Chapter Five #3
"I know where the door is." He had not released her hand. His fingers were warm against hers, solid and steady. "I wanted to ask you something."
Her heart stopped. Actually stopped, she was certain of it. "Ask me what?"
"At the ball. When we danced." His voice had changed, dropping lower, losing some of its usual lightness. He sounded almost hesitant, so unlike his usual confident drawl. "I said some things. Things I perhaps should not have said."
I am not the man I ought to be.
"I remember," she whispered.
"I wanted to…" He stopped, shook his head. Some internal struggle played across his features, there and gone too quickly to identify. "No. Never mind. It is not important."
"Martin…"
"I should go." He released her hand abruptly, stepping back as though burned. "I will see you Thursday, Lady Vanessa. Until then."
He turned and strode toward the door with uncharacteristic haste and Vanessa, without thinking, took a step after him.
"Wait…"
Her foot caught on the edge of the bottom stair. The world tilted. Her arms pin wheeled, grasping for balance that was not there. The marble floor rushed up to meet her, and she had time to think this is going to hurt before…
Strong arms caught her from behind.
She was pulled back against a solid chest, her fall arrested with shocking suddenness. The scent of sandalwood enveloped her. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other bracing across her shoulders, holding her secure against a body that felt like warm stone.
A low voice spoke directly into her ear, so close she could feel the warmth of breath against her skin.
"Careful, little Wayworth. I would hate to see you damage that sharp tongue of yours."
Martin.
He had not left. He must have heard her stumble, must have moved faster than she would have thought possible. He had been right behind her this entire time, close enough to catch her when she fell.
Vanessa's heart was pounding from the near fall, she told herself. Only from the near fall. Not from the feel of his arms around her, or the press of his chest against her back, or the way his hands gripped her waist as though he never intended to let go.
"You…" Her voice came out breathless, unsteady. "I thought you had left."
"I forgot my gloves." His voice was strange, rough, nothing like his usual polished tones. She could feel the vibration of it in his chest, pressed against her back. "Lucky for you, it seems."
He still had not released her. They stood there at the foot of the stairs, wrapped together in an embrace that had long since exceeded the bounds of propriety. His arms were tight around her, her body molded against his, and neither of them seemed capable of moving.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.
"No. I…no. I am fine."
"You do not feel fine. You are trembling."
She was trembling. She had not noticed until he pointed it out, but her entire body was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. Whether from the shock of the near fall or the shock of being held in Martin's arms, she could not say.
"I am cold," she lied.
"You are not cold. It is perfectly warm in here." His arms tightened almost imperceptibly. "What are you afraid of, Vanessa?"
You, she thought. I am afraid of you, and how you make me feel, and the power you have to destroy me without even trying.
Before she could answer—before she could find words for any of the chaos rioting in her chest, a voice rang out from the landing above.
"Was that Martin I heard? I wanted to catch him before he left."
Edward was standing on the landing, looking down at them, and she was still wrapped in Martin's arms like some sort of damsel in a very improper embrace.
Martin released her as though she were made of fire, stepping back with a smoothness that almost disguised the tremor in his hands.
"She nearly fell. I merely prevented an injury.
" His voice was back to its usual drawl, but something in his eyes…
something hot and desperate and utterly unlike the composed Duke of Montehood told a different story.
"Your sister appears to have difficulty with stairs. You might want to look into that."
"I do not have difficulty with stairs," Vanessa protested, her cheeks burning so hot she was surprised the wallpaper was not catching fire. "I simply lost my balance."
"Of course you did." Martin's smile was back, but it did not reach his eyes. Those grey depths were turbulent, stormy, filled with something she could not name. "Do try to be more careful, little Wayworth. I will not always be here to catch you."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning she did not understand.
He collected his gloves from the side table, gloves that Vanessa was fairly certain he had deliberately left behind and departed without another word.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and then he was gone, leaving Vanessa alone with her brother and the lingering sensation of Martin's arms around her.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Well," Edward said finally, descending the remaining stairs with exaggerated casualness. "That was interesting."
"It was nothing."
"It did not look like nothing." He reached the bottom and stood before her, his expression a mixture of concern and something that looked disturbingly like amusement. "It looked rather like something, actually. Something significant."
"He caught me when I fell. That is all. He would have done the same for anyone."
"Would he?" Edward tilted his head, studying her with an intensity she found deeply uncomfortable. "Because the Martin I know does not typically forget his gloves. And he certainly does not linger in entrance halls on the off chance that someone might trip on the stairs."
Vanessa felt her cheeks flame hotter. "I do not know what you are implying."
"I am not implying anything. I am merely observing." He crossed his arms, leaning against the newel post. "He held you for quite a long time, Van. Long after you had regained your balance. Long after propriety would demand he release you."
"He was making certain I was steady."
“Is that the name we are to give it?”
"Edward…"
"I am not going to pry." He held up his hands in surrender.
"Whatever is happening between you and Martin is your affair.
But I will say this." He met her eyes, suddenly serious, all trace of teasing gone.
"Be careful, Vanessa. Martin is my closest friend, and I hold him in the deepest of affections him like a brother.
But he is also... complicated. More complicated than most people realise. "
"I am aware that."
"Are you?" Edward's gaze searched her face. "I wonder sometimes if any of us truly know Martin. He hides so much beneath that charming exterior. There are endless layers that one must wonder if there is any solid principle to be found at the center of the maze.”
It was perhaps the most insightful thing her brother had ever said. Vanessa felt a sudden surge of affection for him, for his unexpected wisdom, for his concern, for the way he was trying to protect her without smothering her.
"I will be careful," she promised. "I always am."
"See that you are." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a rare gesture of brotherly tenderness. "Now. I am going to the club. Try not to fall down any more stairs while I am gone."
He departed, leaving Vanessa alone in the entrance hall with her racing heart and her spinning thoughts.
She stood there for a long moment, replaying the events of the past hour. Martin's arrival. His perfectly normal behavior. His teasing, his banter, his utter lack of awkwardness or pity. And then…
His arms around her. His breath warm against her ear. His voice, rough and strange, asking What are you afraid of?
He had not read the letters.
She was certain of it now, more certain than she had been of anything in days.
If he had read them…if he had known what she felt for him…
he would not have held her like that. Would not have looked at her with that strange, desperate heat in his eyes.
Would not have said I will not always be here to catch you in a voice that suggested he very much wanted to be.
Unless...
No. She would not let herself hope, as hope was dangerous. Hope led to letters written in the dark of night and hearts broken in the light of day.
Martin did not know. Martin would never know. And Vanessa would go on as she always had…wanting him from a distance, hiding her feelings behind sharp words and sharper wit, pretending that every interaction did not leave her raw and aching.
It was not a happy ending. But it was, she supposed, better than the alternative.
She climbed the stairs slowly, carefully, one hand on the railing for support. Her legs were still shaky, her pulse still elevated. The place where Martin's hands had gripped her waist seemed to burn through the fabric of her dress, a phantom touch she could not shake.
And if she paused on the landing to press her hand against that spot, feeling the ghost of his warmth well. No one was there to see it.
Some secrets, at least, were still her own.
***
The rest of the day passed in a haze.
Vanessa went through the motions of normalcy, tea with her mother, conversation with Aunt Bertha and a brief visit to her room to change for dinner. But her mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene in the entrance hall over and over until every detail was seared into her memory.
The way Martin's arms had felt around her, strong and sure, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all. The rough edge in his voice when he spoke into her ear. The look in his eyes when he asked what she was afraid of searching, intent, as though her answer truly mattered to him.
And the way he had held her for far longer than necessary. Long enough for Edward to notice and long enough for propriety to be stretched past its breaking point. Long enough for her to memorise the feel of him, the scent of him and the warmth of his body pressed against hers.
What are you afraid of, Vanessa?
Everything, she thought. I am afraid of everything.
I am afraid of wanting you, of hoping for something I cannot have.
I am afraid of these feelings that have consumed me for six years and show no sign of fading.
I am afraid that one day you will discover the truth, and all of this, the banter, the teasing, the strange almost-moments will be revealed as nothing more than the product of my overactive imagination.
She was afraid that Helena was wrong. That Martin felt nothing for her beyond mild affection. That she would spend the rest of her life wanting a man who saw her only as his friend's little sister.
But she was also afraid that Helena might be right. That Martin did feel something, hidden beneath those layers Edward had mentioned. That the letters she thought were her ruin might actually be…
No. She could not think like that. Could not allow herself to consider the possibility.
Because if she let herself hope, and that hope was proven false, it would destroy her.
It would be worse than anything she had imagined, worse than his pity or his amusement.
It would be the death of something essential in her, something that had kept her going through six years of silent longing.
Better to believe he had not read the letters. Better to believe her secrets were safe. Better to go on as she always had, hiding her heart behind a mask of composure and wit.
It was cowardly. She knew it was cowardly. But she was not brave enough for anything else.
***
That night, for the first time in days, Vanessa sat down at her writing desk.
The empty writing box sat before her, a mocking reminder of everything she had lost. But beside it lay fresh paper, a new pen, a pot of ink that gleamed darkly in the candlelight.
She should not write. She knew she should not. The last batch of letters had nearly destroyed her, she should learn from her mistakes, should find some other way to process her feelings that did not involve committing them to paper.
And yet.
The quill was in her hand before she could stop herself. The nib touched the page. And the words came, as they always did, pouring out of her like water from a broken dam.
Dear Martin…