"Very well," she said. "Thank you."
He helped her rise, his hand warm and steady beneath her elbow. She leaned into him as she had earlier, letting his strength support her weight, acutely aware of every point of contact between them.
They made their way out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall, leaving behind the bright chatter and the watchful eyes. The house was quiet at this hour, the servants had withdrawn to the back stairs, leaving only the soft glow of candlelight to illuminate their path.
"Does it hurt very badly?" Martin asked as they approached the staircase. His voice was low, intimate, meant only for her.
"Not terribly. It is merely tired. I have been on it too long."
"You should have said something sooner. I would have…"
"Would have what? Carried me to bed?" The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. "I did not mean…that is…"
"I know what you meant." His voice was low, amused, but there was a roughness beneath the amusement that made her skin prickle. "And for the record, I would have done so if you had asked. Though I suspect your mother might have had something to say about it."
"She would have had apoplexy."
"Very likely." They reached the foot of the stairs, and Martin stopped. The candlelight flickered over his features, casting shadows that made him look different…softer, somehow. More vulnerable. "Can you manage from here? Or should I summon a maid?"
"I can manage. The railing will support me."
"Splendid." He released her arm but did not step away. They stood close together in the dim hallway, close enough that she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Vanessa…"
The use of her name, without title or formality, made her breath catch.
"Yes?"
He seemed to be struggling with something, some internal battle that played out across his features. His jaw was tight, his eyes searching her face as though looking for permission. Or perhaps for courage.
"I find myself..." He stopped, shook his head. "No. This is not the time."
"The time for what?"
"For saying things that cannot be unsaid." His voice was rough with some emotion she could not identify. "For confessing truths that might change everything."
Vanessa's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. "What truths?"
"Truths I am not yet brave enough to speak." He reached for her hand…slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she did not, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
It was a common gesture. A polite courtesy. Gentlemen kissed ladies' hands a dozen times a day, at balls and dinners and morning calls.
But Martin did not release her hand. He held it, his fingers wrapped around hers, his mouth still hovering above her skin. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the slight tremor in his grip. His lips brushed across her knuckles again, not a formal salute this time, but something softer. Something that felt like a caress.
"Take care of yourself, Vanessa," he said, his voice rough. "I find I cannot bear the thought of you coming to harm."
"Martin…"
"Good night."
He released her hand and stepped back, his expression smoothing into its usual mask of polite detachment. But his eyes told a different story. They burned with something that looked like longing, like restraint pushed to its breaking point, like a man holding himself back from the edge of a precipice.
"Good night," she whispered.
He inclined his head and turned away, walking back toward the drawing room with measured steps. She watched him go, her hand still tingling where his lips had touched, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
