"You were composed. That is not the same as untormented." She paused, something flickering in her expression, something that might have been sympathy, or understanding, or perhaps simply curiosity. "Whatever is troubling you, Martin, whatever truth you have learned that you were not meant to know…I hope you find some peace with it."
"And I hope your ankle heals swiftly."
"That is not what I meant."
"I know." He held her gaze for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, memorising the exact shade of green in her eyes, the way the morning light caught the copper threads in her hair. "But it is all I am able to reveal."
He stepped back from the carriage, nodding to the driver. The vehicle lurched into motion, wheels crunching on the gravelpath, and Martin stood watching until it disappeared around a bend.
His hand was still warm where she had touched it. He had touched her ankle. He could still feel the silk of her stocking beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her skin, the flutter of her pulse.
“Upon my word…“ He uttered as he found himself at a complete stand.
***
Martin did not return home immediately.
He retrieved his horse from where it stood grazing and rode for nearly an hour, following paths at random, trying to outpace the thoughts that crowded his mind. It did not work… in fact nothing seemed to alleviate his meandering thoughts. Vanessa was everywhere, in the rustle of leaves, in the warmth of the sun on his skin, in the very air he breathed.
He replayed their conversation in his mind, searching for clues, for hints of what she might be thinking, what she might suspect. She had spoken of secrets, of unspoken truths, of predicaments that could not be shared. Had she been speaking of the letters? Did she know…or suspect that he had read them?
Impossible… She could not know… If she knew, she would not have looked at him with such uncertainty, such cautious hope. She would have been angry, or humiliated, or both. She would not have sat beside him on that bench and spoken of truth and silence as though they were abstract philosophical concepts rather than the very things threatening to tear them both apart.
She did not know, but she suspected something.
Something has changed,she had said.You have been behaving strangely of late.
He had not been careful enough as his composure had slipped, and she had noticed. The question now was what to do about it.
He could tell her. He could confess everything, the letters, his feelings, the years of careful distance that had been a kind of slow torture for them both. He could lay himself bare and pray for absolution.
But what then? What if she could not forgive the violation of her privacy? What if knowing that he had read her most intimate thoughts made it impossible for her to trust him? The letters had been written in the expectation of secrecy. She had poured her heart onto those pages precisely because she believed no one would ever see them.
And he had seen them. He had read every word, memorised passages, tortured himself with her confessions. He had taken something that was not meant for him and made it his own.
How could he tell her that? How could he expect her to forgive it?
By the time he reached Montehood House, it was nearly noon. The sun was high, the streets busy with the usual traffic of carriages and pedestrians, and Martin felt as though he were emerging from some other world, a quiet, suspended realm where only he and Vanessa existed.
The real world seemed harsh by comparison.
Haberton was waiting in the entrance hall, his expression carefully blank.
"A productive ride, Your Grace?"
"Eventful." Martin handed off his hat and gloves. "Lady Vanessa suffered a fall. Her ankle is injured, a sprain, I believe, not a break."
"How unfortunate." Haberton's voice was carefully neutral, but Martin detected a note of concern beneath the professional detachment. "I trust she is being well cared for?"
"Her carriage was summoned. She should be home by now." Martin paused, then added, "I examined the injury myself. To ensure it was not serious."
Haberton's eyebrow rose by perhaps a millimetre, a gesture of considerable surprise, by his standards. "Indeed, Your Grace."
"It was entirely proper. Her groom was present throughout."
"I did not suggest otherwise, Your Grace."
"You were thinking it."
