Chapter One #4
"I always prepare for battle when I am in your company. It seems the wisest course."
"Wise, perhaps. But rather exhausting, do you not agree? We could declare a truce for the duration of the dance. A temporary cessation of hostilities."
"And what would that accomplish?"
"I might learn what you were discussing so intently with Deane. You might discover that I am capable of conversation without mockery." His hand shifted almost imperceptibly at her waist, drawing her a fraction closer. "We might both discover something unexpected."
She tried to remain composed, though…
"Lord Deane has asked permission to call on me and I have graciously agreed.”
A change of expression flickered across Martin’s countenance, it was so fleeting that she was half-inclined to believe it a mere trick of her own imagination.
"Has he indeed. How industrious of him."
"You disapprove?"
"I have no opinion on the matter."
"You have an opinion on everything. It is one of your more tiresome qualities."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Very well.
If you insist on my opinion; Deane is steady, reliable, and utterly predictable.
He will give you a comfortable life and comfortable children and a comfortable seat in the country where you may be comfortably bored for the rest of your comfortable existence. "
"That sounds rather pleasant, actually."
"Does it?" He guided her through a turn, his movements so assured that she followed without thought.
"You forget, little Wayworth, that I have known you since you were sixteen.
I have watched you argue politics with earls and debate philosophy with bishops.
I have seen you charm entire rooms with nothing but wit and nerve.
You are many things, but you are not a woman built for comfort. "
Her breath caught. He was too close…close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes, could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker beneath it. Close enough that every nerve in her body was acutely, painfully aware of him.
"You presume to know what I want," she managed.
"I presume nothing. I merely observe." His thumb moved against her waist, just once, a brush so light it might have been accidental. "You deserve someone who matches you. Someone who challenges you, infuriates you, makes you feel something other than comfortable contentment."
"Someone like you, I suppose?"
The words escaped before she could stop them, sharp and bitter and far too revealing. She observed a sudden fracture in his composure…a momentary agitation that disturbed his features before he regained his accustomed reserve.
"I am no one's idea of a suitable match," he said quietly. "Least of all yours."
"Martin…"
"Edward would end my life," he continued, as though she had not spoken. "And he would be right to do so. You are his sister. His little sister…and I am..." He shook his head slightly. "I am not the man I ought to be."
She did not understand, she was at a complete loss to understand any of this, not the strange tension in his voice, not the way his hand had tightened at her waist, not the expression in his eyes that looked nothing like the careless arrogance she had come to expect.
"You are speaking in riddles."
"Am I?" The mask slid back into place, the familiar smirk returning like armor donned for battle. "Forgive me. I must have had too much champagne. Pray, think no more of it. I spoke with more haste than reflection.”
"I cannot simply forget…"
"The dance is ending." He released her, stepping back to a proper distance so abruptly that she stumbled slightly. "Thank you for the waltz, Lady Vanessa. It was... illuminating."
He bowed and she curtsied…and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd before she could formulate a response, leaving her standing alone on the dance floor with her heart pounding and her mind in chaos.
What had just happened? What had any of that meant? For a very brief moment, she had glimpsed something beneath the surface. Something that suggested Martin Hale might not be quite as indifferent to her as she had always believed.
But that was impossible and merely the wishful thinking of a foolish girl who had spent six years nurturing feelings that would never be returned.
"Vanessa?" Helena appeared at her side, her expression concerned. "You look rather pale. Has something unpleasant transpired?”
“No…not at all,” She answered as calmly as she could.
"I am in need of air. Will you accompany me to the terrace?"
The terrace was blissfully cool after the heat of the ballroom, with the night air carrying the scent of her mother's roses. Vanessa gripped the stone balustrade and breathed deeply, willing her racing heart to slow.
“Would it afford you any relief to speak of what has passed?” Helena asked gently.
"There is nothing to discuss. I danced with the Duke of Montehood. It was precisely as insufferable as every other dance I have shared with him."
"Was it?"
"Yes." No. She did not know. "He said things. Confusing things. Things that almost sounded like…" She stopped, unable to complete the thought.
"Like what?"
Like he wanted me. Like he saw me as something more than Edward's little sister. Like beneath all that arrogance and mockery, there was something real.
"Nothing," she said firmly. "It was nothing. He had too much champagne and was amusing himself at my expense, as he always does. How vastly absurd of me to have fancied there was any deeper meaning.”
Helena was quiet for a long moment and then asked gently "Are you quite certain?"
"I am certain of nothing where Martin Hale is concerned. I have never been certain of anything. That is precisely the problem."
They stood in silence, watching the stars emerge one by one. Inside, the ball continued with music and laughter and the endless swirl of society. Out here, there was only the quiet of the garden and the weight of questions Vanessa did not know how to answer.
"Lord Deane seems very attentive," Helena offered finally. "He would make a good husband."
"Yes. He would."
"But?"
Vanessa closed her eyes. "But he is not…" She stopped herself. “It is of no consequence, I assure you." Lord Deane is kind and steady and everything I should want. I would be a fool to refuse him simply because he does not make my heart race or my temper flare."
"Would you?"
"Helena." Vanessa turned to face her friend. "Please. I am weary of these veiled inquiries. Pray, lay aside this mystery and speak your mind plainly, if you please.”
Helena hesitated, then spoke with uncharacteristic directness.
“Very well then…it is my belief that the Duke of Montehood possesses your heart, and has done so for an age,’
“You are using Lord Deane as your sanctuary, I fear…a means to guard yourself against feelings you dare not acknowledge even to your own soul.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable.
"That is absurd," Vanessa said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Is it?" Helena's gaze was gentle but unflinching.
"You speak of Lord Montehood more than any other man of your acquaintance.
You claim to find him insufferable, yet you dance with him at every opportunity.
You watch him across crowded rooms when you think no one is looking.
And just now, on the terrace, you looked as though someone had handed you everything you ever wanted and then snatched it away. "
Vanessa's throat tightened. "Even if what you say is true and I am not admitting that it is, it changes nothing. Martin sees me as Edward's little sister. A child to be teased and tolerated. Nothing more."
"Are you certain of that?"
"I…" She faltered. An hour ago, she would have said yes without hesitation. But now, after that dance, after those strange, weighted words about not being the man he ought to be... "I do not know."
"Then perhaps," Helena said softly, "you should find out before you commit yourself to a man you do not hold affections for.”
The advice was altogether judicious most sensible recommendation, based upon reason rather than whim .The sort of advice Vanessa would have given anyone else in her situation.
But finding out required courage, the courage to ask questions that might have devastating answers, to risk rejection from a man who had never shown her anything but casual affection.
It required hope, and hope was a dangerous thing.
Hope had kept her awake at night for six years, had made her write letter after letter to a man who would never read them, had turned her into someone she barely recognized.
"I should go back inside," she said finally. "Mama will be wondering where I am."
Helena nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Of course. I shall be along in a moment."
Vanessa slipped back into the ballroom, leaving her friend to the quiet of the terrace.
She did not look for Martin in the crowd.
She did not seek out Edward or her mother or Lord Deane.
She simply moved through the glittering masses like a ghost, smiling when required, making conversation when necessary and counting the minutes until she could escape.
The ball ended, eventually, as all balls must. The guests departed in a flutter of goodbyes and promises to call. The servants began the work of restoring the house to order. Lady Wayworth declared the evening a tremendous success and retired to her chambers with a satisfied air.
And Vanessa, finally alone, climbed the stairs to her own room with Helena's words echoing in her mind.
It is my belief that the Duke of Montehood possesses your heart, and has done so for an age…
She closed her door and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her eyes. The evening played behind her lids in fragments: Martin's hand on her waist, his eyes in the candlelight, his voice saying I am not the man I ought to be.
What did it mean? What did any of it mean?
She crossed to her writing desk without conscious decision, her fingers finding the small key she wore on a ribbon around her neck.
The writing box unlocked with a familiar click, revealing the stack of letters within…
six years of letters, neatly tied with faded blue ribbon.
Six years of words she had never intended anyone to read.
She drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill in ink.
Dear Martin, she wrote, as she always did.
I despise you. I despise the way you looked at me tonight, as though you could see through every defense I have carefully constructed.
I despise the way you held me during that waltz, so correctly, so properly, and yet somehow it was the most intimate experience of my entire evening.
I despise the way you spoke of Lord Deane, steady, reliable, comfortable…
as though comfort were something shameful, as though wanting a life without constant turmoil made me somehow less.
But mostly, I despise what you said at the end. About not being the man you ought to be. About Edward ending your life. About being unsuitable.
What did you mean? What did any of it mean? For one moment, I thought…but no. I will not write it. To write it would be to make it real, and I have spent six years learning that hope is a dangerous indulgence where you are concerned.
Lord Deane is calling on Tuesday. He is everything you said: steady and reliable and safe.
He will never make me feel as though my heart is attempting to escape my chest. He will never look at me as though I am a puzzle he cannot solve.
He will never call me "little Wayworth" in that tone that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and strike him with the nearest heavy object.
Perhaps that is what I need. Perhaps I have spent too long wanting someone impossible and should learn to content myself with someone possible instead.
And yet.
You held me tonight. Your hand was at my waist, and for one moment…one breathless, terrifying moment…I thought you might say something. Something real. Something that would change everything.
But you didn't. You never do. You retreat behind that smirk and those clever words, and I am left to wonder what is real and what is merely the champagne talking.
Helena says I hold you in my affection. She says I have held you in affection for years, and that I am using Lord Deane as a shield against feelings I do not wish to examine.
She is right, of course. She is always right. But what am I to do with this knowledge? Pine away in silence forever? Throw myself at your feet and declare my feelings, only to watch you laugh and call me Edward's little sister once more?
I am tired, Martin. Tired of wanting someone who sees me as nothing more than his friend's little sister. Tired of analysing every glance, every word and every accidental touch for meaning that probably does not exist. Tired of writing letters I will never send to a man who will never read them.
Perhaps Lord Deane is exactly what I need. Perhaps comfort is not such a terrible thing after all.
Or perhaps I am lying to myself. I seem to do that rather often, where you are concerned.
Yours (though you will never know it),
Vanessa
She set down the quill and waited for the ink to dry. Then, as she had done hundreds of times before, she folded the letter carefully, added it to the stack, and locked the box.
Tomorrow, she would be composed and appropriate, the perfect Lady Vanessa Wayworth. Tomorrow, she would smile at Lord Deane's compliments and pretend that her heart did not lurch every time Martin entered a room. Tomorrow, she would continue the performance she had perfected over six long years.
But tonight, in the quiet of her chambers, she allowed herself one moment of weakness. One moment to trace her fingers over the locked box that held every foolish, hopeless word she had ever written to the man who would never read them.
Dear Martin.
Always Martin. Never anything else. Never anyone else.
She blew out the candle and went to bed, where she dreamed of grey eyes and the ghost of a hand at her waist, and woke with the taste of longing on her tongue.