"Perhaps they should." Martin's gaze was intent, searching “Perhaps they are endeavoring to set the matter to rights.”
"Vanessa!" Her mother's voice cut through the moment like a blade. "Do show Lord Montehood the passage you were admiring earlier. The one about the moon."
The spell was broken. Vanessa blinked, disoriented, and fumbled for the book. Her hands were trembling slightly as she opened it to a random page.
"I…yes. Of course. The passage about the moon."
She did not remember any passage about the moon. She did not remember anything except the weight of Martin's gaze andthe certainty that something had just passed between them…something significant, something that changed everything.
Martin leaned closer to look at the book, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. "Read it to me," he said. "I should like to hear it in your voice."
And so she read, her voice steadying as she fell into the familiar rhythm of the verse. She chose a passage near the middle of the book, the famous lines about truth and beauty, about the eternal nature of art.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
Her voice was soft in the quiet room. She was aware of Martin beside her, the warmth of his shoulder near hers, the sound of his breathing, the intensity of his attention. It felt strangely intimate, reading poetry to him while her family carried on conversations across the room. As though they had carved out a small private space for themselves, invisible to everyone else.
She continued, the words flowing easily despite her nervousness.
"Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth, spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits."
When she finished, he was silent for a long moment. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her face, though she did not look up from the book.
"Beautiful," he said finally, and his voice was rough. "Thank you."
"It is Keats who deserves the thanks, not I."
"You underestimate yourself. A poem is only as beautiful as the voice that speaks it." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was lower, meant only for her ears. “Your voice is singularly pleasing, I could listen to it for hours on end.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and saw something there that made her breath catch. It was not the cool, sardonic Martin she had known for years. It was someone else, someone vulnerable and someone yearning.
Someone who looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world.
"Martin…" she began, not knowing what she was going to say.
But before she could finish, Edward appeared at Martin's elbow, breaking the spell. "Stop monopolising my sister. Some of us would like to speak to her as well."
"I was not monopolising. I was appreciating poetry."
"You were being charming. Which, for you, is the same as monopolising." Edward nudged Martin out of the chair and took his place. "Go charm my mother for a while. She thinks you hung the moon."
"Does she? How flattering."
"It is not meant as flattery. It is meant as a warning." Edward grinned. "Off with you."
Martin rose with a show of reluctance. "Very well. But I shall return."
"I have no doubt of it."
Martin inclined his head to Vanessa,a small, formal gesture that somehow felt anything but formal and crossed the room to where Lady Wayworth was holding court by the fireplace.
Edward watched him go, then turned to his sister with a knowing look.
“Well then.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you intend to explain to me what exactly is transpiring between the two of you?”
