Chapter Nine #4
"I know." He held her gaze for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, memorising the exact shade of green in her eyes, the way the morning light caught the copper threads in her hair. "But it is all I am able to reveal."
He stepped back from the carriage, nodding to the driver. The vehicle lurched into motion, wheels crunching on the gravel path, and Martin stood watching until it disappeared around a bend.
His hand was still warm where she had touched it. He had touched her ankle. He could still feel the silk of her stocking beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her skin, the flutter of her pulse.
“Upon my word…“ He uttered as he found himself at a complete stand.
***
Martin did not return home immediately.
He retrieved his horse from where it stood grazing and rode for nearly an hour, following paths at random, trying to outpace the thoughts that crowded his mind.
It did not work… in fact nothing seemed to alleviate his meandering thoughts.
Vanessa was everywhere, in the rustle of leaves, in the warmth of the sun on his skin, in the very air he breathed.
He replayed their conversation in his mind, searching for clues, for hints of what she might be thinking, what she might suspect.
She had spoken of secrets, of unspoken truths, of predicaments that could not be shared.
Had she been speaking of the letters? Did she know… or suspect that he had read them?
Impossible… She could not know… If she knew, she would not have looked at him with such uncertainty, such cautious hope.
She would have been angry, or humiliated, or both.
She would not have sat beside him on that bench and spoken of truth and silence as though they were abstract philosophical concepts rather than the very things threatening to tear them both apart.
She did not know, but she suspected something.
Something has changed, she had said. You have been behaving strangely of late.
He had not been careful enough as his composure had slipped, and she had noticed. The question now was what to do about it.
He could tell her. He could confess everything, the letters, his feelings, the years of careful distance that had been a kind of slow torture for them both. He could lay himself bare and pray for absolution.
But what then? What if she could not forgive the violation of her privacy?
What if knowing that he had read her most intimate thoughts made it impossible for her to trust him?
The letters had been written in the expectation of secrecy.
She had poured her heart onto those pages precisely because she believed no one would ever see them.
And he had seen them. He had read every word, memorised passages, tortured himself with her confessions. He had taken something that was not meant for him and made it his own.
How could he tell her that? How could he expect her to forgive it?
By the time he reached Montehood House, it was nearly noon. The sun was high, the streets busy with the usual traffic of carriages and pedestrians, and Martin felt as though he were emerging from some other world, a quiet, suspended realm where only he and Vanessa existed.
The real world seemed harsh by comparison.
Haberton was waiting in the entrance hall, his expression carefully blank.
"A productive ride, Your Grace?"
"Eventful." Martin handed off his hat and gloves. "Lady Vanessa suffered a fall. Her ankle is injured, a sprain, I believe, not a break."
"How unfortunate." Haberton's voice was carefully neutral, but Martin detected a note of concern beneath the professional detachment. "I trust she is being well cared for?"
"Her carriage was summoned. She should be home by now." Martin paused, then added, "I examined the injury myself. To ensure it was not serious."
Haberton's eyebrow rose by perhaps a millimetre, a gesture of considerable surprise, by his standards. "Indeed, Your Grace."
"It was entirely proper. Her groom was present throughout."
"I did not suggest otherwise, Your Grace."
"You were thinking it."
"I would never presume to think anything, Your Grace. I am a simple valet, concerned only with the arrangement of cravats and the polishing of boots. The inner lives of my betters are entirely beyond my comprehension."
Martin glared at him, but there was no heat in it. Haberton had known him too long to be intimidated by glares, and frankly, Martin was too exhausted to put any real effort into intimidation.
"Is there anything else, Your Grace?"
"No. Yes." Martin hesitated, considering. "Have a basket sent to the Wayworth residence. Something appropriate for an invalid. Hothouse flowers, perhaps, and some of that French chocolate Lady Wayworth favours. And a book, something amusing, light reading for someone confined to a chaise longue."
"Addressed from you, Your Grace?"
"Addressed from..." He stopped. If he sent a gift in his own name, it would occasion comment. Lady Wayworth would wonder at the attention. Edward would ask questions. Vanessa herself might read more into it than he intended…or less.
"Make it anonymous," he said finally. "No card…. No indication of the sender."
"As you wish, Your Grace." If Haberton found this instruction peculiar, he gave no sign. "Will there be anything else?"
"That will be all."
Haberton withdrew, leaving Martin alone in the entrance hall. He stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, replaying the morning's events in his mind.
He had touched her ankle. He had sat beside her on a bench and spoken of secrets and truths. He had watched her carriage disappear around a bend and felt something crack open in his chest.
He was in trouble. Deep, inescapable trouble.
And the worst part was, he no longer wanted to escape.
Martin climbed the stairs to his study, his thoughts still churning.
He had touched her today. He had held her ankle in his hands, felt her pulse beneath his fingertips and seen the flush spread across her skin.
It had been entirely innocent, a necessary examination of an injury and yet it had felt like something else entirely.
It had felt like the beginning of something.
Or perhaps the end.
He crossed to his desk and opened the top drawer. The letters were there, where he had left them, a neat stack bound with blue ribbon, waiting to be read again.
He should burn them. He should consign them to the fire and pretend he had never seen them. It was the honourable thing to do.
Instead, he lifted them out and settled into his chair.
He did not read them all. Not this time. He merely held them, feeling the weight of them in his hands, running his thumb along the edges of the paper. These were her thoughts, her feelings and her most private confessions. They did not belong to him.
And yet here they sat, in his desk, in his possession. He had not asked for them. He had not sought them out. They had simply arrived one day, delivered by some quirk of fate or some meddling aunt, and now he could not give them back.
Could not unread them. Could not unknow what they contained.
He set them down and rested his forehead in his hands, breathing slowly, trying to still the tumult in his mind.
I wonder sometimes, she had written in one of the later letters, what it would be like to be touched by him.
Not the careful, proper touches of the ballroom…
his hand on my waist during a waltz, his fingers brushing mine as he hands me into a carriage.
I wonder what it would be like to be truly touched.
To feel his hands on my skin without the barrier of gloves or propriety between us.
Today, he had touched her. Truly touched her, skin to silk, with nothing but a thin stocking between his fingers and her flesh. It had been medical necessity, nothing more and yet.
And yet...
He could still feel the warmth of her ankle beneath his palm.
Could still see the flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her lips had parted, the rapid rise and fall of her breath.
She had felt something. He was certain of it.
Whatever electricity had crackled between them, it had not been one-sided.
Had she felt it too? That electric awareness, that sense of something shifting between them? The way she had gasped when he rotated her foot, which had not been pain. He was certain of it. That had been something else entirely.
He set the letters down and rested his forehead in his hands.
He was losing control of the situation. He had spent six years building walls around his feelings, and in the space of a single morning, those walls had begun to crumble.
If he was not careful, they would collapse entirely, and then what?
Scandal, recrimination, the destruction of his friendship with Edward, the ruination of Vanessa's reputation.
He could not let that happen. He would not.
And yet, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face. The way she had looked at him on that bench. The flush on her cheeks. The question in her eyes.
Do you ever feel that there are things you wish to say, things that press against your lips, demanding utterance, but you cannot speak them?
Every day…. Every single day.
***
The following morning brought a note from Edward.
Martin recognised the handwriting immediately, Edward’s careless scrawl, dashed off without thought for penmanship or propriety. The seal was crooked, the paper smudged with what appeared to be coffee. Edward had never been one for attention to detail.
M.
V has sprained her ankle and is confined to the house. Some misadventure in the park, apparently she was remarkably vague about the details, which makes me suspect there is more to the story than she is telling. You know how she is.
Mother is driving her mad with fussing. Father has retreated to his study to escape the feminine histrionics. I am caught in the middle, as always.
Come for dinner tonight and provide distraction. You are better at entertaining her than I am…she actually laughs at your jokes…I have no idea why. She specifically requested I invite you, though she attempted to disguise it as general enquiry about your welfare. I am not fooled.
Bring wine. Father's cellar is adequate but uninspired, and I cannot face another evening of his claret.
E.
Martin read the note three times, searching for hidden meanings that were probably not there.
She specifically requested I invite you.
She specifically requested.
He should decline. He should plead a prior engagement and keep his distance until this madness passed.
Being near Vanessa was dangerous was more dangerous now than ever before, when his composure was already so fragile.
One morning in her company had left him shaken to his core.
An entire evening, with her injured and confined and looking at him with those questioning eyes. ..
He did not trust himself.
But she had requested him. She wanted to see him.
And he wanted to see her too.
He reached for his quill and began to write.
Edward…
I shall be delighted to attend. Please convey my sympathies to your sister regarding her injury. I trust she is not suffering unduly.
Regarding the wine: I shall bring something from my cellar that will make your father weep with envy. One must maintain standards.
Until this evening.
B.
He sealed the note and rang for a footman to deliver it.
Then he sat back in his chair and stared at the letters on his desk.