A smile entered his eyes. “It is, to me.”
He released her then, and slipping one hand about her fingers, he said in the most normal of tones, “I want to show you something.”
He led her across the driveway, and into the patch of ground that separated her lodging from the Ruishtons’ house. They walked in silence, Verena a touch mystified, until they were more or less in the centre of the ground. There, Denzell released her and stepped back to look at her.
“We talked here once, but that is not what makes it dear to me.” He drew a breath of deepest satisfaction. “This, Verena, is where I first saw you. You were building that snowman, and your guard was down. I caught sight of your beauty, and I was dumbfounded. Then you laughed — I have the image of it imprinted on my memory. And you know what I think? The real Verena floated there and then, right into my heart. You see, I never truly believed in the existence of that other beauty — serene, and exquisitely polite.”
Verena stared at him in mute fascination. Could it be true? Was it possible that she also, despite her instant damping down of the betraying sensations, had lost her heart to him the very first time they met? No, it could not be so.
She shifted her gaze, plucking aimlessly at her white muslin petticoats. “I do not know how this has happened. I have been fighting for so long — not to feel.”
“But you do feel,” Denzell said. “Can you deny it?”
Verena shook her head, still not looking at him. “I have tried to deny it. It would be — it would be a lie to say I don’t love you.”
He moved a step closer. “Then say you do. It isn’t so hard, Verena.”
Slowly she brought her eyes up to meet his. His heart sank at the confusion in them still. She did not speak, but her lips quivered, and it was all he could do not to snatch her into his embrace, overbearing her resistance, forcibly suppressing her doubts. A wisdom born of his knowledge of her held him back. If he wanted her whole heart, free of doubt, she must come to him of her own will. His voice was tender.
“What is it that troubles you, dear love?”
Verena caught her breath. “If I say it — if I make the admission, then I give my life into your hands forever. My life — my happiness — everything. It is so … final.”
Denzell reached out and with one finger caressed her cheek. “Nothing in this world is final. The only certain thing we have is our intentions, and even they may change. We cannot see into the future, my darling. Life itself is a gamble.”
“Then you can offer no better refuge than my grandfather!”
A gleam of mischief lit his eyes. “Oh, I think I can safely promise you that it will be far more amusing to marry me than to live with old man Chaceley.”
A choke of laughter escaped her, lightening her features a little. “I can readily believe that.” Then she frowned. “I only hope Mama can be happy there.”
“If she is not, at least you have the satisfaction of knowing her misery is not bought at the expense of any bodily hurts,” he said. “But, Verena, I think she will be happy. And I am sorry if I should offend you by this, but I believe she will be far happier than she could ever have been living alone with you.”
She sighed. “You do not offend me. I know it only too well. This past year has been — unimaginably hard. For both of us. But while we had no alternative…”
“You need no longer fear for her, my princess.”
She glanced up at his face, a puzzled look in her eyes. “Why do you call me that?”
He grinned. “Because that was how you first struck me. A fairy princess, catching at snowflakes.” He took her face between his hands. “So beautiful, so enchantingly vivacious, sowarm— and nothing like the ice maiden who depressed my pretensions in no uncertain manner the very first time we properly met.”
Verena gurgled. “If you only knew how hard it became for me to maintain that front in your presence.”
“I do know,” he told her, and bent his head to kiss her, very gently.
Verena sighed under the touch of his lips, and her hands came up to clasp about his back. She felt her face released, and his strong arms go about her, and the kiss intensified. That now familiar warmth invaded her breast. Remembering the fears to which this gave rise, she struggled a little, dropping her arms from about him and pushing at his chest. He released her mouth at once, pulling back, although his arms still encircled her.
“I will wait, Verena,” he uttered low-voiced. “If you wish it, I will wait. You will, after all, be living well within my reach at Pittlesthorp. But I warn you that I will lose no opportunity to press my suit — beyond the time when you are able to withstand me.”
She bit her lip, her eyes questioning. “Do you think that waiting will change me?”
He grimaced. “How can I tell? It may allow you to grow in confidence. In trust, perhaps.”
“And if you do not wait, what then?”
“Then I will marry you here in Tunbridge Wells and take you home as my wife.” He fetched a sigh. “I need scarcely say that the second option would be my preference, but I can understand you find it frightening.”
Yes, it was frightening, she thought. But to go among strangers, to resume her mask, to be obliged to pretend to a happiness she could not feel — without him? Oh, no. Unendurable.
