“Because you wouldn’t marry me if you had to rely on my support. Now you don’t have to do that.”
For a moment she looked at him, curiosity warring with her damned stubbornness. “You’ve left me other reasons to refuse you.”
“Yes, I have. About those,” he said, and with a nervous breath he hoped she didn’t notice, he reached into his breast pocket to produce a folded piece of parchment. “I hope this will help to dispel them.” He slid the paper through the bars.
She hesitated, then took it. “What is it?”
“Don’t read it yet. Wait until this evening. When you’re alone, preferably.”
“All right.” Alexandra gazed at it, then returned her attention to him. “Do you intend to wait here all night, then?”
“No. I have to get back to London. Robert wants to wed Rose before the end of the Season, while everyone’s still in town.”
“Then this is good-bye again.”
“I hope not,” he murmured, wishing he could simply pull her into his arms and make her let go of everything that caused her to hold on to her stubborn independence. “I want you to marry me, Alexandra. But I won’t ask you again. Read that. If you feel inclined to travel, I’ll be at Balfour House until the tenth of August.” He reached through the gate again, but she eluded his grasp. “The next time, Alexandra, you have to ask me.” He smiled. “But I’ll say yes.”
A tear ran down her soft, smooth cheek. “I won’t ask.”
“I hope you will.” He released the gate and backed toward Faust. “I’ll see you soon.”
Turning his back and riding away was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He wanted her—needed her—in his life. If she chose not to follow, he would at least know that he’d done everything he could. If that wasn’t enough, if she didn’t care for him as much as he cared for her…well, he’d have a lifetime to torture himself with those questions.
As he reached the first curve in the road, he looked over his shoulder toward the Academy’s gates. She was gone.
Alexandra stuffed the parchment into the pocket of her pelisse and hurried back to the main building. It would never do for Lucien to see her standing at the gate and blubbering like an infant as he rode away.
She was crying so hard that she ran into Emma before she even noticed her friend lurking near the front doorway. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said raggedly, between sniffles.
Wordlessly Emma handed her a kerchief.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose. “He’s just impossible. I should never have gone out to see him.”
“You ended it?”
“I ended it in London. He just didn’t want to listen to me.” A group of girls on their way out for their daily walk passed by them. “There was never any ‘it,’ anyway,” she said more quietly, when they’d gone.
“Anyone watching the two of you would have trouble believing that. Why can’t you simply admit that you care for him?”
Wiping her eyes again, Alexandra started up the stairs to her tiny private room, Emma on her heels. “I don’t know. Because he expects me to, I suppose. He decides I’m going to fall in love with him, and so I do.”
“And that’s not the way it’s supposed to be?”
“Oh, he’s just so damned sure of himself.”
A chorus of giggles rained down on them from the stair landing above. Wonderful. Now she was teaching profanity to her students.
Emma grimaced. “I know you’re overwrought, Miss Gallant,” she said in a carrying voice, “but didn’t you mean to say ‘dashed’?”
“Yes, I did, Miss Grenville. My apologies.”
The headmistress tucked her arm around Alexandra’s as they continued up the stairs. “At least it’s over with,” she stated. “And we have the recitals this afternoon to take your mind off your troubles.”
“Yes, thank goodness,” Alexandra muttered, though she was fairly certain that nothing was over with, and she knew the recitals wouldn’t stop her thinking about Lucien for one blasted second.
She fidgeted all afternoon. Usually she enjoyed the weekly recitals, for some of the Academy’s students played exceptionally well. Today, though, all she could think about was the piece of paper in her pocket, and Lucien saying he wouldn’t pursue her any longer. That was precisely what she wanted, of course—no one trying to use her for his own ends, or judging her by someone else’s actions.
If only she could stop thinking about him—about how much she enjoyed conversing with him, and how she longed for his kisses and his touch—she would realize how perfectly happy she was.
