Cyrus expelled a breath of some relief. “You know the writer then? Silas did not seem to.”
“I know someone who knows how to get them,” Anthony confirmed, still jittering giddily, “though the actual author is something of a mystery. Entirely anonymous. I only know howto get hold of the stories because ladies adore them; I have lost count of the times I have given them as gifts, to rapturous gratitude. Is that whatyoumean to do? Shall I have them bound for you?”
Cyrus hesitated. “Yes, if you can, have them bound for me. I will reimburse you for the cost.”
“So, youdomean to give them as a gift?” Anthony seemed delighted.
“Something like that,” Cyrus replied, unwilling to admit that he required the novels for himself first. “And, naturally, say nothing to my wife of this. I should hate to ruin the surprise.”
Anthony nodded so hard that Cyrus worried for his friend’s neck. “Consider me utterly silent on the matter. I wouldneverruin a good surprise, old boy, especially not when my dear, dear friend has finally decided that life might be pleasanter with a littleromanceafter all.”
Cyrus did not correct his friend or attempt to protest; it did not matter what Anthony thought, as long as Cyrus received those novels. Nevertheless, it was not an issue of romance, but of research.
Rather than continue to flounder and falter without knowing where he had made a misstep, he had decided that it would be in his best interests to learn where he was going wrong. Not to fall in love with her,neverto fall in love with her, but to see exactlywhat it was that she dreamed of… and what it was he had no choice but to deny her.
Maybe, within those pages, I will find a compromise…One that would not bring that sad, disappointed look into her eyes so often. One that might be enough to ensure she was at least content at Darnley Castle, even if he would never be her Captain, or the stuff of her daydreams.
“That seemed pleasant,” Isolde said, cheeks rosy with happiness or punch. “You were smiling quite a lot, until the end.”
The three women had withdrawn to a quiet room, off the main ballroom, where they stood by the open terrace doors to cool themselves with the evening air.
Teresa did her best to muster a believable smile. “Itwaspleasant, though you know I am no great lover of dancing.” She paused. “As for the end, I suppose I was sorry that it ended so soon.”
That part, at least, was not untrue. Had she partaken in another dance with Cyrus, she wondered if they might have moved beyond the awkwardness of old ground. Maybe, she would have regaled him with one of her favorite stories of the Captain and Miss Savage, just to keep talking with him in such close proximity.
He keeps telling me to have no expectations, but then he keeps doing… nice things. What am I to do with that information?
Her tumble from the ladder; the manner in which he had tucked her hair back into the slide when it had come loose in the Tea House; his request for a dance and his interest in what she was reading; his purchase of this beautiful gown, and him hastening to her defense earlier, plus the very fact that he had married her were all nice things. Done for her, without obvious ulterior motive.
It was as baffling as it was infuriating, though she feared that her mind was solely to blame for the confusion. If she had not been a tremendous lover of romantic stories, would she still have noticed those kind acts and believed them to be the root of something more? Or would she see them as a gentleman just being gentlemanly?
“He dances well, at least,” Beatrice remarked. “Only the best for my dear Tess. Although, I have to ask, why did you not dance again? You are married now; you could dance all night if you wanted to, and no one would bat an eye.”
Teresa sipped her lemonade, wetting her dry throat. “I was tired. I am certain he would have obliged me if I had asked.”
“What did you talk about?” Beatrice’s voice carried an interrogatory tone, as if she did not quite believe the rosy picture that Teresa was trying to paint.
Yet, Teresa could not be completely honest with her friend or her sister.
I just do not want you worrying about me, when you leave Darnley Castle. I am safe, I am taken care of, I have gardens and walks to entertain me—that will have to be enough.
They would not accept that, because they loved her. And they would not realize, for that very reason, why their insistence that she deserved to be adored and cherished only made her situation more difficult.
“We discussed many things,” Teresa answered carefully. “He almost joked with me a few times, if you can believe that. Truly, I think that we are becoming friends, and who knows what may blossom from that.”
Beatrice arched an eyebrow. “Friends?”
“Of a kind, yes,” Teresa insisted.
“Friendship can be a lovely place for more to grow,” Isolde chimed in with an approving nod. “He seems to care for you more than I thought he did. To look at you both on the dance floor, I would have wagered a great deal that there was an uncommon affection between you.”
A pang struck Teresa in the chest. A pang of impossibility.
“I do not know about affection,” she said, stumbling over her words, “but there is… less distance.”
She thought of his touch against her temple, skimming over her cheek; how it had tingled so deliciously and how, for a fleeting, wonderful, terrifying moment, she had thought he might kiss her. Now, that seemed like forever ago, or the creation of a summer afternoon dream, brought on by the intense heat of the Tea House.
“Ah, yes, I am so very fond of all those epic, romantic poems and stories about ‘less distance.’ If I close my eyes now and think of them, my heart cannot help but race,” Beatrice said drily, her eyes searching Teresa’s face with an expression of the saddest concern. “I ought to box Vincent’s ears for making you do this. I swear, I shall never forgive him for handing your future to the duke.”
