"I…" She faltered. An hour ago, she would have said yes without hesitation. But now, after that dance, after those strange, weighted words about not being the man he ought to be... "I do not know."
"Then perhaps," Helena said softly, "you should find out before you commit yourself to a man you do not hold affections for.”
The advice was altogether judicious most sensible recommendation, based upon reason rather than whim .The sort of advice Vanessa would have given anyone else in her situation.
But finding out required courage, the courage to ask questions that might have devastating answers, to risk rejection from a man who had never shown her anything but casual affection. It required hope, and hope was a dangerous thing. Hope had kept her awake at night for six years, had made her write letter after letter to a man who would never read them, had turned her into someone she barely recognized.
"I should go back inside," she said finally. "Mama will be wondering where I am."
Helena nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Of course. I shall be along in a moment."
Vanessa slipped back into the ballroom, leaving her friend to the quiet of the terrace. She did not look for Martin in the crowd. She did not seek out Edward or her mother or Lord Deane. She simply moved through the glittering masses like a ghost, smiling when required, making conversation when necessary and counting the minutes until she could escape.
The ball ended, eventually, as all balls must. The guests departed in a flutter of goodbyes and promises to call. The servants began the work of restoring the house to order. Lady Wayworth declared the evening a tremendous success and retired to her chambers with a satisfied air.
And Vanessa, finally alone, climbed the stairs to her own room with Helena's words echoing in her mind.
It is my belief that the Duke of Montehood possesses your heart, and has done so for an age…
She closed her door and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her eyes. The evening played behind her lids in fragments: Martin's hand on her waist, his eyes in the candlelight, his voice sayingI am not the man I ought to be.
What did it mean? What did any of it mean?
She crossed to her writing desk without conscious decision, her fingers finding the small key she wore on a ribbon around her neck. The writing box unlocked with a familiar click, revealing the stack of letters within…six years of letters, neatly tied with faded blue ribbon. Six years of words she had never intended anyone to read.
She drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill in ink.
Dear Martin,she wrote, as she always did.
I despise you. I despise the way you looked at me tonight, as though you could see through every defense I have carefully constructed. I despise the way you held me during that waltz, so correctly, so properly, and yet somehow it was the most intimate experience of my entire evening. I despise the way you spoke of Lord Deane, steady, reliable, comfortable…as though comfort were something shameful, as though wanting a life without constant turmoil made me somehow less.
But mostly, I despise what you said at the end. About not being the man you ought to be. About Edward ending your life. About being unsuitable.
What did you mean? What did any of it mean? For one moment, I thought…but no. I will not write it. To write it would be to make it real, and I have spent six years learning that hope is a dangerous indulgence where you are concerned.
Lord Deane is calling on Tuesday. He is everything you said: steady and reliable and safe. He will never make me feel as though my heart is attempting to escape my chest. He will never look at me as though I am a puzzle he cannot solve. He will never call me "little Wayworth" in that tone that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and strike him with the nearest heavy object.
Perhaps that is what I need. Perhaps I have spent too long wanting someone impossible and should learn to content myself with someone possible instead.
And yet.
You held me tonight. Your hand was at my waist, and for one moment…one breathless, terrifying moment…I thought you might say something. Something real. Something that would change everything.
But you didn't. You never do. You retreat behind that smirk and those clever words, and I am left to wonder what is real and what is merely the champagne talking.
Helena says Ihold you in my affection. She says I have held you in affection for years, and that I am using Lord Deane as a shield against feelings I do not wish to examine.
She is right, of course. She is always right. But what am I to do with this knowledge? Pine away in silence forever? Throw myself at your feet and declare my feelings, only to watch you laugh and call me Edward's little sister once more?
I am tired, Martin. Tired of wanting someone who sees me as nothing more than his friend's little sister. Tired of analysing every glance, every word and every accidental touch for meaning that probably does not exist. Tired of writing letters I will never send to a man who will never read them.
Perhaps Lord Deane is exactly what I need. Perhaps comfort is not such a terrible thing after all.
Or perhaps I am lying to myself. I seem to do that rather often, where you are concerned.
Yours (though you will never know it),
Vanessa
