never give up hope, sir.’
* * *
The Globe was a prestigious hostelry and the couple were made to feel their lack of servants and baggage, until Gideon’s haughty manner and generous purse convinced the landlord that this wealthy viscount’s son was merely eccentric. Gideon had sent a runner ahead of him to bespeak a suite of rooms, which included, as Dominique discovered as she explored their apartment, two bedrooms.
‘It is de rigueur for married couples, so no one will think anything amiss,’ explained Gideon. ‘And I did not want to impose upon you.’
‘You are very kind, sir.’
‘Gideon,’ he corrected her gently.
‘Gideon.’
The lackeys had withdrawn and they were alone again, a situation that Dominique found disconcerting, despite their intimacy the previous night. Gideon came closer. His hand came up, as if to touch her cheek, then dropped away again.
‘I want you to be comfortable,’ he told her. ‘Is there anything I can do, madam, that will help?’
She clasped her hands together.
‘There is one thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
She raised her eyes to his.
‘If—if you could call me Dominique.’ Silence met her words and she hurried on, ‘You never use my name—well, only once.’ She blushed furiously at the memory. ‘I do not think we can be c-comfortable if you continue to call me madam.’
She was looking down, and saw his hands clench into fists.
‘That is one request I am afraid I cannot fulfil, my dear.’
‘Oh.’ She blinked to clear the tears that had suddenly sprung up. ‘N-no doubt you think of Dominique as that b-beautiful actress.’
He did not contradict her. After a moment’s tense silence he said, ‘It is not only that. It is a French name.’
‘And—and is that so very bad?’ she asked him.
He hesitated, no longer than a heartbeat, but she noticed it.
‘Yes, my dear. I’m afraid it is.’
He turned towards her, his face polite, smiling, but that shuttered look was in his eyes, telling her he was unreachable.
They retired to their separate rooms that night. Dominique did not sleep, but lay tense and still in the middle of the bed, listening. She convinced herself that she was dreading a soft knock at the door, but when it never came she realised just how disappointed she was. Yet what could she expect? Gideon had never wanted to marry her; he was in love with the actress who had taken her place. So much in love that now he could not even bring himself to use her name.
* * *
At breakfast the following morning Gideon was all consideration. He escorted her to her chair, poured her coffee and helped her to the freshest of the toasted muffins before sitting down to his own meal.
‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘I cannot continue without a name for you.’
She bridled instantly.
‘I have a perfectly good name, thank you.’
‘You have indeed.’ He smiled at her and she found her anger melting away. ‘I have been thinking about it.’
‘You have?’
Had he stayed awake to relive their night together, as she had done? The little flare of hope quickly died.
‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘We could shorten it to Nicky. A pet name, if you like.’
‘My grandfather, the old earl, used to call me that.’
‘There we have it, then. I shall call you Nicky—but only with your permission, of course.’
She gave him a shy smile.
‘I should like that, si—’ She noted his sudden frown and corrected herself. ‘I should like that, Gideon .’
* * *
By the time they reached London Dominique thought they were getting on famously. They laughed at the same things, shared a love of music and poetry, talked for hours, like true friends. But not lovers. Gideon was polite and considerate, but nothing more, and Dominique, afraid to risk the fragile bond between them, lay awake in her lonely bed and ached for him to come to her. It would not do, however, to admit such a longing, so she hid it behind a smile and accepted as much companionship as her husband
* * *
The Globe was a prestigious hostelry and the couple were made to feel their lack of servants and baggage, until Gideon’s haughty manner and generous purse convinced the landlord that this wealthy viscount’s son was merely eccentric. Gideon had sent a runner ahead of him to bespeak a suite of rooms, which included, as Dominique discovered as she explored their apartment, two bedrooms.
‘It is de rigueur for married couples, so no one will think anything amiss,’ explained Gideon. ‘And I did not want to impose upon you.’
‘You are very kind, sir.’
‘Gideon,’ he corrected her gently.
‘Gideon.’
The lackeys had withdrawn and they were alone again, a situation that Dominique found disconcerting, despite their intimacy the previous night. Gideon came closer. His hand came up, as if to touch her cheek, then dropped away again.
‘I want you to be comfortable,’ he told her. ‘Is there anything I can do, madam, that will help?’
She clasped her hands together.
‘There is one thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
She raised her eyes to his.
‘If—if you could call me Dominique.’ Silence met her words and she hurried on, ‘You never use my name—well, only once.’ She blushed furiously at the memory. ‘I do not think we can be c-comfortable if you continue to call me madam.’
She was looking down, and saw his hands clench into fists.
‘That is one request I am afraid I cannot fulfil, my dear.’
‘Oh.’ She blinked to clear the tears that had suddenly sprung up. ‘N-no doubt you think of Dominique as that b-beautiful actress.’
He did not contradict her. After a moment’s tense silence he said, ‘It is not only that. It is a French name.’
‘And—and is that so very bad?’ she asked him.
He hesitated, no longer than a heartbeat, but she noticed it.
‘Yes, my dear. I’m afraid it is.’
He turned towards her, his face polite, smiling, but that shuttered look was in his eyes, telling her he was unreachable.
They retired to their separate rooms that night. Dominique did not sleep, but lay tense and still in the middle of the bed, listening. She convinced herself that she was dreading a soft knock at the door, but when it never came she realised just how disappointed she was. Yet what could she expect? Gideon had never wanted to marry her; he was in love with the actress who had taken her place. So much in love that now he could not even bring himself to use her name.
* * *
At breakfast the following morning Gideon was all consideration. He escorted her to her chair, poured her coffee and helped her to the freshest of the toasted muffins before sitting down to his own meal.
‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘I cannot continue without a name for you.’
She bridled instantly.
‘I have a perfectly good name, thank you.’
‘You have indeed.’ He smiled at her and she found her anger melting away. ‘I have been thinking about it.’
‘You have?’
Had he stayed awake to relive their night together, as she had done? The little flare of hope quickly died.
‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘We could shorten it to Nicky. A pet name, if you like.’
‘My grandfather, the old earl, used to call me that.’
‘There we have it, then. I shall call you Nicky—but only with your permission, of course.’
She gave him a shy smile.
‘I should like that, si—’ She noted his sudden frown and corrected herself. ‘I should like that, Gideon .’
* * *
By the time they reached London Dominique thought they were getting on famously. They laughed at the same things, shared a love of music and poetry, talked for hours, like true friends. But not lovers. Gideon was polite and considerate, but nothing more, and Dominique, afraid to risk the fragile bond between them, lay awake in her lonely bed and ached for him to come to her. It would not do, however, to admit such a longing, so she hid it behind a smile and accepted as much companionship as her husband
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