"You are very kind, Lord Deane. Please, do sit."
He sat, and she sat, and they began the familiar ritual of polite conversation. He asked about her ankle. She assured him it was improving. He asked about her family. She reported that everyone was well. He mentioned the weather, the upcoming Castleton ball and his plans for improving the drainage on his northern fields.
She listened with half an ear, making appropriate responses, smiling at appropriate moments. But her thoughts were elsewhere, with a different man, a different conversation, a different set of possibilities.
For saying things that cannot be unsaid.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
Soon, she thought. Soon she would know what Martin meant. Soon she would know if her hope was justified or if she was destined for disappointment.
But until then, she would wait. She would smile at Lord Deane and make polite conversation and keep her secret hopes locked away where no one could see them.
It was all she could do.
For now.
But as she smiled and nodded and made polite responses to Lord Deane's conversation, her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was in a candlelit hallway, with Martin's lips against her hand and his voice rough with emotion.
For confessing truths that might change everything.
Whatever those truths were, she wanted to hear them. She wanted to know if the hope blooming in her chest was justified or if she was destined for disappointment.
She wanted Martin to be brave enough to speak.
And she was beginning to realise that she might need to be brave enough to listen.
Lord Deane was saying something about the roses in his garden, about how he had cultivated a new variety and namedit after his mother. It was sweet, really, the sort of sentimental gesture that spoke well of his character.
But Vanessa found herself thinking of a different flower. A pressed bloom that might or might not exist, kept by a man who might or might not care for her, waiting for a truth that might or might not be spoken.
The uncertainty was maddening. The hope was terrifying.
But she would not trade either for the comfortable certainty of Lord Deane's devotion.
She wanted passion, not adequacy. She wanted fire, not warmth. She wanted the man who looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world, not the man who looked at her as though she were a pleasant option among many.
She wanted Martin.
And for the first time in seven years, she was beginning to believe she might actually be able to have him.
The thought was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was everything.
And she could not wait to see what happened next.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, eleven, the proper time for a morning call to end. Lord Deane rose, as she knew he would, ever mindful of propriety.
"I should take my leave," he said. "I do not wish to tire you. But I hope you will allow me to call again soon?"
"Of course." She offered him her hand, which he pressed with earnest warmth. "Thank you for coming, Lord Deane. Your concern is most appreciated."
"It is my pleasure. I…" He hesitated, something shifting in his expression. "Lady Vanessa, I hope you know that my regard for you is sincere. Whatever happens, whatever the future holds, I want you to know that I think very highly of you."
There was something in his voice, a note of uncertainty, perhaps even resignation that made her look at him moreclosely. Did he sense it? Did he understand, on some level, that her heart was elsewhere?
"Thank you," she said softly. "I think very highly of you as well."
He smiled a small, sad smile that told her he understood more than she had given him credit for.
