Chapter Nineteen #2
What on earth is the man talking about? “It’s just a touch of your elbow,” Irene muttered, trying to focus her attention on the music.
That was what she had come here for, after all. Not being forced to sit beside the man she loved and had then been betrayed by. Goodness, she was going to have a talk with her mother after this.
“Ah,” came Wilfred’s awkward whisper. “I was… Well. I was apologizing for, well…the other thing.”
Irene stiffened. Oh. Well, that made far more sense. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said steadfastly in a low voice. “I’m listening to the music.”
She expected him to argue. A part of her wanted him to, Irene knew, wanted him to protest and make a declaration. It wasn’t that she would accept such a thing, obviously, but it would be nice to receive it.
Instead, Wilfred nodded sagely and turned to the musicians. “Very well.”
And then he sat there. Just sat there! The nerve of the man!
Irene quietly stewed in growing anger for at least a full minute before she snapped, “Why are you even here?”
“Shhh!”
Whoever it was who had hushed them, she did not know, but it certainly did nothing to dampen the feelings of irritation within her. The nerve of them! Did they not see that she was attempting to reconcile—
Not ‘reconcile.’ Blast it all to hell and back, but this is infuriating!
It was impossible. She had to talk to him.
Conscious of her parents’ gazes literally across the aisle of the concert, Irene turned completely in her chair to scowl at Wilfred, who had the good grace to turn red. Especially about the ears.
“Why are you refusing to talk to me?” Irene hissed irritably.
“Did you not say we ought to enjoy the music?” whispered Wilfred, not even looking at her.
Oh, the man is infuriating!
“Is that all you intend to do this evening?”
“Does there have to be anything else?”
Irene gaped at the imbecile. This wasn’t like Wilfred; Wilfred always did what she wanted.
He always obeyed, always accompanied, always helped.
He was the one who had helped her smoke her first cigar—a disgusting experience, as it happened.
He was the one who had covered for her when she had been late home that warm summer day three years ago.
He was always there, always obliging, always… Wilfred.
She narrowed her eyes. “And you did not know my mother was up to one of her schemes?”
“Not in the slightest,” came his calm reply.
And there was no hesitation. Irene paused, just for a moment, and surveyed his face, looking for falsehood, and saw…
Wilfred. Handsome, and silent, with that strong jaw and those blue eyes. Wilfred, a man whom she could paint by heart if she had any skill with the brush at all. Wilfred, her better self. Wilfred, a man who had captured her soul and she had not even known it.
A desperate need to be close to him overpowered Irene, just for a moment. She managed to hold it at bay, but the sudden thrum of need had rocked her, moving her closer to him.
“I promise you,” Wilfred said quietly, as though utterly unaware of the most inconvenient emotions pulsing through her, “I had no idea your mother planned to seat us together.”
The two of them, in perfect synchronized motion, looked to their right. There were Irene’s parents, and she saw with a roll of her eyes that they had both been staring at them. The Viscount and Viscountess Pernrith hurriedly turned their attention to the musicians.
Irene sighed. “Honestly.”
When she turned back to Wilfred, there was a tweak of a smile in the corner of his lips. It disappeared immediately.
She drew her hands together in her lap and fiddled with her fan as the beautiful music of Mozart flowed over them.
This was intolerable, being this close to him and unable to speak. Not that she had anything to say!
“There really is nothing between Miss Fletcher and myself, you know,” Wilfred said in a low voice.
“And there never will be. I will tell you the truth finally: I paid her to accompany me on that walk, solely to make you jealous. It was just the one time. If you want to know why that resulted in some gossip in the paper, well, speak to your brother about it.”
“Hush there!”
“There is only one person for me,” he continued, utterly ignoring the shushing man, “and that is you. And you don’t have to do anything about it. I just thought…you should know.”
Irene swallowed, filing the remark about her brother away for later.
There was such heart in his tones, such affection.
It was the Wilfred she knew, and yet in a way, she was still acclimatizing herself to this new Wilfred: a Wilfred who loved her and whom she loved.
It was disorientating. He was the ground upon which she stood and now he had moved, and she was shaken.
But she was still standing.
Irene chanced a glance at his hands. Wilfred had carefully placed them upon his knees. Why, his right hand and her left were only inches apart. If she just moved…
But she couldn’t. Not after getting so angry. Not after shouting such things. Not after—
Wilfred moved his right hand and interlaced his fingers with her left.
And love, passionate and affectionate love, poured through her.
Oh, this man. He did not need words. He did not need to say anything. Oh, his apology had been pleasant enough, and it was a relief, indeed, to hear that there was nothing between Miss Fletcher and himself.
But it was the action that mattered. Wilfred had known, somehow, that she needed to feel him, hold him, know his touch. And Irene had not been brave enough to instigate it.
She didn’t need to be. She had Wilfred for that.
“I’m sorry—” she started.
“I apologize for—”
“Will you two be quiet!”
Irene could not help but laugh, the nervousness and irritation melting away through the motion, at the sight of the fuming woman with piles of gray hair balancing awkwardly atop her head who had once again turned around to berate them. “I do apologize, I—”
“If you would rather chatter on,” declared the woman loudly, causing heads to turn all across the concert hall, “than listen to this wonderful music, I suggest you leave!”
“Ahem! Madam!” This was the conductor as the music went quiet, a few straggling instruments fading off into nothing. He had apparently not heard a peep from Irene and Wilfred…but had certainly been interrupted by the hushing woman.
Irene tried not to giggle as the woman, flushing furiously, settled down in her seat and whispers flowed through the room.
“Well,” said Wilfred lightly, squeezing her hand. “Shall we go?”
The pair of them rose together, Irene attempting to ignore the beaming smiles from both her parents as they did so.
There was nothing so infuriating as pleasing one’s parents.
Their footfalls echoed in the concert hall, but Irene could think of nothing but the gentleman currently holding her hand. There was nothing shameful in it, and Wilfred clearly was proud to stride out of the place with his fingers interlocked with her own.
Irene could have burst to see it. She may not have been perfect—maybe—but Wilfred adored her regardless.
As they stepped out into the atrium, she found she was breathless.
Had they really walked, almost run out of there?
She checked over her shoulder. Her parents ought to have followed them, she knew, but everyone was so distracted by the commotion at the concert, she wondered if anyone had even noticed.
Not that she actually thought her cheekily meddlesome mother would interrupt this moment.
Not after what she’d learned about her parents’ own history. She shivered.
They halted, and Wilfred looked instinctively at Irene. “Do you wish to return home?”
‘Home’? Return home—how could she return home when he was standing right before her?
Reaching forward, she splayed her free hand against him. His pulse was racing. “I am home.”
Wilfred emitted some sort of growl that was certainly not a sound Irene had ever heard from him before, and she yelped as he yanked her suddenly toward a door.
“Wilfred?”
He ignored her unspoken question and pulled her through the door, into a corridor. They were definitely not supposed to be there.
“Wilfred, what are you—”
“In here,” Wilfred said in a gruff voice, opening a door with his free hand.
Irene blinked about them, bewildered, as Wilfred shut the door behind them.
They were standing in… Well, it could only be a practice room, or a storeroom, or some sort.
There was a large grand pianoforte there, though it was covered with a large cloth, plenty of music stands, some chairs, what might have been a broken violin—
“Reeny,” said Wilfred in a jagged voice.
She turned her attention back to him and found, for the rest time in her life, that she really did not mind the name from his lips. Her own curled into a smile. “Wilfred.”
“I do hope you can forgive me for—”
Irene did not permit him to repeat the same apology—not after she had already forgiven him. Besides, she had missed kissing him, missed his touch, his taste, the way his hands seemed to know precisely what it was she wanted, needed from him.
And just as he had almost never done in their entire lives, Wilfred did not disappoint. He groaned, curling a fist into her hair to bring her closer, his other hand making straight for her buttocks.
“Wilfred!”
“Tell me to stop if you want,” he growled, pressing kisses down her neck. “I dare you.”
Irene did not dare. Not while such dark and delicious sensations were cascading through her. “I—I never thought you had it in you!”
Wilfred pulled back, just for a moment, and there was a hint of worry in his eyes. “I’ve—I’ve held back for so long. Only you make me feel like this, Irene, but if you want me to stop, I can—”
“Go back to growling,” Irene ordered with a thrill of delight as Wilfred gave her a wicked grin. “And keep on kissing me.”