight?” She whirled to face the men.

Tie perfectly tied, Sid perched on the bench. Carl rested his hands on Sid’s shoulders, lightly massaging. The men’s eyes met in the mirror, and something unspoken passed between them.

“No way. We’re going.” Sid pasted on a pout and looked her way. “I did not let you truss me up in this monkey suit so I could stay in. Besides? If you don’t take me, I’ll think you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Well, you’d better behave. Don’t think I don’t remember the spiked punch at the Fourth of July office picnic.” She made a sour face and pressed two fingers between her brows. “I can still feel that hangover. Right here.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior,” Sid said, standing so he was shoulder to shoulder with Carl.

Neither of the men had dark hair, but tuxedos would always and forever remind her of Peter. And tonight she’d be in a room of virtually faceless men, all of them wearing the classically handsome attire. She’d either be a shaking mess by the end or would need to come home and use her vibrator, provided she imbibed enough champagne to dull the pain of loss lurking in her middle.

“Let’s get it over with then,” she grumbled and made for the door.

“Are we going in a glass coach? Or a pumpkin?” Sid asked, he and Carl trailing behind her. “You kind of look like a princess.”

Feigned annoyance dropped from her face at the last part of Sid’s statement, and she blushed.

Without turning around, she said, “I assure you, Sid, I’m only a countess. You’ll recognize the princess when you see her. Mask or no mask.”

Royalty always had a palpable aura. It leaked from every gesture, movement, and word. Clothing too. A few movie stars like Helen Mirren and Cate Blanchett managed to translate that aura to the screen, but Georgia hadn’t met a person in real life who hadn’t grown up royal who could exude the natural power and influence of an HRH. Once in the presence of someone that high on the aristocratic food chain, a person would never forget that feeling, and God help the charlatan who tried to take them in, because the interloper would be sunk even before the first act opened.

Stopping at the front hall table, she swept up her own demimask—a light and airy confection, it was made of white satin painted with gold-leaf flourishes in the style of Marie Antoinette. With her hair piled high and two curls bouncing at her shoulders, Georgia had to admit that, while she wasn’t royalty, she felt pretty damned special.

If only Peter—

No!

Stomping on the thought, she opened the front door and stepped into the frigid December night. Her heels clacked on stone as she and the men descended to the waiting limo. The driver opened the door and ushered them inside the warm, plushly appointed interior. As they settled, Carl popped the champagne, and Sid held three glasses out in turn for each of them.

Settled in, Carl’s arm around his shoulders, Sid smiled at Georgia and raised his glass. “Out with the old, crappy year and in with the new!”

Georgia cracked a smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

“To the new year,” Carl said, his toast more that of a gentleman.

By the time they turned onto Kensington Palace Gardens, they’d polished off the bottle, and a nice buzz had set up residence in Georgia’s extremities. Inside, there would undoubtedly be more champagne and a crush of guests to rival a description out of an Austen novel.

“So, do I bow to the princess?” Sid asked as they strode up the steps. “Or kneel?”

Laughter bubbled from Georgia’s throat, a little maniacal for so early in the night, and she stopped to clear her throat.

“You only kneel if you want to get under her gown, Sid,” she mock whispered, then gave him a faux frown.

“He’d better not,” Carl said forbiddingly.

Sid blanched, and Georgia grinned and tossed her head. “That’s what I thought.”

The receiving line took forever. Then Sid swept her into the ballroom and into a sea of dancers to the strains of a waltz. Remembering the last time she’d danced in three-quarter time in the arms of a man, she pulled away.

“You okay?” Sid looked over her shoulder, distracted, and stepped on her toes.

“I’ll be fine if you don’t maim me before the dance finishes.”

“Stop pulling away from me. Relax.”

“That just sounds wrong coming from my best friend.” Glancing up at Sid’s full lips beneath the black-and-silver mask, the roundness of his chin struck her as handsome. She’d never really thought of Sid as handsome before. “God,” she said, shaking herself. “I think I’ve had too much champagne already.”

Sid stood a little straighter, ignoring her, and the air around her and the other couples suddenly seemed supercharged. Ah. The prince had undoubtedly arrived. Sure enough, when Sid swung her around, she caught a glimpse of his regal posture, unerring steps, and the without-a-flaw drape of his tux. A redhead laughed in his arms, tossing her head in flirtation. Georgia snorted quietly in disgust. The man was married. The least the woman could do was be discreet.

Grip tightening, Sid whirled her around a little ahead of the beat, and she stumbled, nearly crashing into the prince and his companion of the moment.

“Sid,” Georgia hissed under her breath.

The prince turned his head, his glittering blue gaze sweeping her for only a moment before he turned away to murmur something to his partner. She nodded, and he swung them both around to deftly cut off Sid. Both men stopped, and Georgia took a step back out of Sid’s arms.

“I think he wants to dance with you,” Sid said.

Georgia resisted the urge to close her eyes at the social blunder.

“I am sorry, sir,” she murmured. “Please forgive us for the intrusion.”

Rather than step away, the prince held one hand, palm up, in invitation. Startled, Georgia blinked at him for a second before placing her fingertips hesitantly onto his palm. As the two men exchanged partners, Georgia heard Sid say, “Thank God. One more heel trod, and she was going to cripple me.”

Before she could comment—as if she would have said a word against Sid while in the prince’s company—her new partner swept her into the dance. One hand lightly on his shoulder, the other palm to palm with his, she stared at his lapel and wondered at the precise creases of his pocket handkerchief. Protocol demanded she wait for him to speak, so she remained quiet.

When the next dance began and he showed no sign of releasing her hand, Georgia looked up into his face, quizzical. The simple black satin mask he wore hid all but the sensual curve of his lips and regal angle of his jaw. Dark stubble would shadow his skin before the night was through, lending him a rakish, dangerous air. She shuddered, imagining another man in his place. About the prince’s height and build, Peter would press her to him, his barely leashed power turning her limbs to butter before his lips met hers.