Chapter Twenty-two
Heathcliff ran his fingers over the engraved invitation. A deep orchid color, it was evocative, sensual, and promising. It was the promising part that speared through him. Promising because he knew each gentleman who would receive one would immediately accept it. It was worded so carefully, with enough information to tease but not to give away anything. Men would attend to satisfy their curiosity, that and because he was the host.
He never hosted parties in Scotland.
Yet they all knew he did in London.
But those parties weren’t of the proper variety. They had worded the invitation carefully, to make sure it was clear this party was indeed of the proper variety, but one could never be completely sure. He’d have to watch Miranda, make sure no one got the wrong idea. Of course, that was the perfect excuse to keep her close during the party, and he was willing to hold on to any excuse available.
He studied the gold lettering on the invitation; then his gaze lingered on the color once more. Why was it that purple reminded him of her? What was it that made such a connection between the two in his mind? Perhaps she had worn a dress of that color, or maybe he just instinctively knew it would be a lovely color against her creamy skin; regardless, the connection between the color and the woman was permanent in his mind, for better or worse.
He set down the thick paper and strode to the window. It was night, darkness covering everything like a warm blanket of privacy. But he felt restless, like a caged tiger.
And he knew why.
With each day that had passed since their excursion to Princes Street, he’d kept his distance from Miss Miranda. It was too bloody difficult to be around her and keep his hands to himself, and he had nothing to offer her, at least nothing enduring, and she needed more than just a momentary escape.
She needed a permanent rescue.
And he was anything but a knight in shining armor. He was more the villain who kidnapped the fair maiden in the first place.
And wasn’t even repentant about it.
She deserved a rescue, a lasting one, which meant marriage. It was the only way her father would give up on finding and lording over her. In his mind, Heathcliff understood the logic of it all. But somewhere between his heart and his mind, the translation had become muddled, and he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. So he’d stayed away, though the distance hadn’t helped.
It had only compounded everything.
Lucas hadn’t been any help either, always suggesting he ask Miss Miranda her opinion about some aspect of the party, or inquiring about her, as if he bloody well knew the answer.
Which he didn’t.
That only reminded him that there were layers and layers of her likes, dislikes, preferences, and ideas to uncover, like a present that never fully stopped bringing forth delights.
But those delights weren’t for him.
They were for someone else, someone better, worthy, someone capable of being her savior.
And the whole miserable cycle would start over again, leaving him in the hell that was his life.
And to think, he had eagerly anticipated returning to Scotland. It was laughable. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to London, not when she was here.
His life was a damn Greek tragedy.
He paced the floor of his rooms, the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth as he padded from one end of the room to the other. His pace was a lazy amble, but his mind still churned furiously. He glanced up and saw his reflection in a mirror, the low light of the fire shadowing his face. Gone was the devil-may-care grin and the charm that had smoothed his way through life, replaced with tension, uncertainty, and something else he couldn’t quite name. What had changed? Or maybe nothing had changed, just had been brought to the surface, and he didn’t like what he saw.
No one liked realizing that maybe what you thought you’d overcome only had been swept beneath the carpet, waiting to rear its ugly head.
It was easier to pretend, to be charming and engaging, than to deal with the demons within, yet that was exactly what he found himself doing, night after night.
All because of her.
All because he knew he wanted her and couldn’t have her.
Because some misbegotten shred of decency remained, and he couldn’t cross that line. As much as he wanted to.
Because what if that line was all that was left of the good within him? What if, when he, if he, crossed that line, it would be the end of the man he once was?
It was easier to be the man he wanted others to think he was. Though he was lying as much to himself as to others. Either way, he was damned. He didn’t know why he cared so much.
