"Is that a problem?"
"It is an inconvenience. I have spent the better part of six years trying not to observe you, and I have never been particularly successful. Tonight, I seem to have abandoned the effort altogether."
Six years. She had not imagined it, then. She had not been alone in her feelings, her awareness, her impossible wanting.
"Why?" she asked. "Why have you been trying not to observe me?"
"Because observing leads to wanting and wanting leads to acting…and acting…" He turned her again, drawing her fractionally closer. "Acting would have consequences that I was not prepared to face."
"And now?"
"Now I find that I no longer care about consequences." His grip on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly. "Now I find that observing is no longer sufficient."
The music swelled around them. The other couples blurred into insignificance. There was only Martin, his hand in hers, his body moving with hers, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
"Thank you for the book," Vanessa said.
His rhythm faltered, almost imperceptibly. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean."
"The Keats. The chocolates from Monsieur Girard." She held his gaze, refusing to let him look away. "It wasn't Lord Deane."
"No." The word was quiet, an admission. "It wasn't."
"Why didn't you sign it?"
"Because I was a coward." He turned her again, his movements automatic, his attention entirely focused on her face. "Because I could not bear to have you reject even an anonymous gift. Because the thought of you knowing of you seeing how I feel…"
"How do you feel?"
The question hung between them, heavy with significance. Martin was silent for a long moment, the music carrying them through the figures of the dance.
A thought flickered through her mind, unbidden and unwelcome:How did he know?The chocolates had been exactly right from a confectioner she had mentioned only once, years ago. The Keats had been the precise volume missing from her collection. She had written about both in her letters. The letters her aunt had sent.
She pushed the thought away. It was coincidence. It had to be coincidence.
"I feel," he said finally, "as though I have been holding my breath for all this time. And tonight, for the first time, I can almost breathe."
Vanessa's chest tightened. "Martin…"
"You always claim this dance," she said instead, pulling back from the precipice of that almost-declaration. "Every ball, every assembly. You always claim the supper waltz."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it is the only time I am permitted to hold you." His voice was rough, strained. "Because for these few minutes, I can pretend that you are mine. That I have the right to touch you, to be near you, to have you in my arms."
"You could have other rights. If you wanted them."
"Could I?" Something flickered in his expression…hope, perhaps, or fear. "I have told myself for years that I could not. That you were beyond my reach. That I was not…"
"Not what?"
"Not good enough." The words seemed to cost him something. "My reputation, Vanessa. You know what they say about me. The women, the gambling, the reckless behaviour. I have not been a saint. I have not even been particularly virtuous."
"I don't care about your reputation."
"You should. Your family should. Edward…"
