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Some excuse? He did not hold her in contempt. But what had she meant, tested the limits? What had she revealed and to whom?
He held himself apart as he blinked and squinted, trying to understand, and yet not trusting himself to speak.
“Just before our first assignation, I told Nettie and Emily I was too nervous to meet with you, that I’d changed my mind.”
Changed her mind? She’d almost changed her mind?
No offer of friendship. No glimpse of the real Lenora. No joint concern for Mont. No... no mesmerizing mention of his dimple.
Her gaze narrowed. “Wouldn’t you have been glad if I had made that coachman turn around?”
“No.”
Emotion dammed up inside him shifted around in directionless swells. His breath came very fast. To steady himself, he ran his thumb along the inside curve of his crooked pinky. He had almost no sensation there, but he could feel pressure.
His anticipation and dread he remembered all too well, but if she had never arrived, he would not have been elated, but disappointed. And if she left him now, he would be bereft.
He needed Lenora, though she wasn’t his to touch. But she could be—oh god—she could be. All he had to do was say yes and weather the consequences. He’d faced worse.
Heaven and earth, my son.
He decided to try. “May I hold you?”
The crease between her eyebrows deepened, spawning more little folds. She worried her bottom lip, her eyes shifting between him and the door, and then, her shoulders fell.
“Yes?”
Lenora. Unsure. Because he’d lost his temper. He had no idea how to make amends.
Awkwardly, she held out her arms.
Ah, darling, maddening minx.
He placed his hands on her hips and drew her to him. Gently, hesitantly, sweetly, she rested her palms against his chest. Not an embrace. Not truly. More like two individuals using one another for support.
This fight had gone on too long. All the way back to their first encounter. He had wearied of the burden. But if Atlas had finally cast off the weight of the world, would his twisted muscles have remembered how to straighten?
“Shall we begin again?” he asked.
She nodded, but in that same, jerky, almost involuntary fashion.
If he’d inherited an ounce of his father’s gift of persuasion, or his mother’s knack for crafting light witticisms from pure air, he might have known what he should say. His only instinct guided him toward the mundane, the familiar.
“Did you enjoy seeing the animals?” he asked.
She glanced up, confused. He waited expectantly. Gradually, her confusion gave way.
“The lion was fierce.”
“Strong,” he confirmed. “Noble.”
“Caged.” She met his gaze. “Not to insult your mother’s choice of venue, but those animals don’t belong indoors. And they certainly don’t belong in London on the second story of former milliner’s shops.”
Lenora. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” What other opinions did they share?
“Do you feel for the animals, too?” she asked.
A question. Thank god. She’d asked him a question. The damage he’d done hadn’t been permanent.
