"Little Wayworth." The nickname fell from his lips with familiar ease, carrying no hint of awkwardness or hidden meaning. "What a pleasant surprise. I had hoped to find your mother, but you are a far more agreeable sight."
Vanessa could not speak nor move. She could only stare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the mockery, the pity and the awkward acknowledgment of what he now knew.
It did not come.
"I must say, you look rather pale," Martin continued, strolling into the room as though he had every right to be there. He moved with that easy grace that had always characterised him, utterly at home in his own skin. "I hope you are not coming down with something. Your mother mentioned you had been unwell."
"I…" Her voice came out as a croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I am perfectly well. Thank you for your concern."
"Are you? You do not look perfectly well. You have turned as pale as a shroud. Pray, has some spectre crossed your path?” He settled into the chair across from her, crossing one long leg over the other with casual elegance. "Or perhaps you are simply displeased to see me. That would be more in character."
This was wrong. This was all wrong. He should not be acting like this, relaxed, teasing and utterly normal. He should be looking at her with pity, or embarrassment, or the particular discomfort of a man who has learned something he wishes he did not know.
Unless.
Unless he had not read them.
The thought struck her like lightning, sudden and blinding. What if Aunt Bertha's letters had arrived but Martin had not opened them? What if they were sitting in a pile of correspondence somewhere, waiting to be sorted through by a secretary or a butler? What if…against all odds, against all probability, her prayers had been answered and her secrets remained secret?
Hope bloomed in her chest, fragile and terrifying. She tried to crush it down, hope had betrayed her too many times before, but it refused to be extinguished.
"I am not displeased to see you," she managed. "I am merely... surprised. I did not expect you to call."
"Did you not? I call on your family every Season. It would be strange if I did not." His smile widened, showing teeth. "Besides, I promised Edward I would look in on you. He mentioned you had been out of sorts, and he seemed concerned."
"Edward worries too much."
"Edward barely worries at all, which is why his concern caught my attention." Martin's gaze was steady on her face, searching. "Is something troubling you, Vanessa? You seem... different."
Different.If only he knew how different. If only he knew that she was sitting across from him, having a perfectly normal conversation, while internally she was screaming.
"I am simply tired from the journey," she said, grasping for any excuse. "The roads were dreadful, and I did not sleep well."
"Ah. The eternal curse of London travel." He nodded sympathetically. "I made the journey from my country estate last week and nearly lost a wheel outside of Reading. The whole experience was thoroughly miserable."
"I am sorry to hear that."
"Do not be. Misery builds character, or so I am told." He was watching her with that familiar intensity, the look that always made her feel as though he could see straight through her careful defenses. "Though I suspect you have quite enough character already. Any more and you would be entirely insufferable."
It was such aMartinthing to say teasing, slightly cutting, wrapped in the veneer of a compliment, that Vanessa felt something in her chest unclench. This was normal. This was how they always interacted. If he had read the letters, surely he wouldnot be sitting here, bantering with her as though nothing had changed.
The relief that washed over her was so intense it nearly made her dizzy. He had not read them. He could not have. No gentleman, upon discovering a lady’s devotion and attachment of six years, could so far forget the claims of delicacy as to trifle with her character.
Unless he was an even better actor than she had given him credit for.
No. She pushed the thought away. She could not afford to doubt this fragile relief. She needed to believe that her secrets were safe, that the letters had been discarded or lost or ignored, that Martin remained blissfully ignorant of her feelings.
It was the only way she could survive the next few minutes without completely falling apart.
"I shall take that as a compliment," she said, and was surprised to find her voice steady.
"You may take it however you wish. I merely state facts." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Speaking of insufferable, I understand Lord Deane has been paying you particular attention. Should I offer my congratulations, or my condolences?"
The question caught her off guard. "Neither. Lord Deane is merely…we are merely acquaintances."
"Acquaintances who take tea together and discuss agricultural reform, from what I hear." Martin's tone was light, but something flickered in his expression, there and gone too quickly to identify. "He seems quite taken with you."
"How would you know what Lord Deane seems?"
