Chapter Twelve #2
That was… Well, it was not the response he had wanted. But then, he reminded himself, shifting nervously in his seat and feeling the ring box press against his thigh, she does not know what I’m intending, does she? She could hardly be glad about such a surprise before it was sprung.
Clearing his throat and wishing to goodness he had thought to write some of this down, he said in a low voice, “Irene—”
“Ah, there’s the conductor!” Irene craned her neck to peer at the man who had just stepped out to rapturous applause. “All the way from Vienna, I think I heard someone say.”
Wilfred blinked. Was she listening to the chatter around them, rather than him?
The conductor bowed, then tapped the music stand before him and held out his batons with a flurry that made Wilfred think he had been buffeted about by a strong wind. Then the baton swept down and the music began.
And it was good. If Wilfred had had no other ulterior motives for attending tonight’s concert, he was quite sure he would have enjoyed it immensely.
As it was…
“Irene,” Wilfred whispered, under the loud melody now being played.
“Hmmm?” His best friend leaned closer to him and he was immediately distracted by her warmth. Her scent.
Clearing his throat did nothing to allay his nerves. Which was unfortunate. Because they were now clogging up his lungs, making every inhale a challenge, suffocating him from the inside—
“Isn’t the music wonderful?” Irene exhaled, taking his hand and twining her fingers between his own.
That was when Wilfred blew out the remaining air in his lungs and realized that actually, if he never breathed again, he had probably lived a full life.
There was something truly magical, him sitting here with his hand and Irene’s hand intertwined. Something deeply elating. Something that settled his heart rate yet at the same time made his pulse flutter.
“I would not change anything about this moment,” came Irene’s soft voice under the sound of the violin. “It’s just perfect. Any change would ruin it.”
That was when Wilfred realized that he could not do it.
His free hand had been halfway through pulling the ring box from his trousers. He had wanted to show her, with something tangible she could hold, and touch, and feel, just how desperately he loved her. And now he could not.
“Any change would ruin it.”
“Just think, our friendship is perhaps unique,” Irene continued, utterly oblivious to the fact that she was slowly slicing parts of Wilfred’s spirits to shreds. “It’s… It’s precious. We have something precious, Wilfred, and I…I am sure neither of us would not wish to risk it by changing it.”
The tightness across his chest would surely let up. Wouldn’t it? Surely, Wilfred could not spend the rest of his life with this agony, this restrictive misery that threatened to suffocate him with every passing second?
“Wilfred?” Irene looked at him now, worry so evident on her face that it were as though she were screaming. “Nothing is going to change, is it? I…I wouldn’t want to lose this.”
And she squeezed his hand.
Wilfred tried to think, but his body was making demands of him he absolutely could not deliver.
Obviously, she didn’t want things to change.
The moment he opened his mouth and revealed his deep and abiding affection for her, Irene would have no choice but to pull away.
He wasn’t sure they could keep being friends, at least as they were right now.
Irene might not even want to face him, knowing that she could never love him the way he so desperately wanted her to love him.
No, it was safest, best for all of them, if he just reminded himself that what he had already was…good. Was great, even. He was in the life of the most spectacular woman he had ever met, and she enjoyed his company.
Could that ever be enough?
“Wilfred?” Irene repeated, the concern now deep in her eyes. “Wilfred?”
Wilfred cleared his throat. It sounded like he had been eating gravel. “You’re never going to lose me, Irene. Not… Not even if things change. You will always be my friend. My best friend.”
There was relief in her expression now, but it was mingled with something he did not recognize.
Irene turned back to the musicians. “Good. Right. Good.”
It did not seem that she expected a response, which was all to the good because Wilfred was not certain that he could give her one.
She did not want things to change. Well, he would have to be a gentleman and respect that. Goodness knew, the fear of losing her was one he fully understood. It was the primary reason it had taken him all these years to even conceive of speaking to her about his affections.
Wilfred placed his unencumbered hand upon the bulge in his trousers—of the ring box, naturally.
Well, he would simply have to take the ring back to the bank and resign himself to the fact that the Aynor line would die with him. It was not such a terrible thing, in the grand scheme of things. Worse things happened every day, he was sure.
And the idea that he could ever take a woman to his bed who was not Irene Chance was completely laughable.
If he was stricter about making sure she took with her a chaperone or companion, he could protect the Chance family reputation from scandal and honor her wishes to be nothing but a friend for life.
If scandal broke out because Irene would just continue to insist on being wonderful, glorious Irene and he had to marry her, well, he could promise it would be only a marriage on the surface, that she need not give him heirs, if that was more than she could ever offer him. It was better than a life without her.
“Wilfred?”
“Yes?” he said, turning to her immediately and trying not to notice how his heart constricted painfully as he did so.
Irene smiled as she squeezed his hand. “You make me happy.”
The cloud Wilfred was now sitting on was delightful. In a strange sort of fluffy haze, he listened to the rest of the Christmas concert, utterly unsure what they were playing and not paying attention closely enough to applaud at the relevant moments.
There was no point. He was sitting hand in hand with Irene Chance.
As the conductor bowed and Wilfred blinked, realizing that Irene had finally released his hand so she could applaud both the conductor and the musicians, he shook his head slightly as though ridding water from his ears and wondered where the evening had gone.
“Weren’t they marvelous?” said Irene with shining eyes. “I’m so glad we got to hear them together.”
She slipped her hand back into his immediately after finishing such a statement, which was when Wilfred realized he had to do three things.
Firstly, he had to protect the heart of Irene Chance with his life, and if that meant never breaking it by never marrying and changing the friendship that they so enjoyed, so be it. If that meant marrying her to protect her reputation and the marriage was not a real one, he’d accept that too.
Secondly, he would have to learn immense restraint to prevent himself from punching the lights out of any other gentleman who came within ten feet of her.
Thirdly, he would need to write a note to Miss Fletcher.
He had only used her services once, but he would not need them again.
This false courting nonsense… Precisely how Michael had managed to talk him into it, he did not know.
The whole idea was preposterous—and worse, if the rumor started around Bath that the Duke of Aynor was engaged to be married, Irene would be undoubtedly crushed.
He would tell the truth. One day.
And Wilfred promised himself that as they rose, the sound of chairs squeaking across the wooden floor and the murmurs of the audience filling his ears, that he would propose marriage to Irene one day.
He had to help her fall in love with him. It was as easy as that. One day, hopefully someday soon, she would wake up and realize that the affection she held for him was far more than what friendship could encapsulate.
And then he would tell her.
“Look at them.”
Wilfred looked at where his best friend was pointing, and almost recoiled.
It was a pair, a lady and a gentleman. They were walking with eyes devoted on each other without a care in the world, almost not looking where they were going.
“The younger Miss Quintrell—or at least, that was what she had been before she wed,” Irene said curiously. “How strange, to see someone so besotted. Don’t you think?”
Wilfred tried not to look at his friend, certain his gaze would feature the exact same devotion. “Hmmm.”
“I never thought marriage could look like that. At least, my parents are that devoted to each other,” Irene mused aloud. “I just… Well, to think that I could ever meet someone with such a heart full of devotion. To feel drawn to their presence continuously, to be unable to look away from them.”
“It’s what I want,” Wilfred found himself saying before he could stop himself. “It’s surely what everyone wants.”
To know that person and to be drawn to them, unable to look away—how well she’d put it. If only she could feel such a thing for him, but it could not be more clear that she did not.
“Goodness, you look pensive,” remarked Irene as they walked arm in arm out of the concert room and into the lobby, where frantic-looking footmen were attempting to reunite the guests with their outerwear. “What on earth were you thinking of?”
Wilfred would have prevented his tongue from speaking if he’d had any control whatsoever. “How beautiful you are.”
Irene’s flush was such a dark pink as he had never seen before. Unfortunately for him, it only made her more alluring. “I—what… I beg your pardon?”
Well, no use in attempting to backtrack now. “You are beautiful,” Wilfred said simply.
Perhaps she had expected more. Irene merely blinked as though dazed, even dazzled. It was no bright light shining in her eyes, but the brightness of his conviction.
“Oh,” she said blankly. “Right.”
“Your pelisse, miss,” said a footman most inexcusably coming out of nowhere. “And your gloves, and your scarf, and your—”
“Yes, thank you,” Wilfred said hastily.
It was starting to become a habit of his, using the excuse of helping Irene on with a pelisse to get close to her, and even though she had made it perfectly clear this evening that absolutely nothing was going to change between them, he could hardly resist.
The footman’s eyes widened, but he obediently handed over the lady’s accoutrements, and Irene smiled up at Wilfred as he carefully positioned her bonnet atop her head.
“There is no need for this, you know,” she said quietly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wilfred murmured, his pulse quickening as he handed over her gloves. “I like helping you.”
I like being close to you. I like the excuse to touch you, to step into your space and breathe you in.
Was what he did not say.
But it did not seem to matter. Somehow, Irene appeared to read his mind, her cheeks flushing as she carefully placed her hands into the arms of her pelisse.
Wilfred held his breath as he slowly moved the fabric up, up past her elbows, up to her shoulders, and of course he had to stand mere inches away to ensure that the pelisse sat correctly upon her frame, and it was a simple coincidence that he leaned closer and inhaled just at the same moment.
Oh, his questing fingers wanted to do so much more.
Wanted to skate up to the nape of her neck and tangle themselves in her hair.
Wanted to remove the pelisse, and the gloves, and feel the sensation of his fingers pressed up against hers.
And while there, why stop? Why not take off the bonnet, the gown, the—
“Wilfred?”
Wilfred blinked. Irene turned slowly on the spot, maintaining the closeness between them and looking up with wide eyes.
He swallowed. They were in public. They were standing in the lobby of the Assembly Rooms where absolutely anyone could see them. If anyone noticed she did not have a companion with her, that would be gossip enough. But if he kissed her?
“Thank you,” Irene said quietly, and she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed—kissed his cheek.
Wilfred attempted not to feel disappointed, even as he looked around to be sure no one noticed. Luckily, it seemed as if no one had. “Thank me? For what?”
“For such a lovely evening. For… For understanding,” Irene said, her eyes downcast now, as though she had done something scandalous. “I do hope… That is, I can’t ask you not to seek the companionship of others. But I hope you won’t forget me.”
Wilfred found his tongue frozen. Forget her? Forget Irene, the light of his life?
But then, she must have still thought he was courting Miss Fletcher, even though he had appeared just once in public with the woman.
Blast. He really hadn’t thought this through.
“Have a good evening, Wilfred. My father allowed the carriage to wait for me, so I must be off.”
And she was gone, stepping out of his arm’s reach, out of sight so swiftly, he rather wondered how she had done it.
Wilfred cleared his throat and wondered if he would ever gain equilibrium again.
One day, if he could overcome his cowardice and persuade Irene without using actual words to fall in love with him, he would ask this woman to be his wife.