“There is nothing to explain.”
"Vanessa." Edward's voice was gentle but firm. "I am not blind. The way you were looking at each other just now, reading poetry together, leaning toward each other as though the rest of us did not exist that was not nothing."
"We were merely passing the time."
"You were doing something, and it was not merely passing the time." He leaned closer, lowering his voice so their parents would not overhear. "I have known Martin for fifteen years. I have seen him charm countless women at balls, at house parties, at every social occasion imaginable. He is good at it. It is practically an art form for him."
"I am aware of his reputation."
"Then you should also be aware that what I saw tonight was not his usual charm." Edward's eyes were serious. "I have never seen him look at anyone the way he was looking at you. Never. Not in all the years I have known him."
Vanessa's heart clenched. "You are imagining things."
"I am not. And neither, I think, are you." Edward took her hand, his expression softening. "Vanessa, if there is something between you…if you have feelings for him…"
"Edward, please."
“I do not wish to be so inquisitive…I simply…" He broke off, sighing. "I want you to be happy. That is all I have ever wanted. And if Martin could make you happy…"
"He does not think of me that way."
"Are you certain?"
No. She was not certain of anything. That was precisely the problem.
"I am certain that this is not the time or place for this conversation," she said firmly. "We are in the middle of a dinner party, and Mother is watching us."
Edward glanced toward their mother, who was indeed casting curious looks in their direction while pretending to listen to Martin.
"Fine. We shall table this discussion for now. But do not think I am going to forget about it."
"I would never dream of it."
He squeezed her hand and rose, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the growing, terrifying conviction that everything was about to change.
***
The evening wound toward its inevitable conclusion.
Vanessa's ankle was aching, a dull throb that had intensified over the course of the night and she was tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. The constant effort of maintaining composure, of hiding her feelings, of pretending that every look Martin gave her did not set her heart racing, it was wearing her down.
"I believe I should retire," she said during a lull in the conversation. "My ankle is troubling me."
The words were not entirely true, her ankle ached, yes, but it was bearable. The real reason for her retreat was that she could not endure another moment of this exquisite torture. Being near Martin, seeing him, hearing his voice, feeling his attention on her like a physical touch, it was too much. She needed space. She needed time to think.
She needed to be away from him before she did something foolish.
"Of course, dearest." Her mother was immediately solicitous. "You have been up far too long. Shall I call for the footmen?"
"That will not be necessary." Martin was on his feet before anyone else could move, crossing the room with a few quick strides. "If Lady Vanessa will permit me, I shall assist her."
"That is very kind, but…"
"I insist." His tone brooked no argument. "You have been favoring that ankle all evening. Allow me to help you to the stairs, at least."
Vanessa hesitated. She should refuse. She should insist on the footmen, or Edward, or anyone other than Martin. Being alone with him, even for the few minutes it would take to reach the staircase felt dangerous and reckless.
But she could not bring herself to say no. Not when he was looking at her with concern and something else, something she could not quite discern.
