Free Edith Layton by The Choice Page B

thoughts.
    He paused. “I thought you hated compliments.”
    “I do,” she said gruffly, “but haven’t you ever asked a friend what he thought of how you were dressed?”
    “I may have…” he said slowly, suspecting a trap.
    “Well, I usually hate pink,” she said, plucking at a fold of her skirt. “But Bridget said this gown isn’t. It’s apricot or some such fruit or other,” she added quickly, vexed with herself for not finding a less foolish topic to turn her thoughts.
    “No, not pink,” he agreed thoughtfully, gazing at how she glowed in the reflected light of the theater’s blazing torches. She saw his intent concentration and was glad she couldn’t see the expression in the glittering depths of his eyes now, because his voice was intimate and tender. Or so it seemed in the fading light in the recesses of their extravagantly carpeted and padded exclusive box. The theater’s noises were a low babble since most of the audience was promenading in the corridors. It was warm, it was cozy, they were alone together. Now, suddenly, they were very aware of it.
    “Nor apricot neither,” he drawled, studying the lovely form he was not allowed to touch, the lovely face, suddenly shy, turned to his—not for a kiss, but only waiting for his answer.
    “Peach?” he murmured, considering it. “No. It makes me think of succulent things. But not fruit. It’s a rarer shade, I think. That’s it exactly,” he said, struck by the elusive thought that had been haunting him. “It’s the color of secret, hidden, blushing things. It reminds me of the innermost lip of a seashell. You know, the faint color on the smooth shiny part inside, in the inner whorls of it? Like the inside of a woman’s ear, right under that little curled up part of the rim,” he mused. “Or the color of her lips…or the slowly unfurling petals of her—like a rose,” he said abruptly, as Gilly’s face became almost the color he described, and he realized how far his thoughts had strayed from convention.
    He hesitated, appalled—and then amused. He smiled, crocodile tender as he looked at her heightened color, the result of his musings. Not muchembarrassed Gilly. He was almost ashamed, but her blush was too rare and charming a thing to see to regret it. “No,” he said gently, “though it makes me think of delicious things, I don’t think of fruit.”
    “Well!” Gilly said, struggling with her answer so he wouldn’t think she guessed what sort of shocking things he was hinting at—if he even was and it wasn’t her evil mind at work. “I don’t think you’d answer another fellow that way!”
    “No, but you aren’t another fellow, are you?”
    “Couldn’t you just pretend?” she asked, almost despairing.
    “No, Gilly,” he said seriously. “And I’m very good at pretending things. I had to be, to be a good merchant. But some things are beyond my abilities.”
    Gilly was glad Ewen and Bridget chose that moment to return. She turned her flushed face to the stage again, unfurling her fan as though it was the overheated theater and not Damon’s words that had warmed her cheeks to match her gown. She’d end the engagement before it became too painful to end, she decided. The world might allow her to remain his friend, but she didn’t think he would. Still, given how she felt about her other dearest male friend, maybe it was just as well. She waited for the farce to begin. And hoped it would be more amusing than the one she was living now.
     
    Gilly said good night to Damon at the door, and then turned to go up the stairs to bed.
    “A good night.” Ewen yawned, as he and his wife paused at the foot of the stair for a last word with Gilly. “Don’t you think? Ryder is indeed a catch, Gilly. At first,I’d my doubts. But he’s a man I’d be proud to call friend. Don’t make such faces. They’ll stick and then where will you be?” he added, as though he were talking to Max. “And don’t doubt me. I have very good