He thought he saw her cheeks color a bit, but that was the only reaction he received. Yet, it was something, and he determined to continue in that vein. “The color of your gown complements you quite well. I find myself wondering what color it has turned your eyes.”
Finally, she looked up, confusion written on her furrowed brow.
“I admit it is one of my favorite things to guess—that is, whether your eyes will be green or blue on any given day or in any given light. Might I?” He gestured to the seat beside her, but she only blinked.
It was not a refusal, though, so he quickly transferred to her side of the carriage. He felt her stiffen beside him when he turned to face her. He waited until she relaxed; he wouldn’t force his attention on her. When she finally breathed out a small sigh, he gently placed his hand beneath her chin and tilted it up. For a moment, her eyes remained closed, but then, as if she could not help the action, they opened.
Their proximity nearly took his breath away, but he covered his reaction and tsked softly. “I am afraid with this poor lighting I cannot very well tell.” They were blue. A beautiful blue, but if he told her that, he would have to release her.
She bit her lip, and he glanced down before meeting her eyes again. Would kissing her bring a smile to her face? It would certainly help his mood.
His heart beat erratically while her eyes searched his. He leaned closer still, feeling her breath against his cheek. More than anything, he wished to close the distance between them, but he would not do so without her consent.Lean in, Amelia. Please.
She blinked twice, her eyes darting toward his lips. But she did not move. His hand slipped to cup her jaw, feeling the light tickle of her curls against his fingertips. In his chest, his heart rate had surely reached unhealthy levels.
Abruptly, she turned away.
His hand fell dejectedly, but the hand was nowhere near as disappointed as Edward was himself. He swallowed, then pulled in a stuttering breath. Amelia was once again not looking at him, and he felt the loss of her gaze acutely. Everything in him begged to reach for her, to tell her he loved her. But then he remembered what had stopped him from doing so this morning. She was not fully aware of his past yet, and she deserved to be.
Suddenly, he was grateful she had not allowed him to kiss her again. If she had, he may have been tempted to hold the information within, rather than risk losing the most important thing in his life. But that was not fair to her. He might have told Lady Cromwell hardly a month before that he had no need for love, that he did not need a genuine connection, but that was a sham of the worst sort.
In the time since, he had come to realize that while such a relationship terrified him beyond belief, it was the one thing he craved nearly as much as he craved Amelia. No—just as much, because they were one and the same. Loving Amelia and hopefully earning her love in return was not possible if she did not know who he was. Love was not love if not founded on trust and shared understanding. If she did not lovehim, what did it all matter anyway?
“Amelia,” he said of a sudden, unable to keep the words within any longer. “We were never able to finish our conversation this morning.” He heard her take a sharp breath but continued. “I need you to know the truth, Amelia. I need you to know the man you married.”
She looked at him with such a look devoid of emotion that Edward faltered. But he could not stop here. He had to continue.
“It is true, what London says. I refused to marry many a woman. I played a part in their ruination. But youmustknow—”
She raised a hand, her expression almost desperate.
“Please. Stop.” Her eyes no longer lacked feeling. In fact, they now nearly spilled over with any number of emotions, none of them particularly bolstering. “I know, Edward. You need not tell me. Especially not now. I need to focus on my sister tonight and my family. I cannot havethison my mind. I was always aware of your reputation. How could I not be? But what I have learned of late makes it hard to even speak with you now. Please. Please do not make me have to hear it all again from your lips.” Her eyes were on his cravat as she spoke, and the words were fiery, but even amidst it all, the true fire within her never showed. Only exhaustion and perhaps... disappointment?
He was stunned, confused, mad with sudden panic. What did she mean? What could she mean?
“Is it the scars?” he asked, the words fleeing his mouth before he could determine the brilliance of speaking them. “I saw them. I saw your scars, and I do not care one whit. Is that what holds you back from me?”
“I—” Her chest rose and fell, and she did not meet his eyes. “I... no.”
That was all. And it was all she had time for, regardless, as the carriage door was opened enabling her to turn and step into the night with finality.
***
Amelia tucked her emotions deep within the barricades of the crumbling walls around her heart. She would not cry. She would not scream. She would do nothing that would give Society and her family more reason to disdain her.
Edward appeared at her elbow as she ascended the stairs to her father’s mansion. Activity bustled about her: horses neighing, the sound of carriages on stone, the rustling of gowns, the chattering of guests. And yet, when Edward took her arm and threaded it through his own, she heard none of it. She felt only his warmth and the longing that had been building within her for weeks now. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the moment in the carriage. He’d almost kissed her again.
She’d almost let him.
But her poor heart cried out to her to leave it be, to not rent it any further, to cease trampling it whenever Edward was near.
She loved him.
And she hated that fact.
How could she ever trust this man who had been with veritable throngs of women? Four more letters had come before the ball. Coombs had been holding another when she came down to depart even that evening. How could she reconcile the man she wished he was—the kind, caring, teasing man—with the dishonorable and flippant man he must have been only a month or two before? Even if he had changed, even if he was no longer the scoundrel he had been for years, how could she trust that the change was lasting? She couldn’t. And she couldn’t risk her heart to such a man. Her family had beaten the poor organ into a tiny box already, she did not think it could handle any more.
She was well aware that any breach of trust from Edward would cause far more damage than anything her family could do. Some part of her seemed to have known all along that something of this sort would happen eventually. That must be the reason she never felt she could trust him with the scars—though keeping those from him had not even worked. The knowledge that he knew of them, of her greatest imperfection, was enough to make her want to shrink back to the carriage and flee his presence. No one but her family and a handful of servants knew of her scars. And every one of her family had been disgusted by them. Had hidden them. The servants had not disagreed with that choice.
