Page 30 of To Dare the Devil

A sickly sensation of guilt uncoiled in his guts, cold and slithery and disgusting. She was right, of course. He’d been just such a man, and he’d have not thought twice. He wanted her now. The old Max would have desired her too, and he’d have tried everything to get her.

“I beg your pardon,” he managed, unable to meet her eyes now as shame and remorse overwhelmed him. God, how she must despise him, and with good reason. “I’m so sorry, I…forgive me.”

He fled, his chest tight with regret, unable to breathe as he made his way to the doors. Escape was the only thing he could think of, getting away from her, for she ought not have to suffer his company. If only he could escape himself, shed his skin and leave the old Max behind, but there was no escaping the man he’d been. That was his punishment, and he must stand it. He’d changed, but that change came at a price. Realising now what it took to be a decent human being meant forever knowing just how far from decent he’d been.

He burst out onto the terrace and took a deep breath, praying he’d not throw up and make a spectacle of himself. To his relief, the terrace was empty, and he made his way to the balustrade, leaning on it to steady himself. His hands were shaking, he realised, and he closed his eyes.

“God forgive me,” he whispered.

“My lord?”

The softly spoken words made all the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his heart thudding with hope as he recognised the voice that had brought him back from the dead. He spun around and for a moment he could not understand why Miss de Beauvoir was standing before him. She reached out and placed a tentative hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her beautiful eyes awash with tears. “That was a vile thing to say. Please forgive me.”

He shook his head, uncomprehending why she of all people would seek his forgiveness. She should loath him as much as he loathed himself.

“I deserved it,” he replied, his voice unsteady. “You were absolutely right, and I deserve far, far worse, believe me.”

“Perhaps, but it is not for me to judge you, and certainly not to make nasty comments at your expense. I promise you I feel horribly ashamed of myself for doing so. It’s not like I’m perfect, or anyone else in that room. We’re all flawed and… and perhaps that makes you better than most. Because you know the things you did were wrong, and you are making amends.”

“I’m trying,” he said, wanting her to know that much.

She nodded. “I know,” she said, the understanding in her eyes making him want to fall to his knees in gratitude for not reviling him.

“What if it isn’t enough?” he asked, staring at her in bewilderment.

It was her. He was certain of it. This was the voice of the woman he’d lived for, the one who had promised to be there when he woke but had never shown herself.

“I don’t know,” she said, her honesty razor sharp. “But I think if you keep trying, maybe it will be, one day.”

“You do?”

She nodded then, giving him the ghost of a smile. “I do.”

He let out a breath of relief. If she thought he could do it, maybe there was hope for him. Maybe there was hope that she might consider him worth knowing, worth liking, a little at least. He desperately wanted to ask her why, why had she not been there when he’d woken? Why had she been there in the first place? Why had she given him those tender words and then broken her promise? And why had Burt and Pike denied her existence? He couldn’t, though. The memories were still hazy, but he remembered the feeling her voice had evoked, remembered the tone of her words, the intimacy of it. If she knew he’d remembered, the knowledge would embarrass her and drive another wedge between them when she had just offered the first tentative step closer to him. He did not want that.

“You’d best go in, Miss de Beauvoir. It will do your reputation no good to be found alone with me.”

She nodded, and he suspected the regret flickering in her eyes was wishful thinking on his part. He watched as she turned away, wishing he could keep her with him longer without causing her harm, but that was not possible. The moonlight silvered her hair, casting her in an ethereal light that gave the entire interlude a dreamlike quality that made him doubt it was even real. If she were a dream, she would turn and kiss him, he thought wildly, and then she did turn, and his heart gave an extraordinary kick in his chest as hope rioted through him.

“W-Would you like to dance with me?” she asked, the words bursting out of her so fast he knew she had not thought it through.

She looked startled by her own audacity. Max felt a smile tug at his mouth, realising with chagrin that he was not so reformed as to let her retract the offer. Her hands were twisting together, and she was breathing very hard. It was impossible not to note the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against the neckline of her gown, but he tried his damndest to be a gentleman and kept his gaze upon her face.

“I would like that above all things,” he said, meaning it.

“Oh.” She dithered, looking like she did not know whether to stay or run, or whether she’d done something exceedingly reckless. “W-Well, good. I’ll save you a—”

“A waltz, if you have one. Please,” he added, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck.

She nodded, her hands reaching to smooth her hair and then her skirts, as though she did not quite know what to do with them. Nervous, he realised with a rush of tenderness. She was nervous.

“I only have the midnight waltz left. You’ll have to take me into dinner, too,” she said, chin up, as if she thought he might change his mind if he had to sit with her. Foolish creature.

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll come and find you.”

“Fine.” She nodded again. “Good. I… I’d better….”