Page 75 of Once an Angel
from you....
Justin stood at the window and watched the fat snowflakes drift down to fur the lawn. Despite his
longing for sunlight and sea, the snow still captivated him with its purity, its eternal promise of fresh hope.
"Justin, oh, Justin, my darling, where are you?"
He blew out a breath of frustration, fogging the cold windowpane. Even the heavy damask of the drapes wasn't enough to deter his mother. She swept them aside, smothering him in the cloying fog of her perfume.
"There you are! I was beginning to think you were hiding under the bed as you used to do when you
were little."
"Fat lot of good that would have done me. You would have just sent the butler to drag me out by my heels."
She slapped his arm with her fan. "Don't be a bad boy. You promised to be civil to my guests, not spend the evening lurking behind the drapes. It was heartless of you to deny me my annual Christmas ball. The least you can do is grace my modest fete with your presence."
Justin sighed. The duchess's idea of a modest fete was cramming a hundred guests into the octagonal drawing room. "I warned you I wouldn't be good company, Mother. I have more pressing matters on
my mind than playing Simile with a bevy of sotted swells."
"I suppose you mean that infernal child. You must stop this ridiculous fretting. You've got the finest men in the business on it. They'll find the little lad soon enough."
"It's a girl," he explained for the hundredth time. "A girl."
"Speaking of girls," his mother said, rescuing a perfumed handkerchief from the bodice of her dress, "there's that charming du Pardieu woman I told you about. You simply must meet her daughter. Quite
a bewitching little creature. Fresh out of seminary." She fluttered the hanky in the air like a flag of surrender, calling out, "Over here, dear."
Justin jerked her arm down, cringing at her shrill titter. Now that she'd regained one rightful Winthrop heir, her primary mission in life seemed to be to ensure he produced another one. "I don't want to meet the charming du Pardieu woman and I don't want to meet her daughter. If Queen Victoria is here, I don't want to meet her either. I wish to be left alone."
The duchess's iron-gray ringlets quivered in indignation. "Very well, then. Perhaps I'll let them think you
a savage."
She sailed away, her formidable bosom jutting out like the prow of some mighty ship. The staring guests milled in her wake. Justin shook his head, understanding for the first time why his father, in his own besotted youth, had ordered a figurehead carved in her honor.
He turned away from the window, tugging irritably at his starched collar. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to be pleasant. He might want to bring Emily back here someday after they were wed, and
he didn't want her reputation besmirched by his.
He wandered through the crowd, managing a smile here, a friendly nod there. The diplomacy of his years with the Maori seemed to have deserted him. He felt stiff and awkward, beset by the painful shyness that had troubled him as a child.
His sister Edith was pounding out "Joy to the World" on the grand piano. He winced, his heart aching for the poor beleaguered instrument. Her husband Harold had thrown back his head and was baying along with her. Or was it Herbert? Justin frowned. He still could not keep his sisters' husbands straight.
He angled toward a punch bowl ringed with glossy leaves of holly, hoping to find a safe haven in its rum-soaked depths.
A gloved hand caught his arm in a velvety vise. "Hello, Justin. Haven't you a moment to spare for an old friend?" The familiar voice had the huskiness of mellow brandy ignited by flame.
"Suzanne," he said, turning to greet his former fiancée and lover.
The years had been kind to her, softening her nubile beauty to glowing maturity, betraying her only in
the faint puffiness beneath her eyes. Sweeping wings of auburn framed her face. Justin knew he should feel something for her, some hint of affection, or even nostalgia, but he felt nothing. She might have
been a stranger. She must have sensed his detachment, for her grip tightened.
"I thought perhaps you'd care to dance. I fear my husband is more interested in discussing the Bank Holidays Act with his friends than he is in dancing with me."
