5
I did not go to my own accommodations. I had a good idea of what lurked behind Stoker’s cool reception of me, and I knew precisely how to overcome it. I went directly to the room Tiberius had arranged for Stoker and scratched upon the door. There was a pause before he opened it, just a little, his body blocking my access to the room.
“Yes?”
“Let me in,” I said, putting my hands to his chest and pushing a little. It was akin to trying to move a tree trunk. He did not so much as waver under the pressure of my palms. “I want to speak with you,” I told him. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
How many times had I envisioned this exact meeting, torn between an urge to rap his knuckles soundly for his impetuous departure and a rampageous desire to bear him away to the nearest bed and inflict such sweet punishments!
And now the moment was at hand, I felt a fizzing in my blood, an ancient drumbeat of timeless anticipation, a heady commingling of souls and selves—
“We can speak here just as easily as inside,” Stoker told me,breaking into my reverie with a tone so cool he might have been speaking to the chambermaid.
“Very well,” I said, folding my hands together. “I received a letter from Harry after your departure from London. It seems we were labouring under a misapprehension. I am unmarried,” I said slowly, infusing each word with meaning. “The wedding licence was never signed. He sent me proof of the thing. He is not my husband.”
For a moment, Stoker said nothing,didnothing. Not by the flicker of an eyelash or the sharp inhalation of his breath did he betray his feelings.
I prodded him gently with a finger. “Stoker?”
He roused himself to speak, seemingly with a great effort. I had expected an eruption of temper, a lavish display of his delicious ferocity, but instead he sounded entirely bereft of animation.
“It did not occur to you to write to me this news?” His voice was dangerously soft.
“I thought it best to tell you myself.” I took half a step forward. “Whatever distance Harry has put between us, there is no need for it.”
“I did not leave because of Harry,” he reminded me. “I left because you could not confide in me. When you had the greatest need of support, of understanding, you chose to hold your secrets close instead of coming to me. You are as elusive as one of your bloody butterflies, Veronica. And when at last we are brought together again, it is under such circumstances as these,” he said, spreading his hands in sudden frustration.
I blinked in surprise. “Really, Stoker, I cannot believe your intransigence. I may have travelled in Tiberius’ company, but there was nothing except perfect friendship between us. You have no cause for jealousy, I assure you.”
The expressive brows drew together. “Jealousy? You think me jealous? Of Tiberius?” To my astonishment, he burst out laughing.Stoker’s laugh is, upon most occasions, warm and rich and beguiling. In this context, it was merely annoying.
“Well, yes. I do think you are jealous. I have spent the summer travelling in his company, in conditions of some intimacy, and it is apparent to the most casual observer that our connection is a close one. Anyone might have leapt to the wrong conclusions, although I must tell you this particular conclusion requires a jump over an especially broad chasm.”
His smile was one of cool mockery.
“My dear Veronica, credit me with enough perspicacity to know that Tiberius, while blessed with the morals of a not very particular tomcat, would think it beneath his dignity as a gentleman to seduce a woman attached to his own brother. And although you live by your own Byzantine code of ethics, you would likewise consider it a crime against decency to climb into Tiberius’ bed. The notion that the two of you might have been disporting yourselves around Italy is not my grievance.”
“Then what is?” I demanded.
Anger flared in his eyes. “Six months,” he told me. “Six months without a word from you. Not a letter. Not a telegram. Not a carrier pigeon. Not even a bloody postcard. Instead, you let me go haring off to Germany without protest, without objection.”
“You asked me for time,” I reminded him hotly. “And I gave it you! I was respecting your wish for some distance so you could gain perspective on our relationship. What would you have had me do? Run after you? Throw myself at your feet? Drag you back to England?”
“Yes,” he said succinctly. “To all.”
“You cannot seriously expect me to believe that you wanted me to engage in such histrionics. One might as well be Italian.”
I smiled at the joke, but no answering grin touched his lips. His expression was serious as he leant forward, his gaze fixed upon mine,his voice unaccountably soft. “Veronica, I have loved you always. I love you still. And I will love you so long as time endures. I have proven the depth of my affection by every conceivable means, including risking certain death to save your life.”
He leant closer still, a breath all that divided us. My lips parted in anticipation. Just before his mouth would have touched mine, he stopped. “But I am finished with running after you and dancing to your tune. It. Is. Your. Turn.”
“What the devil does that mean?” I demanded.
“Veronica, you are the cleverest woman I have ever known. Apply your deductive powers and work it out for yourself.”
With that, he stepped smartly back into his room and closed the door. As I stood there, reeling from his words, I heard the bolt slide home with quiet decisiveness.
Applying a forceful kick to the door seemed, in retrospect, not the most dignified of responses. Nor was it particularly wise, given the thinness of my slippers. I hobbled back to my room nursing what I was certain would prove to be a broken toe and a bruised sense of amour propre.
