Chapter Thirteen #6
"Of course, dear. When you've rested." Lady Wayworth settled back against the cushions with a contented sigh. "It's all going to be wonderful. You'll see."
The carriage rolled through the dark streets of London, past the grand houses of Mayfair with their glowing windows, past the empty parks and quiet squares. Vanessa stared out the window at the passing shadows, her mind racing with possibility and fear and desperate, impossible hope.
Tomorrow. Two on the hour. The bookshop on Piccadilly.
Everything would change tomorrow.
Martin had said there were things he needed to tell her. Things she should know before they went any further. The words sent a chill through her, cutting through the warm glow of the evening.
Things he needed to tell her.
The letters.
The thought surfaced unbidden, and this time she could not push it away.
The letters her aunt had sent, the letters that had haunted her nightmares for weeks, the private confessions she had never meant anyone to read.
She had been so consumed by the terror of Martin receiving them, reading them, knowing her secrets that she had nearly made herself ill with worry.
And then he had appeared in the park, at the precise time and place she always rode.
He had sent an anonymous gift that perfectly matched her tastes…
tastes she had never told him about, but had certainly written about in those letters.
He had looked at her differently at dinner, touched her ankle with a tenderness that had left her breathless, spoken of truths and confessions and things that could not be unsaid.
And tonight he had declared his affection with a passion that seemed to come from nowhere. After years of careful distance, years of treating her as nothing more than Edward's sister, he had suddenly confessed feelings that matched her own with uncanny precision.
Six years, he had said. I have cherished you for six years.
Six years. The same span of time she had been writing those letters.
The coincidence was too perfect. The timing too convenient.
He knew. He must know. He had read her letters, discovered her feelings, and…
And what? Decided to pursue her because he knew she would say yes? Used her own confessions against her, armed with the knowledge that she could not refuse him?
No. She pushed the thought away, but it refused to stay buried.
The nagging suspicion that had been building all evening, every time he looked at her with that knowing intensity, every time he said something that echoed her own written words, crystallised into something harder.
Something that felt dangerously close to certainty.
There are things I need to tell you. Things you should know before we go any further.
The letters. He was going to tell her about the letters.
Part of her wanted to be angry. He had read her most private thoughts, her most vulnerable confessions, without her knowledge or consent. He had held that advantage over her, had known exactly what she felt while she remained in agonising uncertainty about his feelings.
But another part of her did not mind at all. If he had read the letters, then he knew the truth.
He was not insensible to the fact that her heart was, and had ever been, entirely his own.
He had also come to her and confessed his feelings, kissed her passionately and asked her to meet him tomorrow.
Whatever his reasons, whatever advantage he had held, the result was the same: they had finally found each other.
Tomorrow she would learn the truth. Tomorrow she would discover exactly what Martin knew and how he had come to know it. And then…
Then they would face it together. As they would face everything, from here on.
Tonight, she would cling to the memory of his kiss, the warmth of his arms, the sound of her name on his lips.
Tonight, she would let herself hope.
Two on the hour. The bookshop on Piccadilly.
She could hardly wait.
Sleep, she knew, would not come easily. Her mind was too full, her heart too racing, her body still humming with the memory of Martin's touch. She would lie awake for hours, replaying the evening, analysing every word and glance and gesture.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, she would cling to the certainty that had crystallised on that cold terrace, in Martin's arms, with his lips pressed to hers.
They both held each other in the deepest affections and that was all that truly mattered.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Wayworth townhouse and Edward helped her down, his hand steady beneath her elbow, his expression thoughtful.
"Are you happy?" he asked quietly, as their parents made their way inside.
Vanessa looked at him…her brother, her protector, her friend.
"Yes," she said. "I do believe I finally am."
He nodded slowly. "Very well. That's all I wanted to know."
They walked into the house together, and Vanessa climbed the stairs to her bedchamber with Martin's words echoing in her ears.
Her memories of the night.
Tomorrow would bring the finally unveiling of the story…and she could hardly wait.