Page 61 of A Convenient Fiction

“Are you all right?” Henrietta asked.

Laura pasted on a smile, refusing to betray the pain that Henrietta’s happiness caused her. “I’m always all right.”

She had to be. What other choice was there?

The York Hotel was an elegant establishment situated directly opposite the harbor, its three stories of windows facing out to the sea. Alex crossed the crowded lobby, his head bent and his hands thrust into his pockets. After an afternoon spent on the beach, he was more than ready to retire to his rooms to wash and change for dinner.

It wasn’t that Teddy hadn’t been good company. Indeed, with his caustic remarks and dictatorial demands, Laura’s brother was surprisingly amusing. He was rather talented, too. Alex had enjoyed watching the progress of his preliminary sketches, and the resulting effect when he’d transferred his ideas to paint and canvas.

George had even joined them for a time, long enough for Alex to observe the decided tension between him and Teddy.

“You don’t like him?” Alex had asked when George left them for the bathing machines.

“He’s a scoundrel,” Teddy had said, squinting at his canvas as he applied another dab of blue. “He treated my sister abominably two years ago. I don’t know why he ever came home.”

Alex hadn’t been able to get any more information out of Teddy, except to learn that Teddy himself was partially in the dark regarding George and Laura’s infamous falling out.

It didn’t matter, in any event. Laura had no need for Alex’s protection. She’d dealt with George once before, all on her own, and seemed more than capable of dealing with him again should the need arise.

There was no point in fretting over her. In worrying about her safety. Her comfort. Her happiness.

It was time to get his head on straight. To remember why it was he’d come back to England.

And it hadn’t been to lose his heart to an impoverished perfumer’s daughter.

He glanced out the front windows of the hotel as he passed them on the way to the staircase. The calm, untroubled waters of Margate were nothing like the wild and raging seas of North Devon. There, he’d been out of control. A victim of the storm.

Here, he was master of his own destiny. Whatever happened, it would be his choice.

He entered his hotel room on the third floor. George stood in front of the looking glass in his shirtsleeves, frowning as he tied his cravat.

“Squire Talbot expects us downstairs in half an hour for a preprandial drink,” he said. “You’d better hurry and change.”

Alex stripped off his coat. “If you think you’re drinking tonight, I advise you to think again.”

“You can’t be serious. I know I rather lost control of my urges that night at the vicarage, but I’ve been dry as a bone ever since.” George met his eyes in the mirror. “Come, Archer. We’re on holiday. A glass of wine with dinner can do no harm.”

“One glass leads to another, which leads to a bottle, and then God knows what else. I’ve no intention of dragging your drunken carcass out of a gin shop at four in the morning—or worse.”

“Worse? In Margate? Drunken sailors, maybe, but I doubt there are gin shops and opium dens along the promenade.” George fastened his cufflinks. “You’re becoming an old woman.”

Alex ignored the barb. He didn’t care what George thought of him. All he needed was for George to stay sober and clearheaded until this affair was brought to a close. Alex hadn’t come this far in the game to end it playing nursemaid.

“A drop of wine—or whiskey, come to that—never harmed anyone,” George said. “If you had any notion of what I suffer—”

“Is it too much to ask that you hold up your end of the bargain?”

“What about your end?” George heaved an impatient breath. “Do it tonight, will you? There’s dancing at the assembly rooms. Henrietta was nattering on about it earlier. You can propose to her during the waltz. It’s what I would do, if I were you.”

Alex paused in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat. He couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Is that how you proposed to Laura? At a dance?”

George bent his head, resuming his toilette with increased focus. “That was another sort of proposal.”

“What sort, exactly? You’ve never made it clear.”

“If this is a preface to you mauling me about as you did at the vicarage—”

“It’s a simple question. One with a simple answer, I trust.”