“Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Every word.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, then there is no need to repeat it all.”
Viola narrowed her eyes. Oh, no. He would not do this. He was going to take the cheap, cowardly way out.
“No, Sebastian. We must talk about this. We have both been skirting around it for too long.”
“If you mean the accidental publication, rest assured…”
“I do not mean that. I mean something else entirely.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Feelings. We must talk about our feelings. Finally.”
He froze.
She took a breath. “Throughout all those years, I believed you did not care for me. So, I tried to keep out of your way, so that you might lead your own life, and I mine.” She paused. “We were both quite successful at it. But were we happy? Truly happy?”
“As I told you before. I wanted to respect your wishes,” he retorted stiffly, neatly skirting her question. “I felt responsible for trapping you in a marriage to someone you did not love. I thought you wanted George.”
“Oh, Sebastian. You can no longer pretend ignorance of what I truly feel. Not when the entire world knows. Not after you have read the letters. I have already told you, and I will tell you again, in my own words, over and over, daily if I must. I shall hammer it into your brain.” Her voice softened. “I loved you from the very first. And I tried so hard to hold it back, because I felt I had no right to do so. I was wrong. But you see, it is hard for me whenyou retreat behind your walls. Like this, like you are doing right now. I never know what you feel. You never speak of it. I need you to talk to me,” she continued gently. “About your feelings. Instead of keeping it all locked inside, leaving me to guess.”
A flicker of panic crossed his face.
“I am not good at talking when it comes to…when it comes to…”
“When it comes to…?” Viola prompted.
“Feelings,” he said gruffly.
“Ah. Even knowing that I love you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It is not so easy, you see. You have a clear advantage when it comes to expressing sentiment. I am simply not good at it. Just because I do not talk about my feelings as effusively as you do, does not mean they are not there. On the contrary. It is agony to feel so much and be incapable of articulating it. I much prefer… I much prefer…”
Goodness. The man who could eviscerate his political opponent with a single sentence, a single word, was reduced to a bumbling, diffident schoolboy when addressing what was in his heart.
“Then let us try it this way.” Viola patted the seat beside her. “Sit down next to me.”
He sat.
She wound her arms around his neck. He rubbed his nose against her cheek, her neck, and drew in a deep breath.
“And now,” she whispered into his ear, “you tell me how you feel. Start with, ‘Dearest Lala, I feel…’ You can whisper it quietly.”
“Dearest Lala. I feel…”
His grip around her tightened, and she felt his breath tickling the fine hairs at her temple.
Just when she thought he would not speak, he did.
“I feel…happy.”
“What does happy feel like?”
“It feels like…a lightening. A widening of my heart. It is there only when you are near. When you walk into the room. Or towards me. No one and nothing else stirs it. And there is this warmth, though warmth is not quite the word. A burning. Sometimes so strong I fear it will consume me entirely.” He added gruffly, “At first, it made me very much afraid. What if it gets out of control, you know? Burns me up, like an inferno.”
“Oh, yes,” Viola nodded against him. “I know. Tell me more.”
