"He was making certain I was steady."
“Is that the name we are to give it?”
"Edward…"
"I am not going to pry." He held up his hands in surrender. "Whatever is happening between you and Martin is your affair. But I will say this." He met her eyes, suddenly serious, all trace of teasing gone. "Be careful, Vanessa. Martin is my closest friend, and I hold him in the deepest of affections him like a brother. But he is also... complicated. More complicated than most people realise."
"I am aware that."
"Are you?" Edward's gaze searched her face. "I wonder sometimes if any of us truly know Martin. He hides so much beneath that charming exterior. There are endless layers that one must wonder if there is any solid principle to be found at the center of the maze.”
It was perhaps the most insightful thing her brother had ever said. Vanessa felt a sudden surge of affection for him, for his unexpected wisdom, for his concern, for the way he was trying to protect her without smothering her.
"I will be careful," she promised. "I always am."
"See that you are." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a rare gesture of brotherly tenderness. "Now. I am going to the club. Try not to fall down any more stairs while I am gone."
He departed, leaving Vanessa alone in the entrance hall with her racing heart and her spinning thoughts.
She stood there for a long moment, replaying the events of the past hour. Martin's arrival. His perfectly normal behavior. His teasing, his banter, his utter lack of awkwardness or pity. And then…
His arms around her. His breath warm against her ear. His voice, rough and strange, askingWhat are you afraid of?
He had not read the letters.
She was certain of it now, more certain than she had been of anything in days. If he had read them…if he had known what she felt for him…he would not have held her like that. Would not have looked at her with that strange, desperate heat in his eyes. Would not have saidI will not always be here to catch youin a voice that suggested he very much wanted to be.
Unless...
No. She would not let herself hope, as hope was dangerous. Hope led to letters written in the dark of night and hearts broken in the light of day.
Martin did not know. Martin would never know. And Vanessa would go on as she always had…wanting him from a distance, hiding her feelings behind sharp words and sharper wit, pretending that every interaction did not leave her raw and aching.
It was not a happy ending. But it was, she supposed, better than the alternative.
She climbed the stairs slowly, carefully, one hand on the railing for support. Her legs were still shaky, her pulse still elevated. The place where Martin's hands had gripped her waistseemed to burn through the fabric of her dress, a phantom touch she could not shake.
And if she paused on the landing to press her hand against that spot, feeling the ghost of his warmth well. No one was there to see it.
Some secrets, at least, were still her own.
***
The rest of the day passed in a haze.
Vanessa went through the motions of normalcy, tea with her mother, conversation with Aunt Bertha and a brief visit to her room to change for dinner. But her mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene in the entrance hall over and over until every detail was seared into her memory.
The way Martin's arms had felt around her, strong and sure, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all. The rough edge in his voice when he spoke into her ear. The look in his eyes when he asked what she was afraid of searching, intent, as though her answer truly mattered to him.
And the way he had held her for far longer than necessary. Long enough for Edward to notice and long enough for propriety to be stretched past its breaking point. Long enough for her to memorise the feel of him, the scent of him and the warmth of his body pressed against hers.
What are you afraid of, Vanessa?
Everything, she thought. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of wanting you, of hoping for something I cannot have. I am afraid of these feelings that have consumed me for six years and show no sign of fading. I am afraid that one day you will discover the truth, and all of this, the banter, the teasing, the strange almost-moments will be revealed as nothing more than the product of my overactive imagination.
She was afraid that Helena was wrong. That Martin felt nothing for her beyond mild affection. That she would spend the rest of her life wanting a man who saw her only as his friend's little sister.
But she was also afraid that Helena might be right. That Martin did feel something, hidden beneath those layers Edward had mentioned. That the letters she thought were her ruin might actually be…
