Martin Hale, Duke of Montehood, finally knew that Vanessa Wayworth held him in the highest esteem…had the deepest affection for him since she was sixteen years old.
And Vanessa had absolutely no idea what she was going to do about it.
Chapter Four
"You need to eat something."
Vanessa stared at the plate of toast that had been placed before her, the fourth plate of toast in as many hours and felt her stomach turn. Aunt Bertha hovered beside the bed, wringing her hands, her face a mask of guilt and desperate hopefulness.
"I am not hungry."
"But you must eat. You have not eaten since yesterday. Your mother will notice, and then she will ask questions, and…"
"Then let her ask questions." Vanessa's voice came out flat, lifeless. She had not slept. Had not moved from her bed except when absolutely necessary. Had simply lain there, staring at the ceiling, while her mind played an endless loop of horrors.
Martin, sitting at his desk, opening the first letter.Dear Martin, I despise you.
Martin, reading about how she watched him across ballrooms, cataloguing his every movement like some obsessed creature.
Martin, discovering that she had compared every suitor to him for six years and found them all wanting.
Martin understanding that she held him in the highest regard…and that she had, in truth, long harbored a settled affection for him…had completely mortified her.
The images would not stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, that mocking smile, those grey eyes, the expression of amused pity he would surely wear when next they met.Poor little Wayworth. So desperately in love with me all these years. How terribly sad.
She imagined him showing the letters to his friends at the club, passing them around for general amusement.You will not believe what Edward's little sister has been writing to me. Sixyears of romantic letters! The poor creature cannot seem to help herself.She imagined the laughter, the knowing looks and the whispers that would follow her through every ballroom for the rest of her miserable life.
Did you hear about Lady Vanessa Wayworth? Wrote affectionate letters to the Duke of Montehood for years. Desperately in love with him. So pathetic.
A cold dread seized her. She wanted to be swallowed by the earth and vanish into nothingness. This was her only desire, for the humiliation that sat upon the horizon was a burden her spirit could not hope to sustain.
"Vanessa, please." Aunt Bertha's voice cracked. "I cannot bear to see you like this. If there were anything I could do…if I could take it back…"
"You cannot take it back. No one can take it back." Vanessa finally turned to look at her aunt, seeing the tears that threatened to spill down those lined cheeks. The anger she wanted to feel would not come. How could she rage at Aunt Bertha, who had only ever wanted to help? It would be like screaming at a child for breaking a vase they did not know was valuable.
"I know you meant well," she said, softening her voice with effort. "I know you were trying to help. But please, Aunt Bertha…I need to be alone and think."
"Of course. Of course, dear. I shall just…I shall be in my room, if you require anything at all." Aunt Bertha backed toward the door, still wringing her hands. "Perhaps later you might want some soup? Cook makes a lovely soup. Very restorative."
"Perhaps later."
The door closed, and Vanessa was alone again with her thoughts.
She pulled the covers over her head like a child hiding from monsters. The darkness was a small comfort, at least here,in this cocoon of blankets and despair, no one could see her. No one could witness the complete and utter dissolution of Lady Vanessa Wayworth, who had always been so composed, so controlled, so utterly impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
What a monstrous absurdity. It was a farce of the most cruel and ridiculous nature.
She had spentyearsbuilding walls around her heart, learning to control her expressions, her words, her every interaction with Martin. She had become so skilled at hiding her feelings that even Helena, who knew her better than anyone, had only recently begun to suspect the depth of her attachment.
And now all of that careful work had been undone. Every wall she had built, every defense she had constructed, every lie she had told herself about being over him, all of it rendered meaningless by a stack of letters that should never have left her writing desk.
Three days. The letters had been at Montehood House for three days before she even knew they were gone. What had Martin been doing during those three days? Had he read them immediately, devouring every word with that keen intelligence that made him so infuriating? Had he laughed at her naivety, her hopeless devotion? Had he shared them with friends, passing around her most intimate thoughts like party favors?
Or had he set them aside, busy with other matters, the stack of letters sitting unopened on his desk? Perhaps his secretary had received them and, not recognizing the handwriting, had placed them in a pile of correspondence to be dealt with later. Perhaps, even now, her secrets were sitting in a neglected corner of Montehood House, waiting to be discovered, or perhaps forgotten entirely.
The hope was thin, fragile as spun glass but she clung to it anyway, because the alternative was unbearable.
She thought about all the things she had written over the years. The early letters, from when she was sixteen and seventeen, full of girlish infatuation and breathless declarations.You are the most handsome man I have ever seen. When you smile, I forget how to breathe. I find myself eternally haunted by your likeness, a distraction I have neither the power nor the will to suppress.
