“You don’t know me?” Venetia managed.
“No, but—” He moved closer. “No one should suffer alone.”
The words broke something in her chest. Here he was, offering comfort to a stranger because he couldn’t bear to see pain. This was why she loved him. Not because he was handsome and clever. But because he was the kind of man who couldn’t walk past suffering.
Even when it was inappropriate. Even when it might compromise him.
Oh, Edward.
“Edward.”
His name slipped out and she heard the longing in her tone.
Just as she saw recognition hit—his body going rigid, his breath catching.
“Venetia?” It was barely a whisper.
“I thought you wouldn’t come—” She swallowed, then added, “But you’re going away, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Miss Bentley told me.”
He didn’t refute it.
Miss Bentley had eagerly supplied the details. Three years in Constantinople stretched between them. Three years of him buried in diplomatic translations while she was parceled off to some suitable husband. The thought made her reckless.
Well, if propriety had already fled, why not honesty?
“Edward, if you leave—”
“Don’t.” But his protest died as she stepped close enough to touch, her gloved hands framing his face through the mask. The wool of his scholar’s hood rasped softly beneath her fingertips; his skin was warm where lips accidentally brushed his jaw below the edge of the satin.
His breath hitched. So did hers. The cool night air smelled of orange blossom and candle smoke, but beneath it was the quieter, steadier scent that was uniquely Edward—clean linen, ink, a whisper of some bitter shaving soap. It grounded her. Made everything else—gold tiaras, Venetian gossip, Count di Serpentine—fade into irrelevance.
“I love you,” she said, the words pouring out before courage failed. “I’ve loved you since I was eight years old. If that means nothing, tell me now.”
There. I’ve said it. I can’t take it back. Mortification or happiness—one of those is coming.
His eyes closed as if her confession caused physical pain. “Venetia, I have nothing. A salary. No prospects beyond what my own work—”
“I don’t care.”
“Your fortune, your position—”
“Mean nothing without you.”
Why was this so difficult for him to understand?
She could feel the war inside him, see it in thetension in his shoulders, the way his hands opened and closed at his sides as if fighting the urge to seize her and push her away at once.
He stood so close now she could count the rise and fall of his chest. The fabric of his robe brushed her skirts; a single movement would have them flush together. Heat seeped across the small space between them, awareness prickling over her skin like sparks from a fire.
“We cannot—” he began hoarsely.
“We already have,” she whispered. “You said you’d rather see me safe and happy than have anything for yourself. This is what makes me happy, Edward. You.”
His gaze dropped helplessly to her mouth, then jerked away, as if even looking were an indulgence he had no right to.
She watched the moment his resolve shattered, the exact heartbeat when duty loosened its grip and love tightened its own. The line of his jaw eased; something raw and unguarded flared in his eyes. He stopped fighting what they both wanted. His hands rose and covered hers where they cupped his face, his fingers dwarfing her gloved ones.
“God help me, I love you beyond reason,” he whispered. “You are my heart.”
