Tipping up her face, she studied his—his eyes, the harsh, austere planes that communicated so little. Drew breath, felt forced to ask, “Why? I still don’t understand why you want to marry me. Why you want me, and me alone.”
He held her gaze for a long moment; she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he did.
“Guess.”
It was her turn to think long and hard, then she licked her lips and murmured, “I can’t.” After an instant, she added, with brutal honesty, “I don’t dare.”
Chapter Fourteen
He’d insisted on escorting her home. Only their hands had touched; she’d been intensely grateful. He’d been watching her; she’d sensed his need, so flagrantly possessive, had appreciated the fact he’d reined it in—that he seemed to understand that she needed time to think, to absorb all he’d said, all she’d learned.
Not just of him, but of herself.
Love. If that was what he’d meant, it changed everything. He hadn’t said the word, yet standing close to him, she could feel it, whatever it was—not desire, not lust, but something much stronger. Something much finer.
If it was love that had grown between them, then walking away from him, from his proposal, was, perhaps, no longer an option. Walking away would be the coward’s way out.
The decision was hers. Not just her happiness but his, too, hinged on it.
With the house silent and still about her, the clock on the landing ticking through the small hours, she lay in her bed and forced herself to face the reason that had kept her from marriage.
It wasn’t an aversion—nothing so definite and absolute. An aversion she could have identified and assessed, convinced herself to set aside, or overcome.
Her problem lay deeper, it was much more intangible, yet all through the years time and again it had had her shying away from marriage.
And not just marriage.
Lying in her bed, staring up at the moon-washed ceiling, she listened to the telltale clicking on the polished boards outside her bedroom door as Henrietta stretched, then padded off downstairs to wander. The sound faded. No more distraction remained.
She drew breath, and forced herself to do what she had to. To take a long look at her life, to examine all the close friendships and relationships she’d not allowed to develop.
The only reason she’d ever considered marrying Mark Whorton was because she’d recognized from the first that she would never be close, emotionally close, to him. She would never have become to him what Heather, his wife, had—a woman dependent and happily so. He’d needed that, a dependent wife. Leonora had never been a candidate for supplying that need; she had simply not been capable of it.
Thanks be to all the gods he’d had the sense to, if not see the truth, then at least act on what he’d perceived to be a dissonance between them.
The same dissonance did not exist between her and Tristan. Something else did. Possibly love.
She had to face it—to face the fact that this time, with Tristan, she fitted the bill of his wife. Precisely, exactly, in every respect. He’d recognized it instinctively; he was the type of man accustomed to acting on his instincts—and he had.
He wouldn’t—didn’t—expect her to be dependent, to indeed change in any way. He wanted her for what she was—the woman she was and could be—not to fulfill some ideal, some erroneous vision, but because he knew she was right for him. He was in absolutely no danger of setting her on any pedestal; conversely, through all their interactions, she’d realized he was not just capable of but disposed to worshiping her absolutely.
Her—the real her—not some figment of his imagination.
The thought—the reality—was so deeply, gut-wrenchingly attractive…she wanted it, could not let it go. But to grasp it, she would have to accept the emotional closeness that, with Tristan, would be—already was—a foregone conclusion, a vital part of what bound them.
She had to face what had kept her from allowing such a closeness with anyone else.
It wasn’t easy going back through the years, forcing herself to strip away all the veils, all the facades she’d erected to hide and excuse the hurts. She hadn’t always been as she now was—strong, capable, not needing others. Back then, she hadn’t been self-sufficient, self-reliant, hadn’t emotionally been able to cope, not with everything, not by herself. She’d been just like any other young girl, needing a shoulder to cry on, needing warm arms to hold her, to reassure her.
Her mother had been her touchstone, always there, always understanding. But then, one summer day, her mother and father both had died.
She still remembered the coldness, the icy loss that had settled about her, locking her in its prison. She hadn’t been able to cry, had had no idea how to mourn, how to grieve. And there’d been no one to help her, no one who understood.
Her uncles and aunts—all the rest of the family—were older than her parents had been, and none had any children of their own. They’d patted her, praised her for being so brave; not one had glimpsed, had had any inkling of the anguish she’d hidden inside.
She’d kept hiding it; that was what had seemed expected of her. But every now and then, the burden had become too great, and she’d tried—tried—to find someone to understand, to help her find her way past it.
Humphrey had never understood; the staff at the house in Kent had no idea what was wrong with her.