“You’re absurd.”
“You’re beautiful.”
The words slipped free before Gabriel had the chance to cage them. Beside him Clara went very still, her breath drawing in as though she’d been struck.
“I beg your pardon,” he said quickly, the formality of the phrase doing little to steady him. “That was improper.”
“Yes.”
“Contrary to the rules.”
“Yes.”
“I ought not to have spoken.”
“Probably not.”
“But it remains true.”
“Gabriel…”
“You are,” he pressed on, his voice roughened, “beautiful. Not in the vulgar way of the Season’s darlings with their rehearsed smiles and symmetrical curls. You are beautiful…” He faltered, then gestured toward the rose. “Like that. Unexpected.Defiant. Impossible to ignore even when the world around you has gone cold.”
“You mustn’t speak so.”
“I know.”
“It makes everything more difficult.”
“I am aware.”
“I’m leaving when the spring comes.”
“Indeed.”
“Then why…”
“Because I’m selfish,” he said, at last turning to face her fully. The fading light caught the planes of his face, the tension in his jaw. “Because I have spent eight years attempting to erase you and failed miserably. Because you stumbled back into my life bordering on death’s door, and wearing boots that were not yours, and somehow managed to make me feel alive again for the first time since coming home from the war…because I know you will leave and I know I cannot claim you, but I cannot stop wanting you nonetheless.”
Clara's eyes were bright with what might have been tears. "This isn't fair."
"Nothing about this is fair."
"I can't stay."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
Gabriel considered. What was he asking? For time to stop? For class differences to disappear? For his scars to vanish and his soul to relieve himself from the pain he lived each day?
"Nothing," he said finally. "I'm asking for nothing."
“You do not speak the truth.”
"Always."
She reached up, her fingers hovering near his scarred cheek, not quite touching. "What if I want to give you something anyway?"
