“That would be…” He searched for the proper word. Appropriate? Sensible? Precisely what he desired, because it would place them together again, breathing the same air, pretending he was not acutely aware of her every movement?
“Helpful,” he finished. “That would be very helpful.”
She inclined her head. A faint smile touched her mouth—brief, swiftly subdued—but he saw it nonetheless.
Something in his chest eased.
Perhaps, he thought,this does not have to be awkward. Perhaps we may simply... continue. As we were.
Perhaps wanting her need not ruin everything.
***
The days that followed proved him right.
Something had altered between them—some final barrier giving way, some last distance diminishing—and though neither spoke of the library, evidence of the change revealed itself in a hundred quiet ways.
He found himself seeking her company.
Not overtly. Not desperately. But in small, persistent patterns throughout each day, he gravitated toward wherever she happened to be. If she worked in the morning room reviewing correspondence, he recalled some document requiring her attention. If she walked the gardens, he discovered an unexpected need for fresh air. If she entered the library—that library, with its low fire and treacherous memories—he would appear with a volume to consult, a question to raise, any excuse to share the same space.
He told himself it was practical. They were managing the estate together. Communication was essential.
But practicality did not explain why his spirits lifted each time he heard her voice, nor why he watched her when he believed himself unobserved, noting the slight tilt of her head when she considered a problem, the delicate furrow that appeared between her brows when she encountered difficulty, the rare and precious moments when she laughed and her entire countenance brightened.
He was falling.
He had known it, in truth, for some time. But now, after the library, he could no longer pretend otherwise.
He was falling in love with his wife.
***
Eleanor noticed the changes.
She noticed that he appeared at meals now—every meal, without fail, as though breakfast and luncheon and dinner had become engagements he would not willingly forgo. She noticed that he walked beside her rather than behind, matching his pace to hers even when his injured leg plainly troubled him. She noticed that he sought her opinion on estate matters that did not require her judgment, that he lingered in doorways when their conversations ended, that his gaze found her across rooms with a frequency too consistent to be accidental.
She noticed, and she did not know what to do with any of it.
He almost kissed you, some quiet voice within her insisted.He touched your face and looked at you like you were precious, and now he cannot seem to keep away.
Or, the cautious voice countered,he feels guilty about the impropriety and is overcompensating. He is being attentive because he fears he overstepped, not because he wants to overstep again.
She did not know which interpretation held the truth. She was uncertain she wished to know.
For if she knew—if she permitted herself to believe his attention meant what she feared to hope—it would demand a choice. She would have to decide whether she possessed the courage to desire something she might never receive, whether she would risk the safe, steady arrangement they had built upon the uncertain promise of something deeper.
She had been wounded before. She had learned that hope was perilous, that wanting made one vulnerable, that the safest course lay in expecting nothing.
But Benjamin was not Edmund Hale.
Benjamin did not smile at her translations while meaning nothing by them. Benjamin did not offer attention as a stratagem to reach someone else. Benjamin looked at her—truly looked, with those dark, intent eyes—and saw something worth seeing.
He touched your face, she thought.He touched your face and trembled.
What if this is real? What if this is what you’ve been waiting for without knowing it?
What if you allow yourself to hope—and this time, hope does not betray you?
