Chapter Five #2
The thought struck her like lightning, sudden and blinding.
What if Aunt Bertha's letters had arrived but Martin had not opened them?
What if they were sitting in a pile of correspondence somewhere, waiting to be sorted through by a secretary or a butler?
What if…against all odds, against all probability, her prayers had been answered and her secrets remained secret?
Hope bloomed in her chest, fragile and terrifying. She tried to crush it down, hope had betrayed her too many times before, but it refused to be extinguished.
"I am not displeased to see you," she managed. "I am merely... surprised. I did not expect you to call."
"Did you not? I call on your family every Season. It would be strange if I did not." His smile widened, showing teeth. "Besides, I promised Edward I would look in on you. He mentioned you had been out of sorts, and he seemed concerned."
"Edward worries too much."
"Edward barely worries at all, which is why his concern caught my attention." Martin's gaze was steady on her face, searching. "Is something troubling you, Vanessa? You seem... different."
Different. If only he knew how different. If only he knew that she was sitting across from him, having a perfectly normal conversation, while internally she was screaming.
"I am simply tired from the journey," she said, grasping for any excuse. "The roads were dreadful, and I did not sleep well."
"Ah. The eternal curse of London travel." He nodded sympathetically. "I made the journey from my country estate last week and nearly lost a wheel outside of Reading. The whole experience was thoroughly miserable."
"I am sorry to hear that."
"Do not be. Misery builds character, or so I am told.
" He was watching her with that familiar intensity, the look that always made her feel as though he could see straight through her careful defenses.
"Though I suspect you have quite enough character already.
Any more and you would be entirely insufferable. "
It was such a Martin thing to say teasing, slightly cutting, wrapped in the veneer of a compliment, that Vanessa felt something in her chest unclench.
This was normal. This was how they always interacted.
If he had read the letters, surely he would not be sitting here, bantering with her as though nothing had changed.
The relief that washed over her was so intense it nearly made her dizzy. He had not read them. He could not have. No gentleman, upon discovering a lady’s devotion and attachment of six years, could so far forget the claims of delicacy as to trifle with her character.
Unless he was an even better actor than she had given him credit for.
No. She pushed the thought away. She could not afford to doubt this fragile relief. She needed to believe that her secrets were safe, that the letters had been discarded or lost or ignored, that Martin remained blissfully ignorant of her feelings.
It was the only way she could survive the next few minutes without completely falling apart.
"I shall take that as a compliment," she said, and was surprised to find her voice steady.
"You may take it however you wish. I merely state facts." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Speaking of insufferable, I understand Lord Deane has been paying you particular attention. Should I offer my congratulations, or my condolences?"
The question caught her off guard. "Neither. Lord Deane is merely…we are merely acquaintances."
"Acquaintances who take tea together and discuss agricultural reform, from what I hear." Martin's tone was light, but something flickered in his expression, there and gone too quickly to identify. "He seems quite taken with you."
"How would you know what Lord Deane seems?"
"I have eyes, little Wayworth. And I have known Deane since we were boys at Eton.
He was always the earnest sort, forever worried about doing the right thing, being the proper gentleman.
" Martin's lip curled slightly. "He does not discuss crop rotation with just anyone.
The fact that he subjected you to that particular passion suggests a level of interest that goes beyond mere acquaintance. "
"Perhaps I enjoy discussions of crop rotation."
"Do you?"
"I might. You do not know everything about me."
"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to something lower, more serious. "I do not. Though I confess I would like to."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with an intensity that made her breath catch. What did he mean by that? Was he simply making conversation, or was there something more beneath the surface?
Before she could respond, Martin seemed to catch himself. His expression smoothed back into its usual mask of lazy amusement, the moment of seriousness vanishing as though it had never been.
“Be that as it may, Deane would make a perfectly acceptable husband, I do believe as he is steady…reliable… The sort of man who would never give you a moment's trouble."
Steady…reliable. The same words he had used at the ball, spoken with the same faint edge of contempt.
"You say that as though it were a fault," Vanessa said.
"Do I? I did not mean to. Steadiness is an admirable quality in a horse, or a piece of furniture." His eyes returned to hers, sharp and knowing. "Whether it is what you require is another matter entirely."
"And what would you know about what I require?"
The words came out sharper than she intended, charged with six years of frustrated longing. Martin's eyebrows rose, and for just a moment, his composure seemed to waver.
"Nothing, apparently," he said quietly. "I apologise if I overstepped."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with things unsaid. Vanessa's heart was pounding again, though for entirely different reasons than before. What was happening? What was this strange tension between them, this undercurrent of meaning she could not quite grasp?
Before she could speak, the drawing room door opened and Lady Wayworth swept in.
"Lord Montehood! How delightful. I thought I heard your voice." She sailed across the room to greet him, all gracious smiles and maternal warmth. "I was just telling Vanessa that we have not seen nearly enough of you this Season. You must come to dinner. Say you will come to dinner."
Martin rose, bowing over her hand with practiced elegance. "I would be honored, Lady Wayworth. You need only name the date."
"Wonderful. Shall we say Thursday? I am hosting a small gathering, nothing elaborate, just a few close friends. Edward will be there, of course, and I believe the Crawfords are attending. Miss Crawford is such a dear girl…I have always been fond of her."
"Miss Crawford is indeed a lovely young woman," Martin agreed. "Edward speaks of her often."
"Does he?" Lady Wayworth's eyes sharpened with interest. "How very interesting. Well. Thursday, then. Shall we say eight o'clock?"
"Thursday at eight would suit me admirably."
Vanessa watched this exchange with growing alarm.
Thursday. Martin would be in her home on Thursday, sitting at her dinner table, making conversation with her family.
The prospect should have filled her with dread—more time spent in his presence, more opportunities for awkward silences and loaded glances.
Instead, she felt... something else. Something dangerously close to anticipation.
He has not read them, she reminded herself. He does not know. Everything is fine.
But was it? Was everything fine? Or was she simply trading one form of torment for another, the agony of exposure replaced by the familiar ache of wanting something she could not have?
"I should take my leave," Martin said, consulting his pocket watch. "I have imposed on your hospitality long enough."
"Nonsense. You are always welcome here." Lady Wayworth beamed at him with the particular warmth she reserved for eligible dukes and other highly desirable connections. "Vanessa, dear, why do you not see Lord Montehood to the door? I must speak with Cook about Thursday's menu."
She departed before Vanessa could protest, leaving her alone with Martin and the sudden, terrifying prospect of walking beside him through the house.
"Shall we?" He offered his arm with a slight smile.
She had no choice. Refusing would be strange, would invite questions she could not answer. She rose on unsteady legs and placed her hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of him even through the layers of fabric.
They walked in silence through the entrance hall, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
Vanessa was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the height of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the faint scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothes.
Each step felt precarious, as though she were walking a tightrope over a vast chasm.
He has not read them. He does not know.
The thought was a lifeline, and she clung to it desperately.
"You have been avoiding society," Martin observed, his voice casual. "I noticed your absence at the Haberton musicale last evening."
"I was not well enough to attend."
"And yet you seem perfectly well now. Remarkable how quickly these mysterious ailments resolve themselves."
"It comes and goes."
"Does it?" He glanced down at her, something unreadable in his expression. "I hope it does not come back before Thursday. I am rather looking forward to dinner."
"I am certain I will be fully recovered by then."
"Good. It would be terribly dull without you there to scowl at me from across the table."
"I do not scowl."
"You absolutely scowl. You have been scowling at me for years. It is one of your most endearing qualities." His smile widened, showing teeth. "I would miss it terribly if you were to stop."
They had reached the foot of the main staircase, and Vanessa realised belatedly that she had been leading him in the wrong direction entirely. The front door was behind them, not ahead.
"I…forgive me. I was not paying attention. The door is…"