He was not looking for Vanessa. He was simply riding. If their paths happened to cross, it would be pure coincidence.
This was the story he told himself as he guided his mount along the eastern paths at precisely half past eight.
The morning was grey and damp with mist still clinging to the hollows, the scent of wet grass and earth hanging heavy in the air. A few other riders were abroad, an elderly gentleman on a sedate bay, a young buck showing off his new hunter, but the paths were largely empty and quiet.
Dangerous, a voice in his head whispered. You should not be here.
He ignored it.
He saw her before she saw him.
She was riding ahead, perhaps fifty yards distant, her groom trailing at a respectful distance behind. Her habit was deep green velvet, well-cut and quietly elegant, and her seat was excellent as she rode with the easy confidence of someone whohad spent countless hours in the saddle. Her hair was escaping its pins, as it always did, russet strands catching the morning light like threads of copper.
For a moment, Martin simply watched her. There was something about seeing her like this, unguarded and completely unaware of his observation that made his chest ache. She was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. It was the way she moved, the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head as she turned to say something to her groom. It was everything about her, every detail and every imperfection.
He wanted her. He had wanted her for six years. And now, knowing that she wanted him too, the wanting had become almost unbearable.
Turn around,the sensible part of his brain urged.Ride away before she sees you. You cannot trust yourself.
But his hands had already tightened on the reins. His horse had already slowed. And before he could convince himself otherwise, he was closing the distance between them, his heart hammering in his chest with an anticipation that was entirely disproportionate to the circumstances.
It was only a morning ride. Only a chance encounter in the park.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
She heard the hoof beats and turned in her saddle, her expression shifting from surprise to something more guarded as she recognized him.
"Lord Montehood." Her voice was carefully neutral, revealing nothing. "What a coincidence."
"Lady Vanessa." He brought his horse alongside hers, matching her pace. "You are abroad early."
"I might say the same of you. I did not take you for a man who voluntarily rises before noon."
“I am quite laden with secrets yet to be revealed.”
"Indeed…” She glanced at him sidelong, something unreadable in her expression. "I confess I have not observed much evidence of that."
"Perhaps you have not been paying attention."
"Perhaps there has been nothing to observe."
They rode in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft thud of hooves on packed earth and the distant call of birds. Martin was acutely aware of her presence beside him, the rustle of her habit and the faint scent of rosewater that clung to her hair and the precise angle of her chin as she gazed at the path ahead.
He had imagined conversations with her a thousand times. In his imaginings, he was always smooth, always clever, always in perfect command of himself and the situation. In reality, he found himself at a loss for words and uncertain, afraid of saying too much or too little, terrified of betraying the secret he carried.
He thought of her letters…of the passage where she had described imagining conversations with him.
I have imagined a thousand conversations with him,she had written.Brilliant, witty exchanges in which I am clever and charming and he finally sees me as something more than Edward's little sister. In reality, I become tongue-tied and awkward, and he looks at me with that polite disinterest that makes me want to scream.
Polite disinterest. Is that how she perceived him? He had thought himself careful as he had cultivated a manner of easy friendship that revealed nothing of his true feelings. But "polite disinterest" was not what he had intended at all.
The irony was almost unbearable. They had both been playing the same game, hiding their true feelings behind masks of indifference, convinced that the other did not return theirregard. They had both been torturing themselves, and each other, for years.
If he had known, would things have been different? Would he have found the courage to speak? Or would he have remained silent, bound by his faithfulness to Edward, by his own conviction that he was not worthy of her?
He did not know. He suspected he would not like the answer.
