Chapter Twenty Four
The street below Caraney House’s parlour window bustled, the bright sun bouncing off the tall hats and parasols of the passersby. From here, Eleanor could see the approach to Caraney House in either direction, though the crowded pavement made it so it was difficult to discern one body from another.
Pulling her watch from her pocket, she checked it for the hundredth time.
Benedict was not late. There was still four minutes until he could be considered such, fifteen minutes after the time she’d given to meet her.
He had responded to her message, had said he would be here, so she knew he would come.
It was only she’d been here for almost an hour now, nerves forcing her from her home and to Caraney House well before she should have come.
She still had her key and she’d let herself in, and as she’d made her way through the silent halls, memories had flooded her.
The first night they’d came, his hand strong and reassuring in hers.
The time they had played vingt-et-un where each time they’d lost a hand, they’d removed an article of clothing.
Lying together tangled in the bedsheets he had confessed he’d learned to make, tracing the pattern the sunlight dappled on his skin, his fingers playing with her hair.
Eyes burning, Eleanor shook herself of the memories.
After being unable to find him at the ball last evening, she’d sent him a message as soon as it was permissible to do so.
It had been an agony to await his response, and when it had finally come, the relief she’d felt had been staggering.
However, the short tone of the note had set anxiety swirling within her once more, and though he’d agreed to meet her, she had no clue if he welcomed it or was merely humouring her.
Caraney House was where she’d settled on for their meet, the place where she and Benedict had become more than friends, where they had loved each other, though she hadn’t known it at the time.
This place was where she wanted to tell him that she did.
Where she hoped he would welcome the news and perhaps even respond in kind.
Dear lord, she hoped he responded in kind.
Any certainty she’d had after speaking with Lady C had fled in the time between then and now, impetus fading and doubt creeping in.
It was not that she thought he would be unkind—Benedict would never be such—but perhaps he did not feel as she did.
Perhaps it had been friendship and lust and nothing more, and he’d needed time to put aside the lust and remember the friendship.
Perhaps she would confess her love and he would be kind, gentle as he told her he loved her but only as a friend.
It could be her heart would be broken in a matter of moments.
Or perhaps he might yet be angry. It might be she had destroyed whatever emotion he’d felt.
It might be he truly only wanted to be friends.
Or it might be she had destroyed everything, and they would not even be that.
She lifted her chin. It did not matter how he might respond, or what could happen. She would not sway from this course. She would tell him how she felt, whatever his response. He deserved to know how very much he was loved. By her.
The stillness of the house was now deafening instead of comforting.
The house was so very barren without him.
She checked her watch again. Her heart sank.
Fifteen minutes after the time she had asked to meet.
He was late, however there were a hundred reasons he could be late.
Perhaps he was delayed. Perhaps he had encountered too-crowded streets, adding minutes to his travel.
Perhaps he would not come.
Bursting into motion, she paced the room. She refused to think such. He would not abandon her. He would come. She knew he would.
The sound of the heavy entrance door opening echoed throughout the house. She whipped around, her heart thundering. Booted footsteps struck the floorboards sharply as they approached, ricocheting through the halls.
Frozen in the middle of the parlour, Eleanor stared at the door. Her chest grew tighter with every step, and she hadn’t even realised she’d held her breath until he entered the room.
Benedict had come.
The sight of him almost hurt, emotion swelling almost too big for her body to contain. “Benedict,” she breathed.
Upon seeing her, something lit his blue eyes a moment before disappearing, the lips she had kissed more times than she could count a thin line.
His clothing was more sombre than any she’d ever seen and he looked tired and pale, as if he had not slept well.
Eyes hard, he said stiffly, “I have come as you requested.”
At his cold tone, her courage failed. She’d practiced over and again what to say to him but now that he was here, now that he stood before with that cold expression, she could not think of a single word. “Where were you last night?” she blurted.
His brows shot up. “Pardon?”
“You were at the ball and then you were not. Where did you go? I wished to speak with you.”
His eyes, if it were possible, shuttered further. “Am I at the whims of your wants?”
That was not what she meant. Not at all. This was not going at all how she imagined. “I did not mean that, I—”
“I am allowed to leave a ball, El.”
Hope lit a flame in her breast. He yet called her El. “I apologise, Benedict, that was not how I wished to begin our conversation.”
His expression did not change. “Then how did you wish to begin it?”
She…could not remember. She had never before been lost for words with him, never.
Silence grew between them, a strange cavernous echo in the house where once their laughter had rung. This was awful. It had never been like this between them before. had been ease and comfort and…she hated this. How could it be there was such discord, such discontent, between them?
The light in his eyes, the one she hadn’t even realised was still there, died. “If you have nothing, I shall—”
No. He could not leave. “I was wrong,” she rushed to say.
He paused. Their gazes met, his impassive, hers desperate. “You were wrong?”
She nodded, and kept nodding. “You were right. You are right. I overreacted. I was also wrong about…” She swallowed. Courage, Eleanor. “Wanting more.”
His gaze flickered. “More what?”
She gestured, the words tangled inside her. “I miss you. I miss us. I miss seeing you every day and talking with you and—”
The coldness bled from him and suddenly he looked weary. “Eleanor, I promise I am working on seeing you as a friend only, but I have not yet—”
“No, I do not mean—” Frustration tore through her. Why? Why could she not just say it?
“I promise, El,” he was saying. “We will be well, but I need—”
“I love you,” she interrupted.
He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I love you,” she repeated. He had to know.
He had to know. “I love you with every part of me, and I love every part of you. I have for as long as I can remember, but I did not know. I thought it was friendship, and care, and even when we made love, I still did not know, but it has always been love. I have always loved you. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I made you believe I did not and I do. I do, Benedict.” She dashed at the wet on her cheek. “I love you.”
He stared at her.
She could not read his expression. Was he pleased by what she had said?
Embarrassed? Disgusted? Did he hate her forever?
“Do you think you might forgive me? I know I said everything wrong, and I know you may not want what I do, but I had to tell you. Lady C said that perhaps you might feel as I do, and I hope you do, however—” The breath she took trembled. “Do you think you might love me, too?”
Still he stared, his expression blank.
Oh.
Pain sliced through her. She was too late. She was too late, and it was all her fault. “I apologise, I did not mean to disconcert you. I—”
In two strides, he was before her and, throat working, blue eyes burned into hers. She stared up at him, her heart in her throat.
Pulling her to him, he captured her lips with his.
He kissed her deeply, passionately, wildly, and in his taste was hope and love and tears. They might have been hers, or perhaps they were his. His thumbs stroked her cheeks and she curled her fingers around his wrist, trying to show him through her kiss how very much she loved him.
Pulling back, he touched forehead to hers. “Say it again,” he pleaded hoarsely.
“I love you.” she whispered.
A shudder rushed through his body. “God, El. I love you. I love you so much.”
Relief and joy overwhelmed her. She pressed her face into his neck, inhaling the scent that was ever only him. His lips whispered over her temple, her cheek, his arms wrapped around her holding her tight.
Taking a breath, she said the words that terrified her into his neck. “Benedict, will you marry me?”
His arms tensed around her.
She avoided his gaze, keeping her eyes lowered to the hollow of his throat.
Gentle fingers lifted her chin. “El?”
She could not avoid his gaze. Not now.
Warm blue met her eyes, holding concern and care and love. So much love.
“I want to marry you,” she said in a rush. “I do. I want to be yours. I want to wake in the morning with you, end my days with you. I do not think I will ever be happy without you.” She lifted her chin. “I will not let fear rob me of you.”
Gaze still holding hers, he smoothed her hair from her face. “We are not your mother and father.”
“I know.” She did. She did know.