"A wise decision. I believe she has designs on a third encore." Vanessa had returned her attention to her book, clearly dismissing him.
He should have left,any sensible man clearly would have. Instead, he had found himself lingering, drawn by some impulse he did not care to examine.
"What are you reading?"
She had held up the volume without looking at him. "Byron. I found it on the shelf. Someone has written the most ridiculous notes in the margins."
Martin had felt his neck grow warm. The book was his, left behind on a previous visit, the marginalia penned during his university years when he had fancied himself a philosopher of romance.
"Ridiculous?" he had repeated.
"'The sublime agony of desire,'" she had read aloud, her voice dripping with mockery. "'Here Byron captures the very essence of the human condition.' Did a person actually write this, or did it simply appear through some spontaneous generation of pretension?"
"I believe the former."
"How unfortunate for them."
He ought to have been offended. Instead, he had laughed, a genuine laugh, surprised out of him by her audacity. No one spoke to him thus as he was a duke. People flattered and fawned; they did not mock his youthful literary criticism.
"You find the observation lacking?" he had asked, settling into the chair across from her.
"I find it overwrought. Byron is perfectly capable of speaking for himself without some anonymous commentator adding unnecessary interpretation."
"Perhaps the commentator felt Byron's meaning required elucidation."
"Then the commentator has a very low opinion of Byron's readers." She had finally looked up at him, those green eyes sharp with intelligence. "Or perhaps merely a very high opinion of his own insights."
They had argued for an hour. She had called his taste pedestrian. He had called her critiques uncharitable. Shehad made a point about the difference between passion and melodrama that he had found himself unable to refute. At some point, she had thrown a cushion at his head actually thrown it, with considerable force and accuracy and he had caught it and found himself grinning like a fool.
That was the moment. That was when he had understood that Vanessa Wayworth was going to be a problem.
What he had not understood was the nature of that problem. He had told himself it was merely intellectual attraction. She was clever and sharp-tongued and entirely unimpressed by his rank; naturally he found that intriguing. He was accustomed to flattery, accustomed to having his every utterance treated as wisdom from on high. A young woman who dared to contradict him was a rarity.
This rarity…this behavior had not worn off.
In the six years since that afternoon in the library, his regard for Vanessa had deepened rather than diminished. He had watched her move through Society, watched her navigate the treacherous waters of the marriage mart with grace and sharp wit and watched her deflect the advances of unsuitable men and the scheming of ambitious mothers. She had grown from a clever girl into a remarkable woman, and his admiration had grown with her.
He had never acted upon it. He was not a fool.
Edward was his closest friend…had been since their years at Eton, when Edward had punched Lord Greyton's son for calling Martin's recently deceased father a gambler and a wastrel. The accusation had been true, which made Edward's defence all the more meaningful. They had been inseparable ever since.
One did not pursue one's best friend's sister. It was simply not done.
And even if Martin had been willing to violate that unwritten code, there was his reputation to consider. He was not knownas a man of constancy. He had conducted affairs, discreet but numerous with women who understood the temporary nature of such arrangements. He had never courted anyone, never given any indication that he was interested in matrimony.
Vanessa deserved better than a man whose name had graced the gossip columns more times than he cared to count. She deserved someone steady, someone honourable and someone whose attentions would elevate rather than tarnish her.
Someone… who was not him.
So he had kept his distance and maintained the role of Edward's sardonic friend, always ready with a cutting remark or a teasing observation. He had danced with Vanessa when courtesy required it and avoided her when it did not. He had perfected the art of casual indifference.
And then the letters had arrived, and he had discovered that his indifference had been rather more convincing than he had intended.
Six years later, she remained a problem.
Martin turned from the window and regarded his desk. The letters were in the top drawer, secured beneath a ledger of estate accounts. He had placed them there deliberately buried them, in truth, as if hiding them from view might somehow diminish their power.
It had not worked.
