Page 76 of Once an Angel
Justin glanced at the man she indicated—a dapper, gray-haired chap much older than she. And doubtlessly very wealthy.
His first instinct was to decline, but her possessive grip dissuaded him. "If you'll honor me . . . ?" he
said, spreading his arms.
She stepped into them, smiling. Edith had switched to a tinkling little waltz, and several of the guests
had begun to dance.
"Do you still play?" Suzanne said, breaking the awkward silence.
"Only when everyone else is asleep."
She laughed briefly, but stopped when she realized he was serious. "Did you ever make it to Vienna to study?"
He swept her past the gleaming windows. "No. I took a ... detour along the way."
"Dreams are like that sometimes. We give up what we really want to reach for something else. If we could only go back . . ." Her wistful voice trailed off.
She rested her head against his shoulder, and for a moment Justin was content to hold someone else
who understood the terrible cost of hesitation. But as they spun in the arms of the music, his heart
balked, remembering another night when he had waltzed beneath the merry twinkle of the stars. He had danced to the wrong music, held the wrong woman, but nothing in his life had ever felt so right.
He closed his eyes, breathing in not the delicate lavender of Suzanne's perfume, but the haunting aroma of vanilla warmed by sun-honeyed skin. His body responded to the dangerous provocation with a will of its own.
"Perhaps we could meet again. My husband travels frequently in his work. He's leaving for Belgium next week."
The breathless voice scattered his memories. He opened his eyes. Suzanne was gazing up at him, her lips parted in glistening invitation.
"Oh, God." He pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. "I'm terribly sorry."
"For what?"
His words echoed his despair. "We can't go back, Suzanne. We can't ever go back."
He drew away from her, frantic to escape her crushed bewilderment. He pressed his way through the crowd, snatching a full bottle of rum from the tray of a liveried footman.
"But, Your Grace, that's for the punch!"
"Not anymore, it isn't," he replied, escaping into the deserted peace of a darkened sitting room.
Tall windows framed the front lawn in a swirling vista of moonlight and snow. Justin leaned against the window frame and tilted the bottle to his lips. The familiar heat failed to warm him or soothe his temper. His fingers bit into the smooth glass.
In the drawing room Herbert or Harold was crooning some maudlin ballad about a man who searched
the world over for his love, only to find her in the arms of another man. Groaning, Justin closed his eyes and rapped his forehead against the icy pane.
When he opened them, someone was standing just outside the gate.
Snowflakes danced in his vision. He blinked, thinking he might have imagined it. But the small figure
clad in black was still there, clinging in eerie stillness to the wrought-iron gate.
It must be a beggar child, he thought.
He had spent much time in the past few weeks reac-quainting himself with the orphans and urchins of
