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‘I’m glad you like them,’ he said mildly, exercising considerable control of his breathing. ‘I think I can hear the new luggage being brought up.’
‘Shall I pack for you?’
‘No. I can manage, thank you.’ The thought of her bent over the valises, folding his shirts, acting like the wife he wished she was—that was one torture too far.
It was as well, he thought wryly over dinner, to be careful what one wished for. He had fantasised about a day spent with Nell, indulging his desire to buy her pretty things and now he was having to live with the consequences. She was happy and sparkling and light-hearted. Which was wonderful. She was also treating him like an indulgent brother, which was not.
She left him after dinner with a gesture towards the brandy bottle. ‘That gave me a headache, I think I will leave you to it, Theo.’ Something of the sparkle had gone out of her mood; she looked serious as she stood, the door handle in one hand, a copy of Petrarch’s poetry she had insisted on buying in the other. How like Nell, he thought tenderly, off she goes to bed to read fourteenth-century Italian in the original.
‘Theo.’
‘Mmm?’ He was not sure whether he did not like her best when she was serious, her brow furrowed over a book, or deep in thought. The laughter was never very far away and the look in those clear hazel eyes…
‘Theo, wake up! Will you knock on my door when you come up? Say goodnight? I’ll be reading.’
‘If you want me to translate, I can’t, my Italian is strictly the modern variety.’
‘No.’ Her smile was oddly tense. ‘No, I won’t ask you to translate.’
How long had she got to wait? Elinor wondered, washing with the tablet of fine-milled soap that she had picked up to smell in the perfumers and which had been immediately added to the pile of Theo’s purchases. She could change her mind, right up to the point where he tapped on her door, expecting to say goodnight.
Her new nightgown slithered over her shoulders, a virginal pure white that should have prodded her conscience. She tied the ribbons loosely at the neck, for the first time in her life thinking about dressing to please a man. No, she corrected herself firmly, seduce him. It had a matching robe, hardly more practical or modest. She slipped it on, wondering if it was as translucent as it felt.
Theo had seemed to like her hair loose, she thought, remembering the way he had weighed it in his hands before plaiting it on the river bank. Freed from its ribbon, the braiding shaken out, it rippled over her shoulders and down her back, a shifting veil.
A more assured woman would have scent and know how to use it, would place a jewel strategically, might use lamp-black to lengthen her lashes, or the petals from those geraniums on the window sill to redden her lips or cheeks. But she had none of those arts, or those accessories. Either he wanted her or he did not. All she could do now was to wait and see whether her nerve held.
The book she had bought was hard to translate, forcing her to concentrate as she struggled with the meaning. But it was not a good choice for the love-lorn wrestling with conscience and desire, filled as it as with sonnets written by the poet to his unfulfilled love, Laura.
‘Wherever I wander, love attends me still, Soft whispring to my soul, and I to him.’ That was lovely, and, sadly, implied that love would never let you alone.
‘Sighing?’ She had not heard the tap on the door. Theo was standing just inside, regarding her with affectionate amusement. He had taken off his boots, which was perhaps why she had not heard him. ‘That is heavy stuff for this time of night. Are you having trouble with the grammar?’
‘No, it isn’t as bad as I feared. Theo—’ Now was the moment to make up her mind, take that second chance. ‘Would you come in and close the door?’ He raised his eyebrows, but did as she asked, putting his chamber stick down on the dresser and watching her in the candlelight.
‘Are you afraid of sleeping again?’
‘It isn’t that.’
She put the book down with care and stood up. How difficult could it be? He only had to say no. Theo’s eyes widened as he took in her loose hair, the fragile white lawn garments. As though his gaze was being dragged, it travelled down her body to her toes, bare under the lacy hem.
‘I want you to stay with me tonight, Theo, and make love to me.’ A frank demand, not one of the careful phrases she had rehearsed, but at least it was said, even if her stomach did seem to have shrunk to a tight knot of apprehension and she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. He was standing there, watching her, his face a mask, yet she sensed anger, not any of the other emotions she would have expected—embarrassment, alarm, pity.
‘You do not have to pay for what I bought you today,’ he said finally, and the rage was there, clear and cold in his voice. It was the tone she would have imagined one man would have used to another in the moments before rapiers came sliding out of scabbards. And something else. Pain.
‘Oh, no! Theo, I would never…I was going to ask before today, before I knew what you intended.’ She was normally so calm and articulate and now the words were tangling in her mouth and she found that, confronted with pure emotion, she had no idea how to put right what she had done. This was Theo and she was losing him.
Elinor fought down the panic and took a deep breath. ‘I realised the night before last, when you slept in my room, how much I wanted to…’ Her resolution died away in the face of his implacably blank expression. She tried again.
‘Theo, I know I’m not going to get married, I have always known it. I would never settle for anything other than a love match, and I know I’m not going to find one of those. But I find I don’t want to live the whole of my life not knowing about—’ She swallowed hard. ‘Not knowing about physical passion. It is not something a single woman can seek out, not without terrible risks, not unless there is someone she can trust, as I trust you.’
The anger was leaving him, she could sense it, although she was still surprised by how quickly it had flared up in him, the hurt she sensed. Was it simply touchy male honour? Surely not.
‘As you say, there are risks,’ he said steadily, his eyes watchful on her face. ‘Your reputation, if word gets around that we have been travelling together, is ruined anyway. But with your mother’s connivance and the Maubourg court as cover, there is no reason why it should ever get out. Unless you become pregnant—and if we make love, then that is a very real risk, and one I am not prepared to take.’
Because, if tha
t is the consequence, you will be trapped? one part of her mind asked. He is quite right, said her common sense. You would both be trapped.
