Chapter Five
By the third day, Lady Wayworth had run out of patience.
"You will come downstairs for tea," she announced, sweeping into Vanessa's room with the inexorable force of a natural disaster. "You have been hiding up here for three days, and I will not have it. People are beginning to talk."
"Let them talk."
"Vanessa Eleanor Wayworth." Her mother's voice could have frozen fire. "I do not know what has gotten into you, but you will cease this nonsense immediately. We have social obligations and appearances to maintain. We have a position in society that requires a certain standard of behavior."
"I am unwell, Mama."
"You are perfectly well. I have consulted with Dr. Hendricks, and he assures me that there is nothing physically wrong with you.
" Lady Wayworth crossed her arms, her expression brooking no argument.
"Whatever has upset you, you will simply have to overcome it.
The Wayworths do not hide in their bedrooms like frightened children. "
"I am not frightened. I am…"
"You are coming downstairs, in one hour dressed appropriately and prepared to behave like the daughter I raised.
" Her mother's gaze softened, just slightly, the steel giving way to something almost gentle.
"I am fully aware that something has transpired something has happened.
I know Bertha has done something foolish…
she has been weeping into her knitting for three days, which is a sure sign of guilt.
But whatever it is, hiding will not solve it.
You must face your troubles, Vanessa. That is what we do.
That is what Wayworths have always done. "
Vanessa wanted to argue and explain that this was different, that this was not something she could simply face.
But how could she tell her mother the truth?
By what means could she explain that her own heart’s history, penned in secret over six long years, had been surrendered to him by the hand of a meddling relative?
To a man, moreover, whose conduct toward her had never strayed beyond the bounds of cool civility?
Lady Wayworth would be horrified. Worse, she would be practical about it and smooth over any impending indiscretions and would start making contingency plans, damage control strategies, perhaps even approach Martin herself to attempt to salvage her reputation.
The thought made Vanessa want to sink through the floor.
"One hour," Lady Wayworth repeated. "I expect to see you in the drawing room, looking presentable and behaving appropriately. I trust we are in perfect agreement as to my expectations?”
"Yes, Mama."
Her mother swept out before Vanessa could say anything more, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the absolute certainty that further resistance was futile. Lady Wayworth had made up her mind, and when Lady Wayworth made up her mind, the only option was compliance.
In one hour, she would have to leave this room and pretend that everything was normal. That her world had not been shattered into a thousand pieces by a well-meaning aunt and a stack of letters that should have stayed locked away forever.
She could do this. She had been performing normalcy for six years. What was one more afternoon?
Vanessa dragged herself out of bed and crossed to her dressing table. The face that stared back at her from the mirror was pale, drawn, with shadows beneath the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. She looked, she thought, like a woman who had been through a war.
Perhaps she had.
She washed her face with cold water, pinched her cheeks to bring back some color, and began the laborious process of making herself presentable.
Her maid, sensing that this was not a day for conversation, worked in efficient silence, arranging Vanessa's hair and helping her into a dress of pale green that Lady Wayworth would find acceptable.
When she was finished, her countenance appeared remarkably composed, betraying nothing of her inner turmoil. Almost like the composed, sharp-tongued Lady Vanessa Wayworth that society expected to see. Only the shadows in her eyes betrayed the turmoil beneath.
It would have to do.
***
The drawing room was mercifully empty when Vanessa descended the stairs, her steps slow and careful, as though the floor might give way beneath her at any moment.
She had dressed in a simple day dress of pale green, nothing special and nothing that might attract attention and pinned her hair back in a style that was neat but unremarkable.
Invisibility. That was the goal now. To be so utterly forgettable that no one would think to mention her to Martin, to discuss her in his presence, to create any connection between them whatsoever.
She settled into her usual chair by the window and picked up a book she had no intention of reading. The familiar routine was soothing with the weight of the book in her hands, the afternoon light streaming through the glass and the distant sounds of the household going about its business.
Perhaps this would not be so terrible. Perhaps she could simply exist here, in this quiet room, and pretend that the outside world did not exist. She could read and embroider. She could stare out the window and contemplate the slow passage of time.
She could definitely not think about Martin Hale.
Do not think about Martin Hale.
She thought about Martin Hale.
His face swam before her mind's eye, unbidden and unwelcome. That sharp jaw, and those grey eyes. The way his mouth curved when he was about to say something cutting. The way his laugh sounded…low and warm and utterly devastating.
Stop it.
She forced her attention back to the book. The words blurred before her eyes, meaningless shapes on a page. Something about a heroine in distress. A crumbling castle and a mysterious figure in the shadows.
The front door opened.
Vanessa's head snapped up, her heart suddenly pounding. It was probably nothing…a delivery, perhaps or Edward returning from his club.
She discerned the sound of footsteps and then the soft murmur of voices… in the entrance hall.
"Thank you, Mrs. Abbott. Is Lady Wayworth at home?"
The book slipped from Vanessa's nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a thud.
That voice. She would know that voice anywhere, in any crowd, across any distance. Low and warm and carrying just the faintest edge of amusement, as though the entire world existed primarily for his entertainment.
Martin was here, in her house, and she was sitting in the drawing room with nowhere to hide.
Panic seized her, cold and immediate. She looked wildly around the room, searching for an effective plan of retreat…
The window? Too high, and she would likely break her neck.
The servants' door at the back of the room?
Too far…she would never reach it in time.
The settee? Perhaps if she crouched behind it…
No. No, that was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not a child playing hide-and-seek. She could not simply disappear behind the furniture because the man she had been writing love letters to for six years had decided to pay a social call.
Perhaps if she remained very still, he would not notice her. Perhaps she could blend into the wallpaper, become invisible through sheer force of will. Perhaps…
"His Grace, the Duke of Montehood," Mrs. Abbott announced from the doorway.
Too late.
And there he was.
Martin Hale stood in the entrance to the drawing room, looking exactly as he always looked immaculate in his afternoon clothes, his dark hair artfully disheveled, his grey eyes sweeping the room with lazy confidence.
He wore a coat of deep blue that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, a waistcoat of pale silver, cravat tied in an elaborate knot that somehow managed to look effortless.
He moved like a man who owned every space he entered, every conversation he joined, every heart he chose to claim. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It was everything she had spent six years trying not to notice.
Those grey eyes found her and held her.
And then…impossibly, incomprehensibly…he smiled.
"Little Wayworth." The nickname fell from his lips with familiar ease, carrying no hint of awkwardness or hidden meaning. "What a pleasant surprise. I had hoped to find your mother, but you are a far more agreeable sight."
Vanessa could not speak nor move. She could only stare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the mockery, the pity and the awkward acknowledgment of what he now knew.
It did not come.
"I must say, you look rather pale," Martin continued, strolling into the room as though he had every right to be there.
He moved with that easy grace that had always characterised him, utterly at home in his own skin.
"I hope you are not coming down with something.
Your mother mentioned you had been unwell. "
"I…" Her voice came out as a croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I am perfectly well. Thank you for your concern."
"Are you? You do not look perfectly well. You have turned as pale as a shroud. Pray, has some spectre crossed your path?” He settled into the chair across from her, crossing one long leg over the other with casual elegance.
"Or perhaps you are simply displeased to see me. That would be more in character."
This was wrong. This was all wrong. He should not be acting like this, relaxed, teasing and utterly normal. He should be looking at her with pity, or embarrassment, or the particular discomfort of a man who has learned something he wishes he did not know.
Unless.
Unless he had not read them.