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“I’m extremely fond of you, Percy. You know that. I would not have accepted your proposal otherwise.”
“But you do not love me.”
Her heart stopped.
“Love is not what matters,” she snapped. Damn it, she could not lose him now! “Stability and compatibility are the most important elements in a marriage, and you and I are eminently well suited in both areas. Not only that, but I consider you my friend. What better match can one possibly desire?”
“Ah, desire,” he said, his eyes lighting briefly. “That’s just it, don’t you see? You don’t desire me.”
“I do!” she protested. “Why, just now, in your arms, I wanted you to—”
“Blot out his memory,” he finished for her. A faint smile flickered across his lips. “I’ve comforted enough women in the aftermath of a disappointment to know such when I see it.”
“I want to marry you,” she insisted. But the look on his face said he didn’t believe her. Panic grabbed her and squeezed her in an iron grip. “I cannot marry Henry,” she said, her voice shaking.
Resignation crept into the set of his mouth. “You are in love with him, then.”
“I am not,” she insisted. “I will admit to there being some attraction between us, but I refuse to marry him simply because of a physical reaction when I can hardly stand to converse with the man.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I would far rather spend a happy life as the wife of a man I genuinely like than chain myself to something as inconstant as passion.”
“Sabrina, I would like nothing better than to make you happy, but you don’t really want—”
“You are what I want!” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. She did want him, just not in the same way she wanted Henry. That sort of want was madness. This sort of want was reasonable, manageable, safe. “When you proposed, you spoke of building a marriage on the solid foundation of our friendship.” She looked up at him, desperate to reestablish that sentiment. “Percy, you are all I have ever desired in a husband. I am not in love with Henry. I wish only to marry you.”
A defeated soul looked out from Percy’s eyes for a moment before the habitual veil of cynicism fell over them once more. “Then alas for Percival Falloure, the reformed Terror of the Ton. If I am truly what you want, then I shall be glad of it and honor my offer.”
Relief flooded through her. She was safe!
No, her pragmatic mind corrected. She would not be safe until she was married.
Over the next several weeks, Sabrina carefully maintained the brightest of smiles in public, giving every visible evidence of happy bridal anticipation.
But each night was spent in torment. She tried everything from chamomile tea and warm baths to reading until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Yet each morning, she still awakened with wet cheeks, her body filled with longing.
Each morning, she wondered if the ache in her heart would ever subside.
Henry’s gifts she hid away, eschewing anything associated with him. Even so, her mind was constantly filled with remembrances. She found him in the smallest of things: a songbird’s call, an elusive scent in the air. The irises in the bloody garden recalled the peculiar color of the man’s eyes, for pity’s sake!
He was everywhere—and nowhere.
Without Henry harassing her all the time, she felt oddly misplaced, lost. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror these days, it was almost a shock. It felt as though some strange semblance of her was walking, dancing, smiling, and conversing with people. She felt removed from everything except the pain in her heart.
It’ll get better with time. Just give it time, she told herself.
Her appetite all but disappeared. Everything tasted like ashes, and nothing, not even her favorite dishes, held any appeal anymore. Her generous curves slowly began to shrink, her cheekbones growing more and more prominent.
When her mother commented on her lack of color and gauntness of cheek, Sabrina panicked. Though it made her feel slightly ill, she forced herself to eat and had her maid begin applying cucumber poultices, creams, and subtle maquillage to her face to counter both her pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Although she detested such subterfuge, it was vital to maintain appearances.
Today, Madame Trillon’s models paraded the latest Paris wedding fashions before her, her mother and sisters, and a select group of friends. Every female in the room was in an utter transport of delight—with the exception of herself. Though she tried her best to appear interested, she truly cared not which gown she ended up wearing.
When her mother expressed great admiration for one in pa
rticular, she let three more pass and then chose her mother’s preference. Measurements were taken amid a flurry of giggles and teasing, and strict orders were given for her not to gain so much as an inch anywhere, lest the gown not fit properly on the happy day.
She didn’t foresee that being a problem.
Arrangements were moving right along—at a snail’s pace, it seemed. It was all she could do not to crawl out of her own skin. Impatience boiled just beneath her serene mask, impatience to be out of this house, out of London. How she yearned for new surroundings, to be in a place with no memories to haunt her! Memories of her father, of happy times with her sisters…of Henry.
It was high time to move on, to set aside the past and look to the future. The end of the Season just couldn’t arrive soon enough.
