Chapter 15
Fifteen
“Perhaps we could talk. I should apologise.”
Aurelia looked up from her embroidery. She was in the armchair by the fire, her feet tucked under her with a quilted blanket on her lap.
The needle glinted in the firelight. He had drank too much and could barely see what she had been working on.
But the sight of her was sobering. He heard Patrick make his way up the main stairs and retreat to his room.
They had come home together. God, it must have been close to midnight.
But Aurelia was still awake. They were alone now.
She looked at him for a moment, crinkling her nose. Then she reached over gracefully to drink some water before returning to her work.
“And why is that?” she asked, punching the needle through the fabric.
Evander approached slowly. “For leaving today. I should have delayed the trip by a few days. Our last conversation was unresolved on my part.”
“Which conversation specifically? We have had several unresolved ones lately. That seems to be a repeating pattern with us.”
“Why do you insist on torturing me like this?” he asked. He had intended to sound playful, but the words didn’t come out right. “When we were walking and it began to rain. You know the moment I mean.”
She scratched at a thread on her needlework, feigning indifference. “I had not realised it bothered you.”
“No? I am frequently bothered by things.”
“You give no indication of that.”
“Good.” He came further into the room. The room was warm enough that his coat felt like too much, and he indecorously took it off and cast it over the back of the other chair. “I am sorry I left.”
She tilted the needlework down and looked at him properly. “All right,” she said. “Your apology has been received, though I still don’t think it was necessary. Was that all you wanted to say? Because if so, I want to finish this before bed, and I work better without an audience.”
She was impossible – and he figured she had every right to behave that way. He sat in the chair across from her, which he had not planned to do but which felt preferable to standing over her making a fool of himself.
“I want to… We should discuss things generally. The last few days have been…”
“Stormy.” She folded her hands in her lap, setting her needlework aside. He saw what she was working on – the grain store. “ See? I can make jokes too. Go on, then, Your Grace.”
He looked at the fire briefly. “I have been trying to act in your best interest since the beginning. That has been… that is genuinely what I have been doing. I need you to know that.”
“I don't doubt your intentions,” she said. “But there are proper ways to go about things. And we have not been proper.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You decide what my best interest is and then act on it without asking. That's not the same as acting in my interest. I told you this before, with the gentleman who wanted to dance with me at the ball. But it happened again, didn’t it? When you left, thinking…” She sighed and looked at him levelly.
“Probably thinking that it was better for me if we had some distance before I got the wrong impression. You do it constantly, and I don’t like it, if we are speaking frankly.
Which we might as well do, because I can tell you are deep in your cups, and I find people are most honest when they have been drinking. Aunt Violet always is, anyway."
He looked around awkwardly, trying not to be offended by her accusation. She was right. He would permit himself things now he wouldn’t usually. And that was dangerous.
He said, “Take advantage of me then, say what you want to,” without really thinking it through.
“I already did. And it hasn’t made a difference.”
“I know that,” he heard himself say with more force than he intended. “That's what I'm trying to correct. But I am not good at this.”
“You're not bad at it. You just keep interrupting yourself before you get to the part that matters. Though what do I know? I have never been married. Before you, I had never spoken to a man like this. I had never been…” Her neck worked, and he filled in the rest. “Perhaps it was not a bad thing that you left today. We might be better alone.”
He looked at her, hurt by the suggestion. She was watching him, finally not armoring everything before it left her mouth… Her mouth. He had to stop looking at her mouth.
“I only ever meant to do right by you,” he said, whispering. “That's all. That's the whole of it… And I am failing.”
“Not always,” she murmured. “I know that's what you meant. But meaning well doesn't ensure the results are received well.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
“Don’t leave me again. That would be a start.”
He started, and then he stood. He was not sure why, he had not intended to move. But he was standing now, and she was looking up at him, and he said, “Then I won’t.”
“You don't have to look so pained about it.”
“I'm not pained.”
“You look pained.”
She almost smiled. He moved toward the fire, which meant moving toward her, and she did not move away.
She wished she had been working on any other scene.
But the moment in the grain store had haunted her all day.
Now Evander was closer than he had intended.
She could see the drink in his eyes. They were half-lidded.
He was looking at the fire. She knew she should say something, that she had something to say.
And then he turned and looked at her and she lost it.
She debated closing the distance between them and kissing him.
It was maddening to be around him. Even when he was like this.
She thought this was the moment she should step away, but she couldn’t. He was close enough that she could see the detail of his collar, the line of his jaw, the way he was looking at her, the look that was focused but not really careful.
He opened his mouth, and she kissed him.
He tasted familiar but there was wine or port on his lips.
He was immobile at first, arms hanging at his sides.
She retreated by an inch regretting what she had done, but he grabbed her instead and pressed his mouth against hers with a sigh.
She hated that sound. It was like he wanted to be close to her but thought it was wrong.
She didn’t understand. If he could kiss her like this and hold her like this and sleep next to her, why couldn’t he just say that?
Why did they have to pretend that their marriage was still only functional, when she burned for him and had made it known?
“Don’t,” she said when he started pulling away again.
It was all the encouragement he needed to pull her closer against him.
He walked her back and she collided with the armchair where she had been sitting for hours waiting to make sure he came home safely.
His hand moved from her face to her neck, setting her skin alight where he touched her, and then he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of her sleeve and gasped.
She reached instinctively to pull it up, and this made him stop. He ended the kiss and put a hand over his mouth, looking at her in horror.
They were both breathing unevenly, but Aurelia’s breaths were different from his. “What?” she tried to ask.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was level. She did not know how.
“No,” she said. “No, Evander. Don’t apologise again.”
He closed his mouth and nodded. She might have cried if he didn’t look so ashamed of himself. It wasn’t her, she told herself. It was something different that made him stay away from her. She wanted to find out what and stepped forward to ask him.
He took her hand and held it, shaking his head. “I can’t explain it to you.”
“You don’t need to. We can just…” She moved toward him again, taking her free hand and wrapping it into his shirt. “We don’t have to talk.”
He nodded, but his face contorted. He looked like he was going to cry. Her heart panged. She could kiss him, she thought, and make it all right again. Her lips were inches from his when the door behind them suddenly opened.
Evander stepped away first, wiping his mouth. Aurelia almost fell back into her chair in alarm, steadying herself as Mrs. Foulger lingered at the door.
“Your Grace…” she said, looking more serious than Aurelia had ever seen her. Her hair was less tidy than usual. She must have been preparing for bed when… When what? “Your Grace, there is a caller.”
“At this time?” Aurelia said for him, composing herself.
“Who?” Evander asked.
Mrs. Foulger paused, playing with her chatelaine. The hands ticked on her watch. “Lord Canterbury and Lady Seraphina have arrived, Your Grace. They are waiting for you in the entrance hall.”