“Look at what you’ve managed. I was right.”
“Yes. But you know, Violet, you were the only one who had ever said that to me. You looked me over and raised one dubious eyebrow and told me that I could become one of the world’s foremost experts on a topic that had not been discovered yet. Until that point, nobody had ever believed that about me.” He was still smiling. “Benedict tells me, without a flicker of doubt, that I haven’t done anything with myself.”
Violet shook her head.
“Even Robert and Oliver see me as something of a joke, and I’ve known them since I was tiny. Other than you, they’re my best friends. That’s what I was good for when we started working together—a prank, a lark, a jest. They weren’t far off the mark. I am rather ridiculous. Nobody else can quite believe what I’ve done. You’re the only person in the entire world who looked at me and thought, ‘That man could play the role of genius, and nobody would ever question it.’”
Her throat felt thick. She didn’t know what to say. “It was obvious,” she managed stiffly.
“That’s one of the reasons I love you, Violet. You see so many surprising things and you think they’re obvious. And you’re right about them, too.”
A woman would have to be made of stone to resist an appeal like that, eyes like those—dark and luminous, shining into her own across the few feet that separated them.
She was good at being made of stone. She imagined herself flint, hard enough to strike sparks. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I don’t—I can’t—”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t love him, no matter how much some part of her yearned to do it.
“No, I understand. That’s what I’m trying to say. Just because you make me burn doesn’t mean I’m suffering. I have always known that even though you weren’t in love with me, you loved me, too.”
The air she took into her lungs seemed too thick. She couldn’t think, couldn’t look him in the eyes. He was right, so right. She’d never wanted to admit it, but…he was right.
Never again. Especially not with him.
“That’s it,” she said hopefully. “Yes. We love each other—just not in the physical way. There’s no lust. It’s purely platonic.”
She stopped at the look in his eyes.
“It’s purely platonic,” she repeated. But she heard her own voice rising in question. “Right?”
“No,” he said. “God, no.” His eyes were hot, boring into hers. For a moment, she could almost feel the warmth of what he felt licking against her navel, slowly sinking lower. “I don’t love you platonically,” he said. “I want you. I want you very, very much. If you wanted to go to bed with me, Violet, I’d take you there. Right now.” He shrugged, and that wave of heat dissipated. He gave her a smile. “But you don’t.”
She let out a gasping breath. He’d got it wrong after all.
“Sebastian…” she started to say.
But he leaned toward her, bridging the gap between them, and set his finger against her lips. “Shh,” he whispered. “There’s no need to apologize for not feeling the same way. I understand.”
He didn’t mean it as a liberty. He touched her the way one dearest friend touched another—for comfort, for support. To let her know that he knew how she felt.
She didn’t jerk away as she ought to have done—because he didn’t know, and she didn’t want it said.
“I can’t,” Violet heard herself say. “I can’t. I can’t be that person, Sebastian. I can’t.” But she could feel that old, unwanted desire waken inside her, curling deep in her belly like poison. If she let it in—if she let down her guard—it would fill her up and she’d lose everything.
“Violet,” he said. “How could I say I loved you and expect you to do something you didn’t want? The last thing I want is for you to be anyone but yourself.” His hand fell on her shoulder. “You should know—this is me. I love you.”
He didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know how much it hurt to bottle up her wants. She made her shoulder blades into steel, willing them to stay rigid against his onslaught. She was a thing of gears and metal, strong like clockwork, and she wouldn’t melt down into tears. She didn’t want. She didn’t desire. She didn’t need to be taken to bed.
“It’s all right,” he whispered.
For this tiny moment, she allowed herself to need one thing: to be held. She needed it so badly that she didn’t move. Even though the warmth of his fingers stirred sensations, images that left her half-heated and half-frozen. One whispered word from her and they could trade real touches, skin on skin. They could fall into desire. She could have everything—love, warmth, companionship.
She could have cramps and agony and the sick certainty that this time, she might not survive.
Only Sebastian would dare to love her, and he didn’t know everything.
Violet shut her eyes and let his fingers whisper to her of comfort. Everything else, she’d do without.
“Shh. It’s just the way things are. Nothing has to change if you don’t wish it. Nothing at all.”
“How do we go on?” she whispered.
“Simple,” he said. “One day at a time. We’ll go to Oliver’s wedding, and we’ll tell jokes with each other. We’ll fall into our old friendship.”
“And you’ll change your mind,” she said with a glimmer of hope. That was it—this was a passing fancy on his part. “How long has it been since you last had a lover? You’ve just spent so much time around me, you’ve fooled yourself.”
There was a long pause.
“That is it, isn’t it?” she repeated.
“No.” He smiled at her. “No, it really isn’t. But just watch. Nothing has to change.”
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED.
Violet wished she could pretend, but she couldn’t. No matter how she feigned nonchalance, she could tell that she was playing a role. Sebastian greeted her with a smile a few days later, when Violet and her maid met him at the train station. It was precisely the same smile he gave to their friends, Robert Blaisdell, the Duke of Clermont, and his wife, Minerva, when they arrived a few moments later—friendly and open, as if he had nothing to hide but the conclusion of his latest joke.
But she knew better.