She went willingly into his arms.
The string quartet, recognising their approach, shifted into a waltz. Martin's hand settled at her waist, his fingers interlacing with hers, and they began to move.
"Do you remember the first time we danced?" he asked.
"The Thornfield ball. I was seventeen." She smiled at the memory. "You stepped on my foot."
"I was distracted."
"By what?"
"By you." His grip tightened. "You were wearing a yellow dress, and you had flowers in your hair, and when you smiled at me, I forgot how my own feet worked."
"You never told me that."
"I never told you a great many things." His voice was soft. "I wasted so much time being silent. Being afraid."
"We both did."
"Yes. But no more." He spun her gently, the room blurring around them. "From now on, I intend to tell you everything. Every thought, every feeling, every ridiculous observation that crosses my mind. You will grow so tired of my confessions that you will beg me to return to my former taciturn ways."
"I doubt that very much."
"We shall see." He pulled her closer, his breath warm against her ear. "I cherish you, Vanessa. I have since you were seventeen and wore flowers in your hair. I have adored you through six years of silence and longing…and when I read your letters and discovered that, impossibly, miraculously, you felt the same way too. I shall cherish you for the rest of my life, through every argument and every joy and every ordinary moment in between."
Her eyes burned. “Upon my word…you spoke with such passion.”
"I have been practicing."
"In the mirror?"
"In the carriage on the way to the church, actually. Edward threatened to have me committed."
She laughed, blinking back tears.
“You have my devotion and my heart is yours.”
Around them, the wedding breakfast continued the guests were laughing, champagne was flowing, Aunt Bertha regaling yet another audience with the tale of her matchmaking genius. But for this moment, in this dance, there was only the two of them.
Vanessa rested her head against Martin's shoulder and let out a breath she felt she had been holding for six years.
"Happy?" he murmured.
"Deliriously," she said. "Impossibly. Terrifyingly."
"Excellent." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "So am I."
The waltz carried them on, spinning them through the golden afternoon light. Six years of waiting. Six years of silence and longing and letters never meant to be sent.
And now, finally, forever.
***
Much later, when the guests had departed and the candles had burned low, Vanessa found herself alone with her husband in the library of Montehood House.
Their library now. Their home. Their life.
Martin stood by the fireplace, coat discarded, cravat loosened, looking more relaxed than she had ever seen him. In his hands, he held a familiar bundle of papers, her letters, tied with the same faded ribbon.
