Chapter 26
“Martin, this is quite unnecessary,” Diana said, though her voice lacked its usual firmness, softened by the exhaustion still clinging to her bones as she sat opposite him in the enclosed intimacy of the carriage. “I agreed to air, not to be fussed over as though I were made of glass.”
“You are not made of glass,” he replied at once, his tone warm, coaxing, as he shifted closer along the seat, closing the small distance between them. “But you are unwell, whether you choose to admit it or not, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise.”
The carriage swayed gently, the world outside reduced to blurred movement through the small window, and Diana became too aware of how close he now sat. His knee brushed the edge of her skirts. His shoulder nearly touched hers. It should not have felt so enclosing, and yet it did.
“I am not accustomed to being managed,” she said, attempting lightness, though something uneasy had begun to stir beneath it, a quiet thread of discomfort she could not yet fully name.
Martin’s gaze softened further, though there was something in it now that lingered too long, something more intent than she had ever noticed before.
“No,” he murmured, “you are accustomed to enduring.”
The words slipped into her with dangerous ease.
Before she could respond, before she could decide whether she resented or welcomed that understanding, his hand reached for hers.
It was a familiar gesture.
His fingers closed around her hand, his thumb brushing over it in slow, absent circles as though soothing her. But something felt different.
Diana stilled.
The carriage seemed to tilt again, though the motion had not changed.
“Martin,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to where his hand held hers, “that is quite enough.”
He did not release her at once. Instead, his fingers tightened slightly, as though testing whether she would pull away.
“You are trembling,” he said, his voice lower now, stripped of its easy brightness. “You should not be alone in that house, not when he has treated you so—”
“I am not alone,” she cut in, though the words rang hollow even to her own ears. “And I do not require—”
His other hand came up then, touching her arm, just above the elbow.
The contact was light, but Diana felt it immediately. A sharp, instinctive recoil moved through her before her mind could catch up. Her body knew before she allowed herself to understand.
“Martin,” she said again, this time more firmly, “you must not—”
“Why not?” The question came too quickly.
His hand did not move away. Instead, it slid, almost imperceptibly, along the fabric of her sleeve, the touch lingering, pressing in a way that no longer resembled comfort at all.
Diana’s breath caught.
“Why not?” he repeated, his voice sharpening at the edges, the warmth turning into something tighter, something far less patient. “Why should you sit there and pretend that you are untouched by all of this? That you are content to waste yourself on a man who has never known how to value you?”
Her head snapped up as the words struck her like cold water.
“What are you saying?” she asked, her voice quiet but edged now, her fingers finally pulling against his grip.
This time, he did not resist when she withdrew her hand but didn’t move away either. Instead, he leaned back slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her pulse begin to quicken for entirely different reasons than before.
“I am saying,” he began slowly, “that I have watched you suffer for far too long, Diana. I have watched you bind yourself to a man who has done nothing but wound you, who has left you, humiliated you, and now returns only to tear you apart once more—”
“That is not your concern,” she said sharply.
“Is it not?” His gaze darkened. “You believe it is not my concern?”
“Yes,” she said, her spine straightening, her composure gathering itself piece by piece. “It is not.”
Silence fell.
For a moment, neither of them moved, and Diana became acutely aware of the space between them, of the enclosed walls, of the steady, unbroken motion carrying them farther and farther from the house she had so desperately wished to escape only moments ago.
Something in her chest tightened.
“Martin,” she said more carefully now, “what is the matter with you?”
He exhaled slowly. And then, all at once, whatever restraint had been holding him in place seemed to give way.
“I love you.”
Diana stared at him. For a moment, she did not understand.
“You—” She stopped, her thoughts scrambling, her breath catching in her throat. “You cannot mean that.”
“I have always meant it.” His voice was raw, stripped of its usual lightness.
There was something exposed in it now, something that made her skin prickle with unease.
“I loved you before he ever laid eyes on you,” Martin continued, his gaze fixed on hers with unsettling intensity.
“Before your uncle decided that you were to be bartered into a title. I asked for your hand, Diana. Do you know that? I went to him like a fool, believing that affection might count for something, that years of knowing you, of caring for you, might be enough.”
Her breath faltered. “I did not know—”
“Of course you did not,” he said bitterly. “He dismissed me before you were ever told. I was not grand enough. Not powerful enough. Not worthy of you, in his eyes.”
The words poured from him now, faster, sharper.
“And then you were married off to him. To a man who did not even bother to stay. Who left you alone while the entire world whispered about you?”
Diana’s chest tightened painfully. “Martin—”
“I was there,” he pressed on, leaning forward now, his voice thick with something that bordered on anger.
“I saw what it did to you. I saw how you held yourself together, how you pretended it did not matter, how you smiled through it all while he was nowhere to be found. And I—” He broke off, his jaw tightening.
“I married Georgina because I thought it would end it. I thought I could forget you.”
The confession twisted something deep in her chest.
“Georgina is your wife,” she said quietly, trying to anchor herself in something solid, something proper. “She is kind, and she cares for you—”
“And I care for her,” he said sharply. “In the way one cares for a good, agreeable companion. But she is not you.”
Diana recoiled slightly.
“Martin, you must stop this,” she said, her voice trembling now despite her efforts to steady it. “We are friends. We have always been friends, and I—”
“You love me like a brother,” he finished, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “Yes. I know. You have always been very careful to make that clear.”
“Because it is true,” she said, more firmly now, though her heart had begun to race, as she grew more uneasy. “I care for you. I value you. But not in the way you are suggesting. And you must not speak of abandoning your wife as though it were nothing.”
His expression shifted. The bitterness deepened.
“You think I would abandon her?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” Diana said, because the alternative was worse. “You are speaking as though—”
“I would give you everything,” he cut in, his voice low, urgent now. “Everything he has never given you. You would never be alone again. You would never have to wonder whether you are wanted. I would make you the happiest woman alive, if you would only—”
“Stop.” The word came sharp now, cutting cleanly through the air between them.
Diana drew back, her hand pressing against the seat beside her as though to steady herself.
“This is not you,” she said, her voice quieter but no less firm. “You are upset. You are saying things you do not mean.”
“I mean every word.”
He moved suddenly.
His hand caught her wrist, his grip firm enough to make her gasp, and before she could pull away, he leaned in, closing the distance between them with a force that sent a sharp spike of alarm through her.
“Martin—”
“I have waited long enough,” he said, his voice rough, his breath too close, too hot against her skin. “I have watched him touch you, watched you look at him as though he were something worth loving, when he has never deserved it—”
“That is enough!” Diana snapped, wrenching her arm back with sudden force.
His grip loosened, enough for her to shove him.
The movement caught him off guard, and in that brief opening, she raised her hand and struck him across the face.
The sound cracked through the carriage.
Martin went still. Then slowly, very slowly, he turned his head back toward her, his eyes no longer warm or gentle, but darkened into something terrifying.
“You should not have done that,” he said quietly.
Diana’s breath came fast now, her pulse racing, her body coiled with instinctive alarm.
“You have lost your senses,” she said, her voice shaking despite her effort to steady it. “Stop this carriage at once.”
He did not even glance toward the door. Instead, a faint, unsettling smile touched his lips.
“You still do not understand,” he said.
A chill slid down her spine.
“What do you mean?” she asked, though something inside her had already begun to recoil from the answer.
Martin leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.
“We are not going back,” he said.
The words fell into the space between them, heavy and irreversible.
Diana’s head turned sharply toward the window.
The familiar streets were gone. The houses had thinned and open road stretched ahead. In that instant, with dreadful clarity, she understood.
Her stomach dropped.
“You—” Her voice broke. “You have taken me—”
“Yes,” Martin said softly.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“You have lost your mind,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied, his voice steady now, frighteningly calm. “I have finally chosen not to lose you.”