It was only three days until Christmas, and Alec was wretchedly busy. Mrs. Laird called him into the shop four or five times a day when there were too many customers for her to handle, or when one of his regulars wished to give him season’s greetings. And he was winding up a dozen commissions, sending them off in pretty parcels in the care of a boy he employed for deliveries.
It was just as well he was busy, because he had less time to stew over the conversation he’d had with Trent. And then Trent did not appear at the shop Wednesday or Thursday, and Alec wondered what he’d said or done wrong. Had Trent decided Alec was a milksop and unworthy of his time? Had Alec’s argument for celibacy been taken to heart? He should be relieved if that was the case, but he didn’t feel relieved. He felt... He felt like he’d boarded the wrong ship and was headed for some place he very much did not want to go. There was a low uneasiness deep in his belly that refused to be assuaged.
The truth was, he’d liked the attention and the company. He liked Mr. John Trent. And even if he was not entirely convinced of Trent’s philosophy nor prepared to throw his principles to the wind, he would be sorry to have the matter end so abruptly before he’d really had the chance to consider it.
He would have liked Trent for a friend, if nothing more.
On Thursday, Mrs. Laird swanned through the curtain to the workshop and handed him a letter. It was on thick, cream-colored paper with his name written prettily above the wax seal.
“Who delivered this?” he asked.
“Some boy,” Mrs. Laird replied with a put-upon air. “He’s waiting outside for a reply. I hardly had time to question him, as I have the Winstons in the shop.”
“Yes, all right. Thank you,” Alec said, but Mrs. Laird was already bustling out.
Alec stared at the letter for a long moment. Then he held his breath, broke the seal, and unfolded it. The inside bore a masculine scrawl.
To Mr. Alec Allston,
I would be honored if you would be my guest for dinner Christmas Eve at the household of my dear friend and landlady Mrs. Simpson of 110 Southampton Row, Bloomsbury, where an assorted party will be celebrating the season. If it pleases you to accept this invitation, I shall call upon you at sunset to escort you.
Yours, John Trent
Alec made an incoherent sound and read the thing over several times.
Oh. Oh dear.
Oh joy.
Oh dear.
Alec could not contain an excited little leap from his chair. Then he sat back down, prepared to be more dignified.
Whatever should he do? It was lovely to receive the invitation. Thrilling, even. But.
But their cards were on the table now. Trent had made himself clear. If Alec accepted this offer, he’d be accepting Trent’s suit. He’d be admitting that he was interested in becoming intimate. In becoming lovers. Trent didn’t strike Alec as the sort of man to dillydally around when it came to his affections, all talk and no action.
Like William.
No. Trent would expect things. Alec had to think this through most carefully.
He really must refuse. Perhaps at a later date he could talk to Trent about being friends—merely that—and this invitation, for Christmas Eve dinner, was too serious, too personal to accept under false pretenses. That wouldn’t be fair.
Alec got out paper and quill and sat down to write a polite refusal. But the words would not come together in his head. Even his hand rebelled, trembling and annoyingly splattering ink across the page. Everything he thought to write sounded ridiculous, even nonsensical. He did not have other plans. He was not ill. His Christmas Eve would be a cold and lonely one, and that seemed so tragic when there were bright candles and happy laughter a pen scrawl away.
And Mr. John Trent.
Blast. Who was Alec trying to fool? He didn’t want to refuse. These past few days had been a misery. He missed Mr. Trent, and he was terribly relieved he hadn’t put him off. He wanted to see him, longed for that ready grin spread across his face, that confidence and vitality buttoned up in a black frock coat.
Alec wanted, period. Except that he really shouldn’t. He’d set the rules for his own behavior years ago. Was he to compromise them now for a handsome face?
For some reason, the angel came into his mind. He remembered her as she looked sitting on his worktable while he painted her, her brown eyes so lifelike, seeming to watch him as he painted her gown. He recalled her arrayed in the open handkerchief in Trent’s hand. Pictured the living lady on the bridge.
Trent had found the angel, twice. She wants to be with you, Alec had told him whimsically. What he hadn’t wondered at the time was this: If the angel had chosen Trent, what had she chosen him for?
For you, dear, silly man.
The answer came into his head, and it was in her voice. It was Alec’s imagination, of course, but the voice made him smile anyway.
Enough hiding, Alec Allston. Enough mourning over a love that never amounted to very much in the first place. Enough walls of your own making. Take a chance.
Alec picked up his pen and wrote his acceptance.