"I know. But still." He looked away, his jaw tight. "I should have caught you. When you fell. I tried, but I was too far away."
"There was nothing you could have done."
"Perhaps not. But I find myself wishing I had been faster nonetheless."
They reached the dining room before she could respond. The others were already seated, her parents at either end of the table, Edward in his usual place. Martin guided her to her chair, pulling it out with one hand while supporting her with the other.
"Thank you," she said again as she settled into her seat.
"It was my pleasure." He held her gaze for a beat too long, then moved to take his own place across the table.
The dinner proceeded as such dinners do with courses appearing and disappearing, conversation flowing in predictable channels. Her father discussed politics with Martin, who responded with the easy authority of a man accustomed to having his opinions valued. Her mother interjected periodically with questions about Society, about Martin's estate, about his plans for the Season.
Through it all, Vanessa watched him.
She could not help herself. Every time she tried to focus on something else, the food on her plate, the flowers in the centerpiece, Edward's familiar profile,her attention drifted back to Martin. The way his hands moved as he cut his meat. The curve of his mouth when he smiled at something her father said. The slight furrow between his brows when he was thinking.
She had observed him for years. She knew his expressions, his mannerisms, the particular way he held himself when he was bored or amused or impatient. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, she was not merely observing, she was seeing. Seeing him as though for the first time, with new eyes and a heart that would not stop racing.
There was a quality of attention about him tonight that she had not noticed before or perhaps had not allowed herself to notice. He was attentive to the conversation, yes, but beneath that surface engagement, she could sense something else. A watchfulness…a tension, as though he were waiting for something, or steeling himself against something.
Was it her imagination? Was she projecting her own feelings onto him, seeing what she wanted to see?
She did not know. That was the torment of it.
He caught her looking once, early in the meal. Their eyes met across the table, and for a moment, everything else fell away…the conversation, the clinking of silverware, the flickering candlelight. There was only him, and her, and the silent question that passed between them.
Then her mother asked Martin about his horses, and the moment was broken.
But Vanessa did not forget it. She suspected she never would.
The main course arrived, a roast of beef with Yorkshire pudding, followed by a fish course and then a remove of duck. Cook had outdone herself, clearly determined to impress the ducal guest. But Vanessa barely tasted any of it. She moved food around her plate and made appropriate responses when addressed and tried desperately not to stare at Martin.
She failed, more often than not.
Halfway through the meal, her father launched into a lengthy disquisition on the state of the nation's economy, a topic that normally would have bored Vanessa to tears. But Martin responded with genuine interest, offering observations and counterarguments that revealed a depth of knowledge she had not expected. He spoke of tariffs and trade routes and the impact of the Corn Laws on tenant farmers, and she found herself listening with fascination.
This was not the Martin she thought she knew, the idle aristocrat, the charming rake. This was someone else entirely: a man of substance and intelligence, who thought deeply about matters beyond his own pleasure.
Had he always been thus? Had she simply failed to see it?
Or had she seen it, and refused to acknowledge it, because acknowledging it would have made her feelings even more unbearable?
She did not know. She was beginning to realise how much she did not know about Martin Hale, Duke of Montehood. And the realisation was both exhilarating and terrifying.
He caught her looking again, later in the meal. This time, instead of looking away, he held her gaze. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth, not his usual sardonic smirk, but something softer and warmer.
Something that looked almost like affection.
Vanessa's heart clenched and she looked away first, afraid of what he might see in her eyes…afraid of betraying herself.
But when she glanced back a moment later, he was still watching her. And the expression on his face had not changed.
Chapter Eleven
"You have been very quiet this evening," Edward observed during a lull in the conversation. "Are you feeling unwell? Is your ankle troubling you?"
"I am perfectly well," Vanessa said. "Simply tired. This is the first evening I have been out of the drawing room in days."
