Chapter Eleven #3
Vanessa lay awake for hours, turning the evening over in her mind, examining every moment from every angle.
The way Martin had looked at her across the dinner table.
The conversation about the book, about anonymous gifts and fear of rejection.
The kiss on her hand, the rawness in his voice when he said her name.
I find I cannot bear the thought of you coming to harm.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
What did it mean? Was she reading too much into it, seeing significance where there was none? Or had something genuinely shifted between them, something real, something lasting?
She thought about what Helena had said. About how Martin had been in the park at the precise time and place she was known to ride. About how such coincidences were rarely coincidental.
She thought about the gift basket. The French chocolates. The volume of Keats.
Perhaps the sender wished to remain anonymous for a reason. Perhaps they feared that revealing themselves would complicate matters.
Fear of rejection.
Had Martin sent the gift? The possibility seemed absurd…
and yet. The chocolates were exactly the kind she preferred, imported from the same confectioner she had mentioned once, years ago, at a dinner party Martin had attended.
The book was perfectly chosen, not merely Keats but the specific volume that had been missing from her own collection.
These were not the choices of a casual acquaintance. These were the choices of someone who had been paying attention. Someone who had been watching, listening, remembering.
Someone who cared.
She did not know. She could not be certain. But the evidence was mounting, piece by piece, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to explain it away.
And then there was the way he had touched her. Not just tonight, but in the park, his hands on her ankle, his fingers gentle against her skin. The memory made her shiver, even now, even in the darkness of her bedchamber with hours of distance between them.
No man had ever touched her like that. She had been handled, certainly by dancing partners, by gentlemen helping her into carriages, by the occasional overfamiliar suitor who required a sharp word.
But Martin's touch had been different. There had been a quality of reverence to it, as though she were something precious, something to be cherished.
Had she imagined it? Had she projected her own feelings onto his actions, interpreting ordinary courtesy as something more?
She did not think so. She did not think she had imagined the tremor in his hands, the catch in his breath, the way his pupils had dilated when their eyes met.
Those were not the reactions of a man performing a medical examination.
Those were the reactions of a man who was struggling to maintain control.
And tonight the way he had held her hand, the way his lips had lingered against her knuckles, the rawness in his voice when he spoke of truths and confessions…
Hope, once kindled, was difficult to extinguish. And tonight, against all reason and expectation, hope had taken root in her heart.
She thought about Edward's words. About his observation that Martin had never looked at anyone the way he looked at her. About his offer of blessing, should Martin choose to court her.
Whatever happens…whatever you decide…know that I support you.
Had Edward seen something she had missed? Had he recognised, in his friend, a regard that Martin himself had not acknowledged?
Or was this all wishful thinking, the desperate fantasy of a woman who had spent seven years wanting something she could never have?
She did not know. She could not know, not without some definitive sign, some unambiguous declaration.
But Martin had spoken of truths. He had spoken of things that could not be unsaid. And he had held her hand as though releasing it might break him.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she would think about this more clearly.
Tomorrow she would consider the implications, the complications and the thousand reasons why this could never work.
There was still Lord Deane to consider…kind, attentive Lord Deane, who had done nothing wrong and did not deserve to be cast aside.
There were the expectations of Society, the whispers that would follow if the notorious Duke of Montehood suddenly began courting his best friend's sister.
There was Martin's reputation, and her own, and the delicate web of propriety that governed their world.
But tonight she would let herself believe.
Tonight she would let herself hope.
And when sleep finally claimed her, it was with a smile on her lips and Martin's name on her breath.
***
The next morning dawned grey and overcast, but Vanessa woke with a strange lightness in her chest.
Something had changed. She could feel it…a shift in the atmosphere, a new possibility hovering on the horizon. Nothing had been spoken, nothing had been declared, and yet everything was different. The world looked brighter, somehow. More full of promise.
She rang for her maid and dressed with unusual care, choosing a morning gown of soft yellow muslin that brought out the warm tones in her hair.
Her ankle was much improved though it was still tender, but she could walk on it without significant discomfort.
Perhaps, if she was careful, she might venture into the garden today. The fresh air would do her good.
She was just finishing her breakfast when the butler appeared with a card on a silver tray.
"Lord Deane has called, my lady. Shall I show him in?"
Vanessa's lightness dimmed slightly. She had been expecting this, Lord Deane had sent word yesterday that he intended to call this morning, but the timing felt unfortunate.
She was not ready to face him. Not with her thoughts still full of Martin, her heart still racing from the memory of his lips against her hand.
But she could not refuse to see him. It would be rude, and besides, her mother would never forgive her.
"Yes," she said. "Show him to the morning room. I shall join him shortly."
She took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her expression into pleasant neutrality. Whatever had happened with Martin, whatever might happen in the future, Lord Deane deserved her courtesy. He had been nothing but kind, and she owed him at least the appearance of attention.
But as she made her way to the morning room, leaning slightly on her cane, she could not help but notice that her heart did not race at the prospect of seeing him. Her breath did not catch. Her skin did not prickle with awareness.
She felt only a mild fondness, tempered by guilt.
It was not fair to him. None of this was fair to him.
And yet she did not know how to make it right, not when her heart had chosen someone else, someone who might, against all odds, have chosen her in return.
Lord Deane was standing by the window when she entered, his pleasant face brightening at the sight of her.
"Lady Vanessa! You look well. I was so concerned when I heard of your accident…I wanted to call immediately, but I did not wish to intrude while you were recovering."
"You are very kind, Lord Deane. Please, do sit."
He sat, and she sat, and they began the familiar ritual of polite conversation.
He asked about her ankle. She assured him it was improving.
He asked about her family. She reported that everyone was well.
He mentioned the weather, the upcoming Castleton ball and his plans for improving the drainage on his northern fields.
She listened with half an ear, making appropriate responses, smiling at appropriate moments. But her thoughts were elsewhere, with a different man, a different conversation, a different set of possibilities.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
Soon, she thought. Soon she would know what Martin meant. Soon she would know if her hope was justified or if she was destined for disappointment.
But until then, she would wait. She would smile at Lord Deane and make polite conversation and keep her secret hopes locked away where no one could see them.
It was all she could do.
For now.
But as she smiled and nodded and made polite responses to Lord Deane's conversation, her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was in a candlelit hallway, with Martin's lips against her hand and his voice rough with emotion.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
Whatever those truths were, she wanted to hear them. She wanted to know if the hope blooming in her chest was justified or if she was destined for disappointment.
She wanted Martin to be brave enough to speak.
And she was beginning to realise that she might need to be brave enough to listen.
Lord Deane was saying something about the roses in his garden, about how he had cultivated a new variety and named it after his mother. It was sweet, really, the sort of sentimental gesture that spoke well of his character.
But Vanessa found herself thinking of a different flower. A pressed bloom that might or might not exist, kept by a man who might or might not care for her, waiting for a truth that might or might not be spoken.
The uncertainty was maddening. The hope was terrifying.
But she would not trade either for the comfortable certainty of Lord Deane's devotion.
She wanted passion, not adequacy. She wanted fire, not warmth. She wanted the man who looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world, not the man who looked at her as though she were a pleasant option among many.
She wanted Martin.
And for the first time in seven years, she was beginning to believe she might actually be able to have him.
The thought was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was everything.
And she could not wait to see what happened next.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, eleven, the proper time for a morning call to end. Lord Deane rose, as she knew he would, ever mindful of propriety.
"I should take my leave," he said. "I do not wish to tire you. But I hope you will allow me to call again soon?"
"Of course." She offered him her hand, which he pressed with earnest warmth. "Thank you for coming, Lord Deane. Your concern is most appreciated."
"It is my pleasure. I…" He hesitated, something shifting in his expression. "Lady Vanessa, I hope you know that my regard for you is sincere. Whatever happens, whatever the future holds, I want you to know that I think very highly of you."
There was something in his voice, a note of uncertainty, perhaps even resignation that made her look at him more closely. Did he sense it? Did he understand, on some level, that her heart was elsewhere?
"Thank you," she said softly. "I think very highly of you as well."
He smiled a small, sad smile that told her he understood more than she had given him credit for.
"Good day, Lady Vanessa."
"Good day, Lord Deane."