"I have eyes, little Wayworth. And I have known Deane since we were boys at Eton. He was always the earnest sort, forever worried about doing the right thing, being the proper gentleman." Martin's lip curled slightly. "He does not discusscrop rotation with just anyone. The fact that he subjected you to that particular passion suggests a level of interest that goes beyond mere acquaintance."
"Perhaps I enjoy discussions of crop rotation."
"Do you?"
"I might. You do not know everything about me."
"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to something lower, more serious. "I do not. Though I confess I would like to."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with an intensity that made her breath catch. What did he mean by that? Was he simply making conversation, or was there something more beneath the surface?
Before she could respond, Martin seemed to catch himself. His expression smoothed back into its usual mask of lazy amusement, the moment of seriousness vanishing as though it had never been.
“Be that as it may, Deane would make a perfectly acceptable husband, I do believe as he is steady…reliable… The sort of man who would never give you a moment's trouble."
Steady…reliable.The same words he had used at the ball, spoken with the same faint edge of contempt.
"You say that as though it were a fault," Vanessa said.
"Do I? I did not mean to. Steadiness is an admirable quality in a horse, or a piece of furniture." His eyes returned to hers, sharp and knowing. "Whether it is whatyourequire is another matter entirely."
"And what would you know about what I require?"
The words came out sharper than she intended, charged with six years of frustrated longing. Martin's eyebrows rose, and for just a moment,his composure seemed to waver.
"Nothing, apparently," he said quietly. "I apologise if I overstepped."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with things unsaid. Vanessa's heart was pounding again, though for entirely different reasons than before. What was happening? What was this strange tension between them, this undercurrent of meaning she could not quite grasp?
Before she could speak, the drawing room door opened and Lady Wayworth swept in.
"Lord Montehood! How delightful. I thought I heard your voice." She sailed across the room to greet him, all gracious smiles and maternal warmth. "I was just telling Vanessa that we have not seen nearly enough of you this Season. You must come to dinner. Say you will come to dinner."
Martin rose, bowing over her hand with practiced elegance. "I would be honored, Lady Wayworth. You need only name the date."
"Wonderful. Shall we say Thursday? I am hosting a small gathering, nothing elaborate, just a few close friends. Edward will be there, of course, and I believe the Crawfords are attending. Miss Crawford is such a dear girl…I have always been fond of her."
"Miss Crawford is indeed a lovely young woman," Martin agreed. "Edward speaks of her often."
"Does he?" Lady Wayworth's eyes sharpened with interest. "How very interesting. Well. Thursday, then. Shall we say eight o'clock?"
"Thursday at eight would suit me admirably."
Vanessa watched this exchange with growing alarm. Thursday. Martin would be in her home on Thursday, sitting at her dinner table, making conversation with her family. The prospect should have filled her with dread—more time spent in his presence, more opportunities for awkward silences and loaded glances.
Instead, she felt... something else. Something dangerously close to anticipation.
He has not read them,she reminded herself.He does not know. Everything is fine.
But was it? Was everything fine? Or was she simply trading one form of torment for another, the agony of exposure replaced by the familiar ache of wanting something she could not have?
"I should take my leave," Martin said, consulting his pocket watch. "I have imposed on your hospitality long enough."
"Nonsense. You are always welcome here." Lady Wayworth beamed at him with the particular warmth she reserved for eligible dukes and other highly desirable connections. "Vanessa, dear, why do you not see Lord Montehood to the door? I must speak with Cook about Thursday's menu."
She departed before Vanessa could protest, leaving her alone with Martin and the sudden, terrifying prospect of walking beside him through the house.
"Shall we?" He offered his arm with a slight smile.
