He was in his element here. Everything was going well. This was to be a new chapter, a fresh start. He deserved that.
At first he thought he’d imagined her. Understandable, maybe, to be surveying the room, the clusters of young ladies gleaming with dreams of making a match, and to think of her, the way she had been when he had met her eight years ago. Max had determined to forget her, in recent years - but it was a task resistant to trying, and not one that could be won completely. He thought he might be forgiven here, at least - being back in Britain, hunting for a wife amongst a sea of brunettes, thinking that one of them might as well have been her - for a memory roused.
Still, he was almost inclined to laugh at himself, derisive, for letting his gaze halt on the girl, to try and dispel the vision by the differences - the hair was the same, there was something about the dress, but she was slimmer and slighter than Nicky had ever been, a touch visibly older than Nicky was when he’d known her -
But her eyes were the same. Her eyes were the same, and there was recognition in them. How could she be a vision... What imagined ghost would have the audacity to find herself in conversation with the party guests?
Somehow, the sudden jolt in his chest was more compelling proof than believing his eyes. Nicky. A gear had stalled in his head, sputtering to a stop because this did not make sense. What the fuck did she think she was doing here? Calling her dead had been an unearned grace, for all of them - him, her, her surviving family. Surely the understanding of that had been that she would be consigned to staying out of sight? Surely she had not merely run home, and the Dippets had decided to take her in? Surely she did not think she had any right to be here, after what she had done?
Perhaps she had gotten tired of her new life, he considered bitterly, once she’d gone. In his head, she regretted it. In his head, she had regretted it since the moment she left, but she was just too stubborn to come back and have to say it. He’d clung, ludicrously, to this idea for years - perhaps because he still didn’t know what, exactly, had gone so wrong. But that, none of that, meant he ever wanted to see her again.
And not bloody here, where she could so easily screw him over yet again.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to his current company, thoughtlessly. She had seen that he had seen her, that much he didn’t doubt. Whether, from that distance, she had caught the flashes in his face - the dazed shock in his eyes, the disconcerted twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a smile dissolving - Max couldn’t say.
Still - regardless - he was not going to grant her the satisfaction of seeing how off-guard she had caught him, of betraying anything more. So, deliberately, he turned away.
At first he thought he’d imagined her. Understandable, maybe, to be surveying the room, the clusters of young ladies gleaming with dreams of making a match, and to think of her, the way she had been when he had met her eight years ago. Max had determined to forget her, in recent years - but it was a task resistant to trying, and not one that could be won completely. He thought he might be forgiven here, at least - being back in Britain, hunting for a wife amongst a sea of brunettes, thinking that one of them might as well have been her - for a memory roused.
Still, he was almost inclined to laugh at himself, derisive, for letting his gaze halt on the girl, to try and dispel the vision by the differences - the hair was the same, there was something about the dress, but she was slimmer and slighter than Nicky had ever been, a touch visibly older than Nicky was when he’d known her -
But her eyes were the same. Her eyes were the same, and there was recognition in them. How could she be a vision... What imagined ghost would have the audacity to find herself in conversation with the party guests?
Somehow, the sudden jolt in his chest was more compelling proof than believing his eyes. Nicky. A gear had stalled in his head, sputtering to a stop because this did not make sense. What the fuck did she think she was doing here? Calling her dead had been an unearned grace, for all of them - him, her, her surviving family. Surely the understanding of that had been that she would be consigned to staying out of sight? Surely she had not merely run home, and the Dippets had decided to take her in? Surely she did not think she had any right to be here, after what she had done?
Perhaps she had gotten tired of her new life, he considered bitterly, once she’d gone. In his head, she regretted it. In his head, she had regretted it since the moment she left, but she was just too stubborn to come back and have to say it. He’d clung, ludicrously, to this idea for years - perhaps because he still didn’t know what, exactly, had gone so wrong. But that, none of that, meant he ever wanted to see her again.
And not bloody here, where she could so easily screw him over yet again.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to his current company, thoughtlessly. She had seen that he had seen her, that much he didn’t doubt. Whether, from that distance, she had caught the flashes in his face - the dazed shock in his eyes, the disconcerted twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a smile dissolving - Max couldn’t say.
Still - regardless - he was not going to grant her the satisfaction of seeing how off-guard she had caught him, of betraying anything more. So, deliberately, he turned away.
