He knew. He had known for weeks, perhaps longer, and yet he had said nothing.
The bookshop was quiet when she entered, the bell above the door chiming softly. Mr. Haberton, the elderly proprietor, looked up from behind his counter and nodded in recognition.
"Lady Vanessa. A pleasure, as always."
"Mr. Haberton. I hope you are well."
"Tolerably so, tolerably so." He gestured toward the back of the shop. "Your usual corner is free, if you're wanting privacy. I've just received a new shipment of poetry, some lovely editions of Shelley, if you're interested."
"Thank you. I may browse later."
She made her way to the alcove at the rear of the shop, a small space tucked between two towering shelves, furnished with a worn armchair and a reading lamp. It was invisible from the front of the store, shielded by walls of books, a private world within a private world.
She settled into the chair and waited.
The minutes crawled by. She tried to read and picked up a volume of essays that someone had left on the side table, but the words blurred before her eyes. Her mind was too full of Martin. Of what he would say. Of what she would say in return.
She had spent the morning rehearsing conversations in her head. Calm, measured responses. Dignified acceptance of his confession. A graceful acknowledgment that yes, she had suspected, and no, she was not angry, and could they please move forward now without any further dramatics?
None of it felt right. None of it captured the tangle of emotions in her chest, the embarrassment, the relief, the lingering disbelief that any of this was actually happening.
The thought still seemed impossible, even after last night. Even after the terrace, the kiss, the desperate confession that had shattered six years of careful pretense.
The bell above the door chimed.
Vanessa's heart lurched into her throat. She heard voices…Mr. Haberton's measured tones, and then another voice, deeper, achingly familiar.
"I'm meeting someone. In the back, I believe."
"Of course, Your Grace. You know the way."
A measured tread disturbed the silence, punctuated by the sharp groan of floorboards and the slight whisper of material brushing against the shelves.
And then Martin appeared at the entrance to her alcove, and everything else ceased to exist.
He looked... different. Not the polished duke she had seen at countless balls and dinners, with his perfectly arranged cravat and his sardonic smile. This Martin was rumpled, slightly disheveled, as though he had dressed in haste and forgotten to check the mirror. His hair was disordered,more so than usual and there were shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of a sleepless night.
He looked, in short, as wrecked as she felt.
"You came," he said.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought…" He stopped, shook his head. "I don't know what I thought. I've been thinking so many things since last night that I can no longer distinguish between them."
He moved into the alcove, and suddenly the small space felt even smaller. He was too close…close enough that she could smell the familiar sandalwood of his cologne, could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat. Close enough to touch, if she dared.
She did not dare. Not yet. Not until she understood.
"You said you had things to tell me," she said. "Things I should know before we go any further."
"Yes." He ran a hand through his hair, further destroying any pretense of order. "I do. I have been trying to find the rightwords all morning, and I confess I have failed utterly. So I shall simply have to say it badly and hope you forgive the inelegance."
"Martin…"
"Please…allow me to speak. If I don't say it now, I may lose my nerve entirely, and then we shall be here all afternoon while I work up the courage again."
She nodded, her hands twisting in her lap.
