"Have you?" A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. "You must tell me sometime about these worse incidents. I find myself curious."
"I am certain you do not wish to hear about my childhood misadventures."
"On the contrary. I suspect they would be most illuminating."
Edward groaned. "Please, no. If you get her started on childhood stories, she will be talking for hours. And I have heard them all before."
"Then you can provide commentary," Martin said. "Corrections where necessary. I understand siblings are useful for that purpose."
"You understand wrong. Siblings are useful for nothing except torment and embarrassment."
"How fortunate for me that I have none, then."
They fell into easy banter, the three of them, and Vanessa felt some of her tension ease. This was familiar territory, the comfortable rhythm of old friendship, the gentle teasing that had characterised their interactions for years. She could do this. She could survive an evening in Martin's company without betraying herself.
But then her mother entered with her father, and the dynamics shifted. Suddenly there were introductions and pleasantries and the careful navigation of social niceties. Lady Wayworth was determined to make an impression on the Duke, and her efforts were painfully obvious.
"Your Grace, we are so honored to have you dine with us. I do hope the meal will be to your satisfaction,I told Cook to prepare your favorites, though of course I do not presume to know your preferences…"
"I am certain it will be excellent, Lady Wayworth. Your hospitality is always impeccable."
"You are too kind. Much too kind." Lady Wayworth beamed and fluttered her fan. "Shall we proceed to the dining room? Vanessa, dear, can you manage, or shall we have the footmen…"
"I can manage," Vanessa said quickly, though she was not entirely certain this was true. The thought of being carried to dinner like a parcel was more than she could bear.
She made to rise, bracing herself on the arm of the chaise longue. Her ankle protested immediately with a sharp twinge that made her wince.
"Allow me."
Martin was at her side before she could respond. He offered his arm, his expression carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes, a concern that seemed genuine, a warmth that made her heart race.
"Thank you," she murmured, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.
"Can you put weight on it?"
"A little. If I am careful."
"Then lean on me. I shall not let you fall."
The words were simple, practical. And yet they seemed to carry a weight beyond their surface meaning, a promise that extended beyond the mere act of walking to dinner.
They moved slowly across the drawing room, Vanessa leaning heavily on Martin's arm. She was acutely aware of his proximity and the warmth of his body beside hers, the solid strength of his arm beneath her fingers, the faint scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely him.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, so only she could hear.
"Not terribly. It is more stiff than painful."
"You should not push yourself. If it becomes too much…"
"I am fine, Martin. Truly."
He glanced down at her, and for a moment their eyes met. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something unspoken.
"I find," he said slowly, "that I do not like seeing you in pain. It is... disquieting."
Vanessa did not know what to say. The admission seemed significant and more personal than anything he had ever said to her before. And yet his tone was light, almost offhand, as though he were commenting on the weather.
"It is merely a sprained ankle," she managed. "I shall recover."
