5: The Truce Agreed

She suspects it's only because he is, at heart, a very honourable man, that Boyd keeps his promise. But keep it he does. It takes Grace a long, long time to fall asleep, and when she finally does, she sleeps fitfully, every tiny background noise disturbing her. The dark hours slowly bleed away, though, and the sun inexorably starts to rise in the city sky. When she wakes she's momentarily disorientated, but it only takes a moment for mortifying memories of the previous night to coming flooding back. It's Saturday morning, she's alone in a stupidly expensive London hotel room, and just a few hours ago she made a dramatic and potentially life-changing confession that she'd categorically rather not think about. Though, of course, it's all she can think about. The die is assuredly cast, however. There's nothing she can do now except wait. Grace thinks she will give him an hour, maybe two. And then she will leave the hotel, calmly and quietly, and at least everything between them will finally be clear.

Though she is restless and very far from calm she forces herself to take a long, luxurious bath in the large, extravagant bathroom. She eyes herself derisively in the mirror as she carefully applies her make-up, displeased by the unwelcome truth she sees reflected there. Bombarded on every side by the images and expectations of a society compulsively obsessed with the beauty and perfection of youth it's not easy to accept that perhaps, just perhaps, the heady joys of love and romance are not as far behind her as she previously imagined. Trying to ignore the gathering gloom, she eventually gets dressed in the clothes Eve has thoughtfully provided. She's just carefully packing away her dark blue evening dress from the night before when there's a diffident tap on the door. It surprises her that the knock is so discreet, but all becomes clear when a young and unfamiliar male voice announces, "Room service."

Not Boyd, then. Time's running out. She's not going to be made a fool of. By anyone. Rather too sharply, Grace responds, "Come in."

No need to move to unlock the door – the hotel staff all have their own pass cards, naturally. A slim young man in a pristine uniform steps into the room, pushing a large trolley that appears to be loaded with everything anyone could ever possibly want or need for breakfast. Grace frowns at the extravagant sight, says, "I didn't order breakfast."

"The gentleman in two-two-five requested it, Madam," the young man tells her.

Well, of course he did. Last night, presumably, before everything changed. Somehow Grace manages a polite smile. "I'm afraid my plans have altered somewhat since last night."

The man looks faintly puzzled. "But I spoke to the gentleman myself, Madam, just half an hour ago. He was quite specific."

"Quite specific," a much deeper male voice agrees.

Boyd is standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. He's dressed in a pale shirt and a dark blazer, and his hands are buried deep in the pockets of well-cut cavalry twill trousers. A very handsome, very dapper study in complete, easy insouciance; perfectly suited to their elegant surroundings. He nods to the younger man. "Thank you."

The man retreats, tip safely procured, quietly closing the door behind him.

Not yet sure what she's going to say, what there actually is that she can say, Grace starts, "Boyd – "

"Breakfast first," he announces gruffly, and it seems he isn't joking. He's well-known as a man with a healthy appetite and there's very little he won't summarily demolish in very short order, despite grumbled complaints when things aren't quite to his taste. Knowing him as well as she does, Grace has always suspected he burns most of it off in nervous energy alone. But his obvious appetite this morning is a good sign. A very good sign, in fact, so Grace cautiously acquiesces and they eat together at the little table by the window, looking out at Park Lane and at Hyde Park stretching beyond it. The underlying tension between them is tangible, but it's far more anticipatory than antagonistic and they are both ostentatiously courteous as they attempt to hold a banal, stilted conversation about utterly pointless things. No reference is made to any part of the preceding night by either of them. Taboo subject. For now.

Boyd is on his second cup of coffee before he finally says, "Come on, then; let's get it over with."

Surprised by his directness, Grace raises her eyebrows at him. "What?"

His ghost of a smile is equable and more than a little rueful. "The ritual humiliation of the apologetic and rather sheepish idiot you see before you."

"Masochism, Boyd?" Grace asks him, automatically gauging his mood before falling back on banter. It's the best safety net they've ever had, after all.

"It's not terribly high on my list of guilty pleasures, to be honest."

Deliberately arch, despite the risk, she asks, "Oh? Would you like to tell me more about this list of yours?"

"Absolutely not," Boyd tells her firmly, and she's almost sure she sees a brief but very wicked glint in his eyes. Straight-faced, he continues, "Some things are far better demonstrated than described, Grace."

For a moment Grace feels as if she's stepped back several years in time. Past the bad times and back to the days when flirtation was a relentless daily bloodsport between them. A dangerous but exciting game that they quite evidently both thoroughly enjoyed. A game that somehow just gradually faded away until it disappeared altogether as the good-natured bickering turned sour and the endless daily spats became openly spiteful fights. But now is not the time to be thinking of those bleak days, not with the promise of something new and much more fulfilling on the horizon. Firmly back in the present, she can't quite stop herself saying mischievously, "Oh?"

To her surprise, Boyd doesn't go straight for the jugular, doesn't capitalise on the deliberate opening she's given him. He simply smiles the artless, gentle smile that's become so very rare in the last few years. It's an extraordinary smile, one she's never quite been able to resist. A smile that completely changes the sombre character of his features and easily reaches his dark eyes, making them far softer than seems possible. Defences clearly deliberately lowered, he suggests, "Truce?"

"Truce," Grace agrees without a single qualm. "But you're still an idiot."

"Maybe so," he says steadily, "but I'm not the only one, am I? And you have even less excuse than I do."

Which – embarrassingly – is almost certainly true. But she's not going to let the mild accusation pass unchallenged. "Why? Because you're a man and you think that gives you some kind of genetic right to be obtuse?"

"No," Boyd counters with an infuriating touch of complacency, "because you're a bloody psychologist, Grace. And for all your brains and all your much-vaunted intuition and empathy, you still somehow completely failed to realise that – "

Grace quickly holds up her hands in surrender. "All right, all right. You don't have to enjoy it quite so much, Boyd."

"Oh, I think I do," he says, lazily triumphant.

She refuses to rise to it. Some things never change, and she's fairly sure that the day will never dawn when they don't deliberately needle each other for the pure contrary fun of it. It's just the way they are; he is abrasive and she is sharp. There will always be sparks. He's watching her unusually intently, Grace realises, as if he is waiting for some kind of clear signal from her. Not sure what to say, she tentatively asks, "So… what do you suggest we do now?"

It seems to be enough in the way of encouragement because in return Boyd sighs in a deliberately overdramatic way. "You really are far too fond of unnecessary discussion, Grace. We're in a top-notch hotel, it's Saturday morning and we've finally managed to establish beyond any reasonable doubt that we're madly in love with each other…"

"Are we?" Grace says, amused by his obviously quite deliberate choice of words, but she imagines they both know it's an entirely rhetorical question. Her heart seems to be beating a little too fast, but she rather likes the sensation. Reminds her that she's still alive.

He shrugs. "Well, we're definitely in a hotel and it's definitely Saturday."

The relaxed nonchalance is beautifully played, but she can see the truth in his eyes. Beneath the façade, Boyd is very serious, and she guesses his night was every bit as restless as hers. There's no doubt in her mind that he hasn't given the whole difficult, delicate matter considerable thought. Grace has a brief sense of standing on the dangerous edge of a sweeping precipice before she solemnly offers, "Hat-trick? Three out of three?"

"No question," Boyd agrees, and she knows the moment he gets to his feet that he's going to kiss her. And that she's going to kiss him back with a force and a passion that will undoubtedly surprise him, at least for a moment. Grace isn't really aware of getting up herself, but suddenly there's hardly any space between them, and she's forced to look up just to maintain eye-contact. At such close quarters it's impossible for her not to be keenly aware of just how tall he is, how much bigger than her he is. The frisson of undeniably sensual excitement that runs up and down her spine is suddenly and completely eclipsed by the wonderful and oft-imagined sensation of his hands on her waist and his lips gently finding hers.

In the end, it's all astonishingly easy. If anything at all about it surprises Grace, it's the fact that he's not just gentle, but a gentleman. And somehow it's far more thrilling and far more erotic not to instantly take the most inevitable road, not to plunge straight into a predictable maelstrom of animal heat and desire. The resulting edge of frustration is keen, and she has no doubt Boyd feels it just as painfully as she does, probably more so, but it's a deliberate edge, one of keen anticipation, delicious in its subtle connotations, and she's never been more surprised – or more wildly excited – to find herself not recklessly jumping straight into bed with a man who quite evidently wants her far more than is probably good for either of them.

-oOo-

cont...