In that moment if he but asked her to, she’d pledge to wait for him. Her heart longed to hear the words that would validate the feelings that domineered every thought.
She hesitated, giving him the space to declare himself.
But he did not.
After a length of silence, she reached to smooth the golden tassels on the epaulet of his crimson coat. “You should go. Your uncle will be expecting you, and everyone will be gathering to say their farewells. If you do not hurry, you’ll be missed.” She managed a weak smile. “I’m certain mine is not the only feminine heart to break at your departure.”
But he did not join her smile. His blue eyes narrowed. His scent of outdoors and leather encircled her as he drew closer. “Yours is the only one that concerns me.”
The touch of his hand on her upper arm burned like fire, perilous and wild.
This had to stop.
Every touch, even every word, heaped torment on an already-tender heart. As it was now, they lived in different worlds. Even if he were not leaving, it did not matter what they wanted. Given the nature of the strained relationship between their families, any true union would be impossible. Her father and his uncle were bitter enemies. Both families would vehemently oppose a match between them.
When she returned home to Hollythorne House, she could indulge in tears. She could—and would—give voice to her broken heart and cry until she could feel nothing else. But now, she refused to allow his last sight of her to be one of her weeping.
“Take care of yourself, Anthony Welbourne.”
***
Anthony allowed his gaze to linger first on the dark chestnut hue of Charlotte’s windblown hair, then the gentle slope of her petite nose. Then the full curve of her lips that he knew so well.
She was right. He should return to his uncle’s.
Prolonging this farewell would not lessen the torment.
But his boots were fixed to the stone beneath him, heavy and weighted, as if the very moors were holding him captive, demanding that he speak.
The words—the declaration of his adoration—wrestled within him, begging to be uttered.
How could he depart without communicating to her the depth of his affection? If he’d had any inclination that a woman would have such a powerful impact on him, he never would have considered the officer’s commission. He might have even been content to work all his days at his uncle’s gristmill. But the commission had been purchased, and he was committed to an unalterable path.
And another truth, equally as valid and forceful, refused to be ignored. Even if he were free and had no commitments, Charlotte’s father would forbid a connection with a man bearing the surname Welbourne, let alone the fact that his social standing was far inferior to hers.
Despite their differences, she’d been an anchor to him in a time of transition. After nineteen years, his role was changing from dutiful nephew and mill worker to that of a soldier. He knew from the first moment he’d witnessed her struggling with a pony—with her flushed cheeks, wild hair, and dogged determination—that she’d laid claim to the concealed, sentimental parts of his heart. As of yet, she had not released it.
Her father’s travels had kept him away for the past several months. Throughout that time she’d easily escaped her ineffective chaperone’s lackluster supervision to spend the evening hours with him. During those precious times, she’d challenged him. Encouraged him. Allowed him to truly express himself in an environment that didn’t contest his plans for his future.
A relationship that started as curious infatuation had developed into the most important and influential of his being, and yet even when all seemed ideal, he held back his true feelings. At this late point, revealing his love for her would be a selfish act. Hemight never return from the war in America, and even if he did, asking her to wait for him would cause discord within her family. Just because he longed to say the words didn’t mean they were prudent.
The silent moments slipped by, and her chin began to tremble. Her high cheekbones flushed pink.
Every muscle in his body ached to reach out and comfort her, but he refrained. It would not be fair, perhaps even cruel, to give false hope to a situation that must end.
Instead, he leaned forward, indulged in a breath of her scent of lavender, and pressed his lips against her forehead. “Farewell, dearest Charlotte.”
Without looking at her, he turned.
He forced one step.
And then took another.
She did not call out to him.
She did not stop him.
And in time his own heart might heal. Then again, it might harden.
