What truths? What confession?
She did not know. But for the first time in seven years of hoping and despairing and hoping again, she allowed herself to believe that she might soon find out.
Then she turned and climbed the stairs, one painful step at a time, replaying every moment, analysing every word, trying to understand what had just happened.
He had almost said something. She was certain of it. He had been on the verge of some confession, some admission, and then he had pulled back. Had stopped himself.
Why?
What was he afraid of?
She reached her bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts whirled.
I find myself...
Find himself what? Caring for her? Wanting her? Something else entirely?
She did not know. But for the first time in seven years of hoping and despairing and hoping again, she allowed herself to believe that it might be possible.
That Martin Hale, the Duke of Montehood, might actually feel something for her after all.
It was a terrifying thought.
It was also the most wonderful thought she had ever had.
***
Sleep did not come easily that night.
Vanessa lay awake for hours, turning the evening over in her mind, examining every moment from every angle. The way Martin had looked at her across the dinner table. The conversation about the book, about anonymous gifts and fear of rejection. The kiss on her hand, the rawness in his voice when he said her name.
I find I cannot bear the thought of you coming to harm.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
What did it mean? Was she reading too much into it, seeing significance where there was none? Or had something genuinely shifted between them, something real, something lasting?
She thought about what Helena had said. About how Martin had been in the park at the precise time and place she was known to ride. About how such coincidences were rarely coincidental.
She thought about the gift basket. The French chocolates. The volume of Keats.
Perhaps the sender wished to remain anonymous for a reason. Perhaps they feared that revealing themselves would complicate matters.
Fear of rejection.
Had Martin sent the gift? The possibility seemed absurd…and yet. The chocolates were exactly the kind she preferred, imported from the same confectioner she had mentioned once, years ago, at a dinner party Martin had attended. The book was perfectly chosen, not merely Keats but the specific volume that had been missing from her own collection.
These were not the choices of a casual acquaintance. These were the choices of someone who had been paying attention. Someone who had been watching, listening, remembering.
Someone who cared.
She did not know. She could not be certain. But the evidence was mounting, piece by piece, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to explain it away.
And then there was the way he had touched her. Not just tonight, but in the park, his hands on her ankle, his fingers gentle against her skin. The memory made her shiver, even now, even in the darkness of her bedchamber with hours of distance between them.
No man had ever touched her like that. She had been handled, certainly by dancing partners, by gentlemen helping her into carriages, by the occasional overfamiliar suitor who required a sharp word. But Martin's touch had been different. There had been a quality of reverence to it, as though she were something precious, something to be cherished.
