He was not insensible to the fact that her heart was, and had ever been, entirely his own.
He had also come to her and confessed his feelings, kissed her passionately and asked her to meet him tomorrow.
Whatever his reasons, whatever advantage he had held, the result was the same: they had finally found each other.
Tomorrow she would learn the truth. Tomorrow she would discover exactly what Martin knew and how he had come to know it. And then…
Then they would face it together. As they would face everything, from here on.
Tonight, she would cling to the memory of his kiss, the warmth of his arms, the sound of her name on his lips.
Tonight, she would let herself hope.
Two on the hour. The bookshop on Piccadilly.
She could hardly wait.
Sleep, she knew, would not come easily. Her mind was too full, her heart too racing, her body still humming with the memory of Martin's touch. She would lie awake for hours, replaying the evening, analysing every word and glance and gesture.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, she would cling to the certainty that had crystallised on that cold terrace, in Martin's arms, with his lips pressed to hers.
They both held each other in the deepest affections and that was all that truly mattered.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Wayworth townhouse and Edward helped her down, his hand steady beneath her elbow, his expression thoughtful.
"Are you happy?" he asked quietly, as their parents made their way inside.
Vanessa looked at him…her brother, her protector, her friend.
"Yes," she said. "I do believe I finally am."
He nodded slowly. "Very well. That's all I wanted to know."
They walked into the house together, and Vanessa climbed the stairs to her bedchamber with Martin's words echoing in her ears.
Her memories of the night.
Tomorrow would bring the finally unveiling of the story…and she could hardly wait.
Chapter Fourteen
The bookshop on Piccadilly was one of Vanessa's favourite places in London.
It was not the largest establishment, nor the most fashionable. It did not cater to the ton's appetite for scandal sheets and society novels. Instead, it was a quiet, dusty sanctuary of serious literature, shelves crammed with volumes of poetry and philosophy, history and natural science, the kind of books that demanded attention rather than merely passing time.
She had discovered it years ago, during her first Season, when the relentless social whirl had threatened to drive her mad. She had slipped away from a particularly tedious afternoon call and wandered the streets until she found this place, a refuge from the endless performance of being Lady Vanessa Wayworth.
She had never told anyone about it as it was her secret, her escape.
And yet Martin had known to meet her here.
The letters,she thought, for what must have been the hundredth time since last night.He read the letters. He knows everything.
She arrived at quarter to two, unable to bear another moment of waiting at home. Her mother had been insufferable all morning, full of questions about the ball, about Lord Deane, about her plans for the afternoon. Vanessa had pleaded a headache and escaped as soon as she could manage it, claiming she needed fresh air and solitude.
The headache, at least, was not entirely a lie. She had slept poorly, her dreams a jumbled confusion of Martin's kiss and Martin's voice and the nagging certainty that had crystallised in the carriage on the way home.
