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Twice tonight was already too much. It made her much too weak. Too susceptible.
She ducked under his arm and rolled to her feet, not caring if he knew she was legitimately running away from him. She was.
Because she knew exactly how shaky her foundation was when he was concerned.
“Insulting me isn’t going to change the fact that I have more questions for you,” she told him when she was standing some distance away. “If that’s what you thought.”
“I did not intend to insult you. And I’ve answered your questions. You are the one who has flung herself halfway across the room a great deal, as if you fear something. Is it me,Timonitsa mou? Or is it yourself?”
Timonitsa mou. My little Timoney.
“Very well.” She could feel herself flushing hot, and knew that it was entirely possible that he could see it. That was unfortunate. But she didn’t understand what she could do to stop it, so she simply slipped out of her cloak, and tossed it over the back of the settee, a little shower of bright red fabric to distract them both. “Let us speak of fear. To the casual observer, it would appear that you’re the one who’s afraid. Of the possibility I might love you. Or is it something more than that? Is it...?” She dared to look back at him then, searching his face and that faintly arrested expression he wore. “Is it more that you’re afraid you might actually love me back?”
Timoney couldn’t believe she’d dared ask that question.
It was as if all the air in the room was sucked away, and there was nothing but the beat of her heart. And of his, too, though perhaps she only imagined she could hear it. Feel it.
Like he was always going to be a part of her.
She saw his jaw tense. There was a flicker of movement, and she glanced down to see his hands in fists at his sides.
And Timoney couldn’t tell in that moment if she wanted to push him further, to see if he would break—
Or if she wanted only to hold him and mend his jagged pieces back together as best as she could, with whatever tools she had to hand—
But there was a sound in the hall outside the conservatory, and to her horror, she realized that she could hear voices.
And worse, they were drawing closer.
“You cannot be found here,” she hissed at Crete.
One of his arrogant brows rose and she thought he intended to refuse to hide himself. To stand his ground and face whoever came in the door, and everything inside her...eased, a little, at that notion.
Because if it happens, you will have to choose, won’t you?asked a voice inside her.If it is your uncle, he will know exactly what this means, and he will demand—
But it didn’t matter. Because, perhaps more astonishing than anything that had come before, Crete looked around and then stalked over to that long table where her mother had kept all of her pots. It was sturdy and tiled, and it was impossible to look beneath it, thanks to all the terra-cotta pots still stacked there.
She blinked in astonishment as Crete...disappeared behind it, lowering himself between the table and the window with tremendous, offended dignity.
On any list of things Crete Asgar might do, she would never in her life have included any possibility that he might secrete himself behind a table. For any reason at all.
It made her feel something like dizzy.
Out in the hallway, the voices moved closer. Timoney looked around, snatched a book off the shelf, then retreated to her settee and did her best to look as if she was entrenched in her reading.
Only moments later the door was flung open and a couple came tumbling in, laughing and flushed with as much wine as ardor.
And it was from some great distance inside, some bird’s-eye view, that Timoney recognized the pair of them. It was Julian, who was to marry her come the morning. And the young wife of some minor diplomat.
Julian came to a stop. He stared at Timoney, who stared back.
In mute astonishment.
The diplomat’s wife took longer, and when she recognized the bride—the reason she was here in this house at all—she only glanced at Julian and quietly excused herself.
After she shut the door behind her, all was silent.
Timoney dared not glance over at her mother’s potting table.
