At some point.
By God, at this rate of speed, Gill would have to closet himself in the east wing of Abingdon House for the rest of his natural life before Miss Christabella Winter would come looking for him. Or to worry over his health. He ought to be ashamed of himself for even supposing someone like her could ever deign to be the wife of a man like him. A man who was still the same scared lad, in some ways, that his bastard of a father had locked inside that windowless room.
All these years later, and the fear still chased him.
He did not deserve a woman like her, that was for certain.
The door clicked open behind him, but he did not bother to turn. More than likely, it was his valet Martin, arriving with a tray of some sort. When one kept to one’s rooms, the hours of the day all bled hopelessly together. It could be dinner for all he knew. His stomach certainly had no wish for sustenance.
“Leave it on the table, if you please, Martin,” he directed, still staring morosely out the window. In search of answers. In search of himself.
His valet did not respond. There was the sound of the door closing once more, then hushed footfalls. Footfalls which did not sound at all like his lumbering manservant, who—whilst an adroit hand at tying knots—was incapable of moving anywhere without stomping thanks to his massive size. Rather, they sounded like—
“Gill.”
His name, nothing more.
In her voice.
He jerked from the window and spun about, half convincing himself he had imagined her calling his name. The sight of her, standing in the center of the chamber, ethereally beautiful in an ivory gown, stole his breath and his voice both.
She had come.
He swallowed, forgetting entirely that he was supposed to be ill. “Belle.”
His sobriquet for her. Somehow, it emerged of its own accord, natural and right although he knew he had no claims upon her. He was more aware of that fact than ever as he faced her now, itching to draw her into his arms.
Her brow was furrowed, her gaze searching his. “How are you?”
“Bloody dreadful,” he answered honestly.
Going a day without her had been pure, unadulterated hell. He had been trapped in a web of his own making, in a chamber with windows and sunlight but no Christabella, which was its own sort of pain.
“I know I should not be here,” she said, wringing her hands, almost as if she were not certain where to go or what to do.
“You should not,” he agreed. “If you are discovered here, you will be ruined. Since you have already expressed your marked disinterest in marrying me, I suggest you go.”
His words emerged with a bitterness he regretted the moment they were spoken. For they hung in the air between them, vibrating like a remonstration.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked, her gaze searching his.
Of course he did not. She was finally precisely where he wanted her, within his reach. And yet, he could not bring himself to do any of the things he had told himself he must to win her. The thought of making himself vulnerable to her made him want to retch.
“Why have you come?” he asked instead.
“I could not stay away.” Her voice was soft. So soft, he had to strain to hear her. “I needed to see for myself just how ill you were.”
Her concern filled him with warmth. But the trepidation lingered, tightening into a knot in his gut. Perhaps she cared for him, but that did not mean she wished to marry him any more now than she had on the previous two occasions when he had posed the question.
He cleared his throat, feeling deuced awkward, and said nothing.
They each stood rooted to their respective spots, she in the middle of his chamber, and he on the periphery. It all seemed somehow symbolic. Christabella Winter was the life of a chamber. He was, as she had rightly pointed out, frigid as an icicle while she was the flame.
Despite hoping she would come to him, now that she finally had, he could not help but think perhaps a marriage between them would be a mistake. Could he ever be what she needed?
“Will you not say anything?” she asked.
He wanted to speak, but the affliction had returned with a vengeance. It settled in his throat, choking him.
