Benjamin sat behind his desk, papers arrayed before him in studied disorder. He was plainly not reading them. At her entrance, he looked up, and for the briefest instant, hope flared in his eyes—unguarded and bright—before he subdued it.
“Eleanor.” He rose at once, formal and restrained. “Is there something you need?”
Yes, she thought.I need you to tell me what you truly said to your solicitor. I need to know whether I have been shielding myself from a genuine wound—or dismantling something precious through a grievous misunderstanding.
But the words tangled in her throat, caught in pride and fear and the heavy silence of the past seven days.
“The rose,” she said at last. “Thank you for the rose.”
Something altered in his expression. “You found it.”
“Yes. I—” She faltered, searching for language vast enough to contain all she must say. “It was very beautiful.”
“I was uncertain whether you would welcome it.” His tone was roughened by restraint. “You have made it abundantly clear this week that you welcome very little from me.”
“That is not—” She stopped, frustration rising sharp and hot. This could not be accomplished in half-phrases and civility. “I heard you.”
He frowned faintly. “Heard me?”
“With your solicitor. A week ago.” The confession spilled forth in haste. “I was bringing the translated documents. The door stood ajar, and I heard—”
She broke off. The colour had drained from his face.
“What did you hear?” he asked, very quietly.
“That the marriage was necessary. That you required someone who would not expect. That you feared you might harm me—that it would be better if I did not—” Her voice wavered. “You did not complete the sentence. Or rather, I did not remain to hear the rest.”
Silence fell between them.
Benjamin regarded her with an expression so intent she could scarcely endure it. Then, without haste, he rounded the desk and came to stand before her.
“You heard that,” he said evenly. “And you concluded—what? That I repented of marrying you? That I wished you removed from my life?”
“What else could I conclude?” she demanded, the hurt she had so carefully concealed rising to the surface.
“You might have asked me.” The sudden force in his voice made her start. “You might have afforded me the opportunity to explain, rather than withdrawing behind walls I could not scale. You might have trusted me enough to—”
He broke off, lifting his scarred hand to his brow as though to steady himself.
“But why should you?” he continued, more quietly. “I have offered you little reason for trust. I have been guarded—overcautious—so fearful of speaking amiss that I have spoken scarcely at all. And in my silence, you heard precisely what your fear supplied.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. “What ought I to have heard?”
He lowered his hand.
When he looked at her now, there was no reserve in his gaze. No careful distance. Only unvarnished truth.
“The sentence I did not finish,” he said. “Would you hear it now?”
“Yes.”
He drew a measured breath. Then another.
“It would be better if she did not know,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “how very much I have come to need her.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“What did you say?”
