Hyacinth nodded. She’d never stopped to think how precious that was—to have the love of a parent. It was something Gareth had never had. Heaven only knew what his childhood had been like. He had never spoken of it, and Hyacinth was ashamed to realize that she’d never asked.
She’d never even noticed the omission.
Maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little understanding on her part.
He would still have to beg her forgiveness; she wasn’t that full of kindness and charity.
But she could try to understand, and she could love him, and maybe, if she tried with everything she had, she could fill that void within him.
Whatever it was he needed, maybe she could be it.
And maybe that would be all that mattered.
But in the meantime, Hyacinth was going to have to expend a bit of energy to bring about her happy ending. And she had a feeling that a note wasn’t going to be sufficient.
It was time to be brazen, time to be bold.
Time to beard the lion in his den, to—
“I say, Hyacinth,” came her mother’s voice, “are you quite all right?”
She shook her head, even as she said, “I’m perfectly well. Just thinking like a fool, that’s all.”
A fool in love.
Chapter 18
Later that afternoon, in the small study in Gareth’s very small suite of apartments. Our hero has come to the conclusion that he must take action.
He does not realize that Hyacinth is about to beat him to the punch.
A grand gesture.
That, Gareth decided, was what he needed. A grand gesture.
Women loved grand gestures, and while Hyacinth was certainly rather unlike any other woman he’d had dealings with, she was still a woman, and she would certainly be at least a little swayed by a grand gesture.
Wouldn’t she?
Well, she’d better, Gareth thought grumpily, because he didn’t know what else to do.
But the problem with grand gestures was that the grandest ones tended to require money, which was one thing Gareth had in short supply. And the ones that didn’t require a great deal of money usually involved some poor sod embarrassing himself in a most public manner—reciting poetry or singing a ballad, or making some sort of sappy declaration with eight hundred witnesses.
Not, Gareth decided, anything he was likely to do.
But Hyacinth was, as he’d often noted, an uncommon sort of female, which meant that—hopefully—an uncommon sort of gesture would work with her.
He would show her he cared, and she’d forget all this nonsense about his father, and all would be well.
All had to be well.
“Mr. St. Clair, you have a visitor.”
He looked up. He’d been seated behind his desk for so long it was a wonder he hadn’t grown roots. His valet was standing in the doorway to his office. As Gareth could not afford a butler—and really, who needed one with only four rooms to care for—Phelps often assumed those duties as well.
“Show him in,” Gareth said, somewhat absently, sliding some books over the papers currently sitting on his desk.
“Er…” Cough cough. Cough cough cough.