Chapter Eleven #2
"Martin…" she began, not knowing what she was going to say.
But before she could finish, Edward appeared at Martin's elbow, breaking the spell. "Stop monopolising my sister. Some of us would like to speak to her as well."
"I was not monopolising. I was appreciating poetry."
"You were being charming. Which, for you, is the same as monopolising." Edward nudged Martin out of the chair and took his place. "Go charm my mother for a while. She thinks you hung the moon."
"Does she? How flattering."
"It is not meant as flattery. It is meant as a warning." Edward grinned. "Off with you."
Martin rose with a show of reluctance. "Very well. But I shall return."
"I have no doubt of it."
Martin inclined his head to Vanessa, a small, formal gesture that somehow felt anything but formal and crossed the room to where Lady Wayworth was holding court by the fireplace.
Edward watched him go, then turned to his sister with a knowing look.
“Well then.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you intend to explain to me what exactly is transpiring between the two of you?”
“There is nothing to explain.”
"Vanessa." Edward's voice was gentle but firm. "I am not blind. The way you were looking at each other just now, reading poetry together, leaning toward each other as though the rest of us did not exist that was not nothing."
"We were merely passing the time."
"You were doing something, and it was not merely passing the time.
" He leaned closer, lowering his voice so their parents would not overhear.
"I have known Martin for fifteen years. I have seen him charm countless women at balls, at house parties, at every social occasion imaginable.
He is good at it. It is practically an art form for him. "
"I am aware of his reputation."
"Then you should also be aware that what I saw tonight was not his usual charm." Edward's eyes were serious. "I have never seen him look at anyone the way he was looking at you. Never. Not in all the years I have known him."
Vanessa's heart clenched. "You are imagining things."
"I am not. And neither, I think, are you." Edward took her hand, his expression softening. "Vanessa, if there is something between you…if you have feelings for him…"
"Edward, please."
“I do not wish to be so inquisitive…I simply…" He broke off, sighing. "I want you to be happy. That is all I have ever wanted. And if Martin could make you happy…"
"He does not think of me that way."
"Are you certain?"
No. She was not certain of anything. That was precisely the problem.
"I am certain that this is not the time or place for this conversation," she said firmly. "We are in the middle of a dinner party, and Mother is watching us."
Edward glanced toward their mother, who was indeed casting curious looks in their direction while pretending to listen to Martin.
"Fine. We shall table this discussion for now. But do not think I am going to forget about it."
"I would never dream of it."
He squeezed her hand and rose, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the growing, terrifying conviction that everything was about to change.
***
The evening wound toward its inevitable conclusion.
Vanessa's ankle was aching, a dull throb that had intensified over the course of the night and she was tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion.
The constant effort of maintaining composure, of hiding her feelings, of pretending that every look Martin gave her did not set her heart racing, it was wearing her down.
"I believe I should retire," she said during a lull in the conversation. "My ankle is troubling me."
The words were not entirely true, her ankle ached, yes, but it was bearable.
The real reason for her retreat was that she could not endure another moment of this exquisite torture.
Being near Martin, seeing him, hearing his voice, feeling his attention on her like a physical touch, it was too much.
She needed space. She needed time to think.
She needed to be away from him before she did something foolish.
"Of course, dearest." Her mother was immediately solicitous. "You have been up far too long. Shall I call for the footmen?"
"That will not be necessary." Martin was on his feet before anyone else could move, crossing the room with a few quick strides. "If Lady Vanessa will permit me, I shall assist her."
"That is very kind, but…"
"I insist." His tone brooked no argument. "You have been favoring that ankle all evening. Allow me to help you to the stairs, at least."
Vanessa hesitated. She should refuse. She should insist on the footmen, or Edward, or anyone other than Martin. Being alone with him, even for the few minutes it would take to reach the staircase felt dangerous and reckless.
But she could not bring herself to say no. Not when he was looking at her with concern and something else, something she could not quite discern.
"Very well," she said. "Thank you."
He helped her rise, his hand warm and steady beneath her elbow. She leaned into him as she had earlier, letting his strength support her weight, acutely aware of every point of contact between them.
They made their way out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall, leaving behind the bright chatter and the watchful eyes. The house was quiet at this hour, the servants had withdrawn to the back stairs, leaving only the soft glow of candlelight to illuminate their path.
"Does it hurt very badly?" Martin asked as they approached the staircase. His voice was low, intimate, meant only for her.
"Not terribly. It is merely tired. I have been on it too long."
"You should have said something sooner. I would have…"
"Would have what? Carried me to bed?" The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. "I did not mean…that is…"
"I know what you meant." His voice was low, amused, but there was a roughness beneath the amusement that made her skin prickle. "And for the record, I would have done so if you had asked. Though I suspect your mother might have had something to say about it."
"She would have had apoplexy."
"Very likely." They reached the foot of the stairs, and Martin stopped. The candlelight flickered over his features, casting shadows that made him look different…softer, somehow. More vulnerable. "Can you manage from here? Or should I summon a maid?"
"I can manage. The railing will support me."
"Splendid." He released her arm but did not step away. They stood close together in the dim hallway, close enough that she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Vanessa…"
The use of her name, without title or formality, made her breath catch.
"Yes?"
He seemed to be struggling with something, some internal battle that played out across his features. His jaw was tight, his eyes searching her face as though looking for permission. Or perhaps for courage.
"I find myself..." He stopped, shook his head. "No. This is not the time."
"The time for what?"
"For saying things that cannot be unsaid." His voice was rough with some emotion she could not identify. "For confessing truths that might change everything."
Vanessa's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. "What truths?"
"Truths I am not yet brave enough to speak." He reached for her hand…slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she did not, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
It was a common gesture. A polite courtesy. Gentlemen kissed ladies' hands a dozen times a day, at balls and dinners and morning calls.
But Martin did not release her hand. He held it, his fingers wrapped around hers, his mouth still hovering above her skin.
She could feel the warmth of his breath, the slight tremor in his grip.
His lips brushed across her knuckles again, not a formal salute this time, but something softer. Something that felt like a caress.
"Take care of yourself, Vanessa," he said, his voice rough. "I find I cannot bear the thought of you coming to harm."
"Martin…"
"Good night."
He released her hand and stepped back, his expression smoothing into its usual mask of polite detachment.
But his eyes told a different story. They burned with something that looked like longing, like restraint pushed to its breaking point, like a man holding himself back from the edge of a precipice.
"Good night," she whispered.
He inclined his head and turned away, walking back toward the drawing room with measured steps. She watched him go, her hand still tingling where his lips had touched, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
What truths? What confession?
She did not know. But for the first time in seven years of hoping and despairing and hoping again, she allowed herself to believe that she might soon find out.
Then she turned and climbed the stairs, one painful step at a time, replaying every moment, analysing every word, trying to understand what had just happened.
He had almost said something. She was certain of it. He had been on the verge of some confession, some admission, and then he had pulled back. Had stopped himself.
Why?
What was he afraid of?
She reached her bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts whirled.
I find myself...
Find himself what? Caring for her? Wanting her? Something else entirely?
She did not know. But for the first time in seven years of hoping and despairing and hoping again, she allowed herself to believe that it might be possible.
That Martin Hale, the Duke of Montehood, might actually feel something for her after all.
It was a terrifying thought.
It was also the most wonderful thought she had ever had.
***
Sleep did not come easily that night.