That is what this is. Just a tiny, insignificant token, she thought, opening the box, determined to prove her own point.
She froze, however, as she spotted the contents: a small, worn little book.Tamerlane and Other Poems, by a Bostonian.
She extracted it reverently, gliding her fingers over the worn edges, opening it to the title page. The wordsLiam Reidwere inscribed in the top right corner, in faded ink.
His.
This was his, and he’d gifted it to her. Personal, thoughtful.
And still it means nothing, you overly excitable nincompoop.
Rebecca slid down into her chair, and laid the book open. It did not take very long for her to become utterly engrossed in the poems. They were unlike anything she’d ever read before. Haunting, disquieting, enchanting. Whoever this Bostonian was, she decided she liked him very much.
Just as she was beginning to forget herself, Thornhallow and most importantly Liam, she fell upon a dog-eared page. Frowning, she scanned the page. Halfway down, a verse had been underlined. Recently. There could be no mistake; the ink was too fresh, too vivid. It was the only mark she’d found on any of the pages, save for Liam’s name.
Her heart racing again, her mouth dry, Rebecca ran her fingers over the underlined words.
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
A meaningless token. That was what she had tried to convince herself this was. Liam had accused her of beinghistorment. Was he not hers, behaving thus?
Rebecca wished she didn’t understand the meaning of this. She wished she didn’t understand the declaration, that he’d left her to wallow and suffer alone. But this...
Was it an invitation? Permission? A request to make the final leap, take the final step? He’d been as bold and demanding as she knew he could last night. Anything further—anything more—would be her choice, and hers alone.
Snapping the little book shut, Rebecca slid it back into the box and cast it away into the bottom drawer of her desk. The choicewashers. And she was making it. There would be nothing more. Already her heart was in shreds.
After a kiss. Nothing but a simple kiss.
What would become of her if she succumbed to anything more?
No. Work.
She would work until her mind was numb and her fingers bruised and bloody. No matter what he had to say about that. At least then she would feel something other than this. The rest would pass. In time. Soon enough. She would see to it.
Thatwas her choice.
Chapter Seventeen
It had been a half-hour at least that she’d been standing here, at the foot of the main stairs, her candle flickering as tiny gusts of the blustery wind swept through the hall. She’d waited until she’d heard the familiar sound of Mr Brown’s door closing—waited long enough to be certain she wouldn’t be seen nor heard—before creeping out of her rooms, giving not one thought to what she intended.
