She paced toward him, her hands reaching for him and then dropping helplessly to her sides. “No. No, not that at all. I feel sorry for him and for you and Martha, but I'm not scared of him. I would meet him, and I would help you and him in any way I could.”
“What is it?”
She stepped away, a backwards retreat. He asked a question she could not quite answer. Saying she was scared of love was the easiest answer, but was it the truth? The entire truth?
“What is it?” he insisted.
The thought of attempting to convince him her feelings were brotherly was laughable.
He wrapped his arms around her, gentle soft. “I want to love you, not hurt you. That's why I waited so damn long to let myself feel anything. And why it came on so quickly once I decided to begin. I've been afraid living with me might hurt you. But if I am willing to take this risk, even after all my experience with pain, then so too should you.”
She pushed away from him. “Do not tell me what to do, George Moreland.Lord Abbington.”
“Do not put titles between us, Jane. The two of us are only Jane and George. Always have been. You know it.”
Yes. She knew that. Even when he called her Lady Jane, it had always been with such…recognition, as if he knew who she was at her very core.
“I am scared of love is all, its consequences, its risks and dangers.”
“The daring woman I know would not avoid love in the face of danger. She would face danger head onforlove.”
“You think you know me that well?”
“You risked ruination to help your friend. You climbed a dying tree because you wanted mistletoe to help another friend catch a kiss. You confronted your father when you thought him ignorant of his wife’s amorous encounters. You freely give love to old women with bad memories.”
“Most of those examples are but foolish errors that hurt more than helped.”
“They speak of your bravery and large heart.”
Fear bubbled up, edged with a bitter anger. She dashed tears from her eyes.
George drew near her until his front pressed against her back. “Don't cry, Jane. My apologies for yelling. But I cannot give you to Newburton. I cannot.”
She had to laugh. Surprising she was able to do so. “It's only toast and tea, George.”
“And a proposal. Besides, I want you to have all your toast and tea with me,” he grumbled.
She ripped herself out of his arms. She wanted that very thing, but if she reached out and took it, if she let herself grow comfortable in his arms, it would not last.
He stood helpless, his body and face bathed in confusion. Hopelessness, too.
She reached for him but dropped her hand. “I do not wish to get hurt.”
“And how will that happen? Do you think I will hurt you? Why do you think that?”
“I’ve told you why. My father. And your uncle lost those he loved most. You know well what happened to him.”
“You plan on cultivating a destructive opium habit?”
“No!”
“Not even if I die?”
“No.”
“What if I promise to let you go before me? That would hurt, to be without you. But if that’s the deal I must make to have you to begin with, I’ll make it.”
“You’ll not die!” She exploded away from him in a fury of steps. “You’ll leave me. You’ll return to your lovers, your widows. I do not know why you feel as you do toward me. It must have been the knock to the head or perhaps you are bored, but soon enough, you’ll look at me across the table or some such and find yourself bored beyond reason. Not a single man wished to court me during my season. Not one. With neither wit nor looks to recommend me, what do I have to offer?”
