Chapter Twenty Six #2
“Katie,” he said, so softly into that heavy stillness between them. Just a whisper. Almost a prayer.
Kate held aloft the notebook for his inspection. “This list,” she said. “The one you had me write out for you. For your ideal wife. It’s about me.”
Elliot swallowed hard, his jaw tensing. “Yes.”
Her breath hitched in her chest. “And what your brother—what Lord Andrew said—”
“Yes.”
“You love me.” She hadn’t meant it to come out that way, exactly, but the words had had a rather accusatory tone to them, one that made him flinch as if she’d lashed out with her fist rather than her words.
And still he uttered, “Yes.” Just that simple, concrete statement, as if he had given it all up. As if raw, bare honesty were the only thing left to him.
“And you never told me!”
“You never saw me,” he said simply, ducking his head.
“Kate—Katie—my feelings for you were never your responsibility, and ought not to confer upon you any sense of obligation toward me, but I—” His voice cracked over the words, his hands lifted toward her in entreaty. “I never want to lose your friendship.”
She didn’t want that, either. “Is that what will happen?” she asked. “If I—”
“No!” A harsh, swift, and severe denial, imbued with horror at the prospect. “No; never. You have always been and will always be my dearest friend.”
“But you brought me to London,” she said. “To find you a wife. You manipulated me into it, prevailed upon me for pity because your brother had declared you would be seeking one! Was it even real?”
“Yes,” he said, and cringed. “And no. Devon did make that declaration, mostly to cause problems for me as I have so often caused problems for him, though I am certain he always knew that I never intended to marry at his command. But when he did, I thought”—he took a single, cautious step forward—“I thought…I might be able to use it.”
“Use it?”
“I thought that if I could convince you to come to London with me, then perhaps…perhaps you might finally see me. That you might at last take me seriously.” A little shrug of his slumped shoulders, dejection hanging heavily upon them.
Kate’s heart twisted itself into a knot. How often had she chided him for that playful nature which she had always loved? Be serious, Elliot. Time and time again, as if—as if being unserious were all he was capable of. As if he would never be anything more than a feckless gadabout.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as she let fall the notebook to swab at her aching eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. “I never meant—”
“I know,” he said. “I know, Katie. And I love to make you laugh.”
A serious wife, he’d requested, because she was so often serious. She’d had to be, for so many years. And he had been right in that he needed a wife of a more sober temperament than his own. But he had always been able to make her laugh, and she had always loved it.
Another scrape of her sleeve over her eyes, and she couldn’t even blame the moisture of them on the rain, which still had yet to fall. “You love to vex me, you mean.”
“Yes. That, too. Because you do laugh in the end, you know.” The ragged edge of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; the very ghost of that crooked, roguish grin she loved so much.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he confessed.
“Any of it. That wasn’t a lie. And I—I have tried, you know, to tell you. From time to time.”
That kiss beneath the mistletoe he’d playfully requested of her one year at Christmastide, she thought.
A half-dozen or more other tiny moments, easily dismissed at the time, because he was a lord, and she was just the daughter of a country vicar.
Because he did so often jest with her, she hadn’t ever imagined him to be serious about such a thing.
“I wanted just a few weeks,” he said softly. “A chance to court you. To see if there was any part of you that might, given the opportunity, feel more for me than only friendship.”
Oh. The parties, the balls, the trips to the theatre.
The outings to the park, to the shops. The breakfasts they had shared, the private chats, and that moonlit waltz—he’d been courting her all this time, and she hadn’t known it, hadn’t understood it.
Those dreams he had shared with her, of the life he wanted to have and the house he wanted to build on that parcel of land which had meant so much to both of them…
they had all been meant for her. To be shared with her.
“And if you could not,” he said, “if you did not, well, then…at least you would have had the Season you ought to have had years ago. At least I would have had the opportunity to show you London, to introduce you to my friends here. To dance with you, even if just a handful of times. And then—and then I would have contented myself with your friendship. I will do that still, if that’s what you wish. ”
Just like that? To bow out gracefully if she had shown no interest, smothering his own heart rather than risk their friendship? But he’d been doing that for years already, and she could not imagine how much it must have hurt him. A ragged little sound tore itself free of her throat.
“I was going to tell you myself,” he said regretfully, “because I never had such hope as I had evening last, at the ball. But I put my foot it in, and then, this morning, Drew—” A hard, rough breath, and he yanked one hand through his hair, further mussing the already-disheveled gold locks. “You should have heard it from me.”
Yes. She should have. He should have told her so much sooner. With a horrible little catch in her breath, she said, “I thought you were going to marry Miss Applegate. I thought I was going to have to endure your bloody wedding!”
Elliot rocked back upon his heels, momentarily startled by the vehemence in her voice.
“I was never going to marry her,” he said.
“And for whatever it might be worth to you, she knew straight away where my interests lay. An uncommonly perceptive woman.” One hand lifted, absently flattened over his chest just above his heart. “Kate…were you jealous of her?”
“Of course I was jealous of her, you witless—stop!” Kate thrust out one hand as he surged forward. “Don’t move,” she hissed, and his feet stutter-stepped upon the grass, planting themselves as if they’d grown roots.
Elliot drew in a sharp, aching breath. “Kate, please. I only want—”
“Not one step!”
“Katie, if I could just—”
“Mrs. Norris,” Kate said fiercely, “is at the kitchen sink right before the window, cleaning the leftover dishes from her nightly tea. If you take just one more step, you will come into her line of sight. She is certain to see you, and equally certain to call for Hodges and have you tossed out on your arse.” She saw the words hit him, saw the meaning cement itself in his mind, saw the relief sweep over him and erase a few of those tight worry-lines scored into his face.
Not the rejection he had thought it to be—only a temporary stay, so that he could stay.
So that their illicit meeting out here in the garden would not be cut short now, when it was most important.
At long last, she watched Mrs. Norris finish up at the sink, snuff the last lamp, and exit the kitchen, no doubt heading off to bed.
Kate let her hand fall slowly, took a deep, steadying breath.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you should have told me ages ago. Not in suggestion, or in jest, or—or in vague allusions. Just tell me.”
“I love you,” he said, his voice trembling over the words. “It has always been you. It is always going to be you for me. And if there is even the slightest hope that you could love me in return—”
“I do.” A harsh, hiccoughing sob eked out of her mouth, and she stumbled toward him blindly, eyes glazed with tears. “I do love you.”
Elliot caught her up as she flung herself at him, cradling her to his chest like she was something precious and fragile.
It wasn’t only his voice that trembled; his whole body shook with a distinct, helpless tremor.
Of relief, she thought. “Katie,” he said into the hair near her temple, and his chest rose and fell in a massive sigh, his arms tightening about her.
“I want that house,” she said on a shaky breath, half-muffled against his shoulder. “In Northampton, on the hillside where we watch sunsets. And I want to listen to you play the pianoforte.”
“Yes.” It had the tenor of a promise, a vow made only to her. “I want to go riding with you, and swim in our pond, and waltz in the moonlight.”
“Even if I have got to step on your feet to do it?”
“Especially then.” A soft kiss landed high on her cheek. “I want a dog, and a home, and children. And for that, we have got to be married.” A hoarse little laugh stirred her hair. “Your pardon,” he said. “That was…not a very good proposal. In my defense, I have never tendered one before.”
“I don’t care. It’s perfect.” The only sort of proposal she wanted.
Not particularly smooth or polished, and certainly lacking the practiced charm which had made him such a prize on the marriage mart.
But it had been given in love, and that made it perfect.
“Yes,” she said, and turned her face to his.
“Yes.” Her fingers sank into the cool locks of his hair, eliciting a sigh that feathered across her lips.
That first touch of his lips was electrical, like the sizzle of the air prior to a bolt of lightning.
A great release of every bit of tension that had gathered within her these last fraught weeks, fear and anxiety surrendering themselves to a blissful peace, to a solid, unshakeable joy.
As if even the turbulent sky above had been somehow moved, the clouds opened up at last and softly, silently, it began to rain.