Page 93 of A Modest Independence

Astonishment flickered for an instant on Jenny’s face before being replaced once more by that same unreadable mask. She slowly drew back from him, out of his arms. “I see.”

“You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t look like that. As if I’ve tricked you or trapped you in some way. I swore to you on the train to Marseilles that I wouldn’t do that to you again. I’d never have made such a promise if I couldn’t keep it.”

She sat back against the seat of the gharry as the rackety vehicle rolled on through the crowded city traffic. Her hands, which had only moments ago stroked his hair and clutched at his shoulders, folded primly into her lap. “I believe you. And I’m grateful for your offer, Tom, truly.”

“I don’t want your gratitude.” He tugged at his cravat, only to feel the prick of the cravat pin against his fingers. A spasm of soul-clenching emotion contracted his chest. He was going to lose her. If not now, then a month from now. And there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it. The promise she’d extracted from him had effectively tied his hands, binding him up so thoroughly he was powerless to act.

“You have it anyway,” she said. “My gratitude. My affection. My heart, too, I daresay.”

“Jenny—”

“But I’d never do that to you, or to myself. It could only end badly. The two of us want different things from life. There’s no reconciling them. Not even to save my reputation.” She forced a faint smile. “Besides, I’d rather weather the storm of scandal. In time, people will find something else worth gossiping about. And if, in the meanwhile, I continue to insist that you’re my brother—”

He muttered an oath he’d never before used in the presence of a lady.

Jenny’s brows shot up. “Gracious, Tom. It was your idea.”

“I should be drawn and quartered for ever suggesting such a thing.” A fate which would be a damn sight more comfortable than the torments of hell he was suffering at present. “And it was Keane’s idea, if we’re being precise. He’s the one who put the blasted notion into my head, always referring to you as Miss Finchley.”

“Yes, it’s so much ridiculousness, but better we act the part of siblings and pray the scandal will die down than that we do something hasty. You must agree.”

The logical part of his brain—whatever small fragment of it was still functioning after kissing her—knew that she was right. It would never work between them. A woman like Jenny could no more be content trapped in London than he would be spending the rest of his life traipsing about the globe. They wanted different things—needed different things in order to thrive.

Affection wouldn’t be enough. Love wouldn’t be enough. One couldn’t derive happiness entirely from another person, no matter how fond of that other person one might be. In the absence of all else, how long before such fondness turned to bitterness and regret?

Tom knew this. Recognized it as plainly as the nose on his face. But such knowledge amounted to less than nothing when compared to the ache he felt when he looked at Jenny Holloway.

He’d given up too much in his life. Suffered and gone without from the time he was a lad. Surely fate couldn’t be so cruel as to make him go without her as well.

“If that’s what you wish,” he said.

“I’m only being sensible.” She paused before adding, “And trying to prevent you from being unnecessarily gallant.”

Tom managed a humorless huff of laughter. Unnecessarily gallant. That was one way of describing it.

She regarded him steadily. “Are you cross with me?”

“Do I look cross?”

“You do, rather.” She extended her hand to him, slim and elegant in a fine kidskin glove.

He took it, holding it in both of his as if it were something fragile and infinitely precious. “Do I have your heart, Jenny?” he asked quietly.

Her thumb moved over his palm. “Yes.”

The gharry rolled to a rattling halt. Even if Tom had been able to think of something to say, he had no time to say it. He scarcely had a moment to press her hand before the door was thrust open and the gharry-wallah unceremoniously ushered them out into the street in front of Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel.

The night was balmy and rich with the scent of coffee, smoke, and curried meat. Voices filled the air, the sounds of guests laughing and servants talking together in brisk tones as the table was laid for the evening meal.

Tom walked with Jenny through the gates, only just remembering to drop her hand a fraction of a second before the appearance of one of the soldier’s wives they’d met at tiffin.

Later, he wondered how it was that he and Jenny ended up dining with the other guests rather than dining alone. Neither of them had voiced any preference. It had just happened, as if by some unspoken agreement.

The same way it happened five days later when they boarded the train for Delhi.

There was no more mention of marriage. No more talk of private compartments so they might embrace or kiss at will. When they left Calcutta, it was in a first-class compartment which they shared with Ahmad, Mira, and two strangers.

Tom sat beside Jenny in pensive silence as the train departed Howrah Station in a cloud of smoke and steam. A weight of inevitability settled over his shoulders. Their romance wasn’t over yet, but for the first time, he could see the ending of it. And it didn’t end happily. Not for him.