Page 105 of A Modest Independence

Tom stared down at her, dumbstruck. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and then again. “Jenny…”

It was only her name, but it was enough to make her face crumple. She hadn’t mastered the art of attractive feminine weeping. She was too noisy—too red and blotchy and prone to puffiness about the eyes and nose. “I told you I needed time to compose myself. Why didn’t you listen to me?” She fumbled about herself to no avail. “Oh, where is my handkerchief?”

Tom pressed his own into her hands. It was large and clean and smelled of him—of bay rum, fresh linen, and the ink and parchment of his dratted legal papers. Another sob broke as she buried her face into it.

She didn’t fight it. Rather the opposite. She sank down in a chair beside the bed and gave herself up to it, crying until her throat burned and her chest ached.

When at last she opened her eyes, Tom was crouched in front of her on his haunches, one hand on his knee, the other hand resting on the arm of her chair. The coldness in his face was gone. He was still solemn and self-controlled. But there was something else there now, too. A tenderness in his weary blue eyes that she’d never seen before.

“Come with me,” he said.

She snuffled into his handkerchief, wishing there was a more ladylike way to blow one’s nose. “What? Where?”

“Home,” he said. “To England. This doesn’t have to be the end.”

“Lord, I must look a fright.”

“Jenny, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, but—” Her face contorted in a spasm of grief. “I can’t go with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not who I am. It isn’t what I want. Not England. Not the life I had before.”

“And not me.”

“That isn’t true. I do want you. I’ve been crying my heart out, wanting—” She broke off, blinking back another swell of tears. “I do want you,” she said again, feeling young and foolish and in extraordinarily poor control of her emotions. “I’d kiss you if I wasn’t in such a dreadful state.”

“You’re beautiful,” Tom said gruffly. He took his handkerchief from her hands and used it to dry her face. “You’re always beautiful.”

“Don’t dare be kind to me. I’ll never stop weeping.”

“I can be nothing but kind to you. You’re my dearest girl. Don’t you know that?”

Jenny looked into his eyes as he dried her tears. Her heart ached to the point of pain. “You’re no less dear to me.”

His lips quirked. “Which is why you called me an idiot.”

He was trying to make her laugh, but Jenny didn’t feel much like laughing. She exhaled a trembling breath. “When will you leave Delhi?”

Tom drew back. His expression was grim. “I don’t know.”

Tears rose in her eyes once more. “Oh, drat,” she muttered. “Is there no end to this humiliation?”

He didn’t reply. Instead he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She buried her face in his neck as he stood, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her to the bed.

Jenny made no objection, not even when he sat down amidst her pillows, his back propped against the wall, and cradled her as she wept.

But she should have. She should have.

It was scandalous. Wanton and reckless. The very opposite of how she’d promised herself she’d behave once they arrived in Delhi. Gracious, they were in bed together! He did nothing to initiate greater intimacy, but he might have done. And she might have done. All it wanted was a bit of encouragement. A grain in the balance to tip the scales.

“We can’t,” she said.

“We won’t. Just let me hold you awhile.”

His breath was soft on her hair, the pressure of his hand a soothing weight as it stroked up and down over the curve of her spine.