"Polite? He could not take his eyes off you. Every time I looked up, he was watching you."
Vanessa's heart lurched. "You are imagining things, Mama."
"I am imagining nothing. I have eyes, Vanessa. And what I saw was a man who is interested in more than mere politeness."
"Lord Montehood is not…he has never shown any inclination…"
"Has he not?" Her mother's smile was knowing. "Perhaps you have not been paying attention."
Before Vanessa could respond, the drawing room door opened and the gentlemen appeared. Edward came first, slightly flushed from the port, followed by her father. And then Martin, his eyes finding hers immediately, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Ladies," he said, inclining his head. "I hope we have not kept you waiting too long."
"Not at all," Lady Wayworth said warmly. "Please, do sit. Vanessa, dearest, perhaps Lord Montehood would like to see the book you have been reading. You were telling me just yesterday how much you were enjoying it."
Such was the provocation that Vanessa felt a most uncharitable urge to stifle her mother’s surge of observational chatter. The book in question was Keats, the volume from the anonymous gift basket. She had not mentioned it to anyone except in passing, and certainly not with any enthusiasm that would warrant showing it to a guest.
But she could not refuse without seeming rude.
"Of course," she said. "If Lord Montehood is interested."
"I am always interested in literature." Martin crossed the room and settled into the chair beside her chaise longue, the chair Helena had occupied earlier, the chair closest to her. "What are you reading?"
"Keats. Endymion and Other Poems." She reached for the slim green volume on the side table. "It was a gift."
"Indeed? From whom?"
"I do not know. It arrived anonymously, the day after my accident."
Something flickered in Martin's expression, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "How mysterious. You have no idea who sent it?"
"My mother believes it was Lord Deane."
"And what do you believe?"
Vanessa hesitated. She was treading on dangerous ground, and she knew it. But something in his eyes,some quality of attention, of waiting made her reckless.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that it was sent by someone who knows my tastes rather well. Someone who would understand that I prefer Keats to Wordsworth, and that I have a particular fondness for Endymion."
"That does suggest a certain intimacy with your preferences."
"Yes. It does."
Their eyes met and the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken meaning.
"Perhaps," Martin said quietly, "the sender wished to remain anonymous for a reason. Perhaps they feared that revealing themselves would... complicate matters."
"What sort of complications?"
"Any number of things. Social expectations. Prior obligations. The opinions of others." He paused. "Fear of rejection."
Vanessa's breath caught. "That seems an unlikely concern. If someone were to send such a thoughtful gift, they could hardly expect rejection."
"Could they not? Sometimes the things we want most feel the most impossible to obtain. And the fear of reaching for them…of having them slip through our fingers can be paralysing."
He was not talking about the gift. She was suddenly, absolutely certain of it. He was talking about something else entirely, something neither of them dared name aloud.
"Perhaps," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "the sender should have more faith. In themselves, and in the recipient."
