A Kiss at Midnight

“I didn’t sense it. I just thought . . . I hoped. Stupidly, I suppose.” It had been forty-one days, and she was stupid to keep a tiny flame of hope alive, merely because there had been no marriage announcement for Princess Tatiana. But who knew when that marriage was supposed to take place?

For all she knew, they had returned to Russia to consecrate their union there.

“One should never hope that men will rise to the occasion,” Henry said sadly. “They don’t, as a matter of course.”

Kate looked at the window again. Her shoulders were stiff and achy from holding in the pain and the tears. But she was so sick of weeping, so sick of wondering why Gabriel was the way he was.

It was like some sort of puzzle box. He was the way he was because he was a prince . . .

The line went drearily around and around in her head.

Henry’s arms came around her shoulders and she was enveloped in a little cloud of perfume as sweet as treacle. “You’ll hate me for this, but some small part of me is glad that Gabriel turned out to be lacking the courage to break his engagement.”

“Why?”

Henry turned her around. “Because I got to spend this time with you,” she said, tucking one of Kate’s curls behind her ear. “You are the child I never had, sweet Kate. You’re the best gift that Victor ever gave anyone.” Her eyes were shiny with tears. “I love him all over again for that, because I love you. And though I hate to see you so sad, the greedy part of me is terribly grateful for the time we’ve spent together in the last few weeks.”

Kate gave her a wobbly smile and pulled her into an embrace. “I feel the same way,” she said, hugging Henry tight. “It makes up for all those years with Mariana.”

“Well,” Henry said, a second later, “I’m actually getting tearful. You’ll think that I joined Leo in a preprandial brandy. I didn’t really mean it about Gabriel. I wish he’d been the man you hoped he was, darling. I truly do.”

“I know,” Kate said.

“Men come and men go,” Henry continued. “They’re like icicles.”

“Icicles,” Kate said stupidly, turning back to watch the men in the gardens bustling about. Their shapes were black outlines against the dark blue sky.

“They hang beautifully, and look all shiny and new, but then they break off with a crash and the really bad ones melt,” Henry said with a sigh. “What on earth are those people doing in the gardens? It looks as if they’re setting a Guy Fawkes bonfire. Is it Guy Fawkes Day?”

“Isn’t that November?” Kate asked. Mariana had hardly been one for honoring public holidays.

Henry gave her a last squeeze. “We’ll go out to the theater tonight and you can lap up some lovely attention from Ormskirk. His notes are getting more and more frantic. I think he believes you to be wasting away. You’ve lost Dante as a prospect. I had a letter from Effie’s mother just now, and she accepted him.”

“Good for her,” Kate said. “I’m so glad Lord Hathaway fought off all those young men and won her hand.”

“So it’s time for you to disprove Ormskirk’s fears of your imminent death,” Henry insisted.

“I am certainly robust,” Kate said. The shadows under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks were gone. It wasn’t fair that pain in the heart should feel so much more debilitating than mere exhaustion.

“I’m going to send a footman over there to inquire what on earth is going on,” Henry said, stepping closer to the window frame. “Look at all the birds. They look as if they’re having a proper gossip.”

The trees were full of blackbirds, flying up in little groups and landing again in clusters.

“Maybe they’re having a roast of some sort,” Kate suggested, “and the birds are waiting for them to break out the bread.”

“A roast?” Henry said. “In this neighborhood? I highly doubt it. Look, they’re lighting the bonfire. It’s a big one, I must say.”

At that moment there was a scratch at the door and Henry’s new butler entered with a silver salver. “My lady,” he said, “a note has arrived.”

“Has arrived,” Henry asked. “From whom? Do you have any idea what’s going on in the park, Cherryderry?”

“This note comes from the gentlemen in the park,” he said. “But no, I am not certain of the nature of the activity.”

“Would you mind asking Mrs. Swallow to send more tea, Cherryderry?” Kate asked.

He bowed and departed; Henry tapped the note against her chin consideringly.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Kate inquired.

“Of course I am. I’m just wondering if I should send a footman for the Watch. I wish Leo was home; he would know what to do. Look how those sparks are going up into the trees. What if it all catches on fire?”

“Open up the note and see what on earth is going on,” Kate said.

“I can’t,” Henry said.

“What?”

“It’s addressed to you.”

Forty

I would prefer not to throw myself on a funeral pyre.

Please come back to me.

T he note fell from Kate’s fingers and she took a step toward the glass, straining her eyes through the gathering darkness.

And now she could see . . . a man. A tall man with wide shoulders standing before the bonfire. He had his arms crossed.

He was waiting.

Henry was picking up the note from the carpet, but Kate didn’t pause.

She ran, ran down the stair, across the marble entrance hall, through the front door, and across the street. There she fetched up short at the iron railing, her hands curling instinctively around the icy metal.

“Gabriel,” she breathed.

“Hello, love,” he said, not moving. “Are you coming to save me?”

“What are you doing? Here? The fire?”

“You left me, as Aeneas left Dido,” he said. “I thought this would get your attention.”

“I didn’t leave you. We couldn’t—you have to—”

“You left me.”

It was typical male foolishness, so she asked the only question that mattered: “Are you still betrothed? Are you married?”

“No.”

She released the railing and ran to the door to the garden, caught herself about to dash through like Freddie responding to an offer of cheese, slowed down. She managed to walk until she was close enough to see his face, and then he was running and she was running . . .

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He growled it and then he found her mouth. He tasted like wood burning in the outdoors, like winter air, like love.

Time, minutes, hours passed as they stood in front that bonfire locked in each other’s arms, not talking. Just kissing, forty-one days’ worth of kisses, nights’ worth of kisses, morning kisses, luncheon kisses, twilight kisses.

“I love you,” he said finally, drawing back.

Kate felt her lips, bee-stung, ripe like a peach. She wanted more of him. Her hands skated over his broad shoulders, buried themselves in his hair, drew his head to hers again. “I do too,” she whispered. “I do too.”

He fell back a step, and her arms uncurled from his neck. He took off his hat, and the fire cast dancing lights on his hair. Then with a simple gesture he fell on one knee before her.