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Cordelia turned to face James. “There is no silver trumpet,” she said, “is there?”
James smiled wryly. “You know my family well.”
Cordelia tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture sent a bolt of heat through James. Such a small gesture, one he wished he could make himself; he wished he could feel the softness of her hair, her skin.
“It is sweet that your father wants us to be alone together,” she said. “But it is also true that we ought to talk.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “At the house—you said you had something to show me.”
And she blushed. Only slightly, but it was encouraging nonetheless. She seemed so calm, armored in her elegance, almost untouchable. It was a relief to know she also felt unease.
“Yes,” he said, “only for me to show you, you will have to come closer.”
She hesitated for a moment, then took a step toward him, and another, until he could smell her perfume. She was breathing quickly, the jet beads edging the neckline of her dress gleaming as her breasts rose and fell. His mouth was dry.
He reached out, capturing the gold pendant that hung around her neck, the tiny globe he had given her. The one she still wore, despite everything.
“I know you believe that I only want you now that I cannot have you,” he said. “But it is not true.”
He tapped the pendant with his thumb. There was a faint click and the globe popped open; her eyes widened. From inside he drew a small slip of paper, carefully folded. “Do you remember when I gave this to you?”
She nodded. “Our two-week anniversary, I believe it was.”
“I didn’t tell you then what was inside,” he said, “not because I did not want you to know, but because I could not face the truth of it myself. I wrote these words down and folded them up and put them where they would be near you. It was selfish. I wanted to speak them to you, but not to face the consequences. But here.” He held out the slip of paper. “Read them now.”
As she read, her expression changed. They were familiar, lines from Lord Byron.
There yet are two things in my destiny—
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
The first were nothing—had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness.
“?‘A world to roam through,’?” Cordelia whispered. “That is why you chose this necklace. The shape of the world.” She fixed her gaze on his. “It means…”
Her eyes were deep and wide, and this time he let himself touch her cheek, his palm against her soft skin, his whole body burning at even that little touch. “It means I would rather have a home with you than all the world,” he said fiercely. “If you cannot believe me now, believe the James who gave you that necklace, long before you left for Paris. My God, what other reason could I have for placing those verses there, save that I loved you, but was too much a coward to say it?”
Cordelia leaned her cheek against his hand and looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes. “So you loved me and you loved Grace at the same time. That is what you are telling me?”
He felt his heart tighten in his chest. She was offering him a way out, he knew, a way to explain his past behavior. A way to say, Yes, I loved you both, but then I realized I love you more.
It was a story that made sense, in a way that the story he had offered her so far did not. And perhaps she would even accept it, forgive it. But it would never be something he could accept for himself. He dropped his hand from her face and said, “No. I never loved Grace. Never.”
Her expression changed. It had been questioning, curious; now it seemed to close like a fan. She nodded once and said, “All right. If you will excuse me, James. There is something I must do.”
And she walked out of the room, sliding open the pocket doors as she went. James followed her but hesitated in the doorway. He could see Cordelia, who had paused to speak to her brother and Thomas; he could not stop himself from staring after her, at the elegant line of her back, the crown of her flame-red hair. Why couldn’t you just lie? he asked himself savagely. If you can’t bring yourself to tell her the truth—
But there had been enough lies between them. He had given Cordelia one more piece of the truth, a piece he could bear to give. It was in her hands what she would do with it.
“James?” He nearly jumped out of his skin; lurking next to the drawing room door was Esme Hardcastle, a pen and notepad in hand. She peered at him owlishly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, James,” she added, tapping the pen against her front teeth, “but as you know, I’m working on a family tree, and it would be awfully helpful to know: Are you and Cordelia planning to have children, and if so, how many? Two?” She tilted her head to the side. “Six or seven?”
“Esme,” James said, “that family tree is going to be very inaccurate if this is the way you’re going about things.”
Looking highly offended, Esme sniffed. “Not at all,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Events like the Christmas party were Anna’s ideal milieu. She liked nothing better than to observe the peculiarities of people’s behavior: the ways they made small talk, their gestures, the way they stood and laughed and smiled. She’d started when she was small, trying to guess what the grown-ups were feeling while she watched them talk at parties. She’d quickly discovered she was quite good at it, and often made Christopher laugh by telling him what this or that person was secretly thinking.
Sometimes, of course, her subjects made it easy, as in this moment, when she was watching James as he looked at Cordelia as if he were longing for the moon. Cordelia did look stunning—she must have gotten her dress on her ill-judged trip to Paris; it had the hallmarks of a more daring fashion than was usually seen in London. Instead of boasting ruffles, it curved in swirls around Cordelia’s hips; instead of lace, the deep neckline was edged with jet beads that glimmered against her light brown skin. She was talking to Alastair and Thomas now, as Thomas tossed a delighted and giggling Alex into the air; though Anna knew perfectly well that Cordelia had a great deal on her mind, one could certainly not tell it by looking at her.
