“My father expected my participation in the war,” his grace went on, staring out at the gardens beyond the balustrade. “He expected I should be as brave and valiant as our ancestors during the Anglo-French conflicts, and I, coward that you named me, felt no such thing.”
Her heart squeezed, and reflexively, she gripped his hand tighter.
“Of all the people in the world, I had hoped you would be the one to understand,” he continued when she found it utterly impossible to speak. “I shared my true feelings with nobody but you, and when you … when you mocked me for all to see, I could not bear it. We may have only been children, but I suppose childish things were all I had left to hold onto during the war.”
Guilt coiled like a snake in Cecelia's stomach.
“George, I—”
He did not let her speak as he turned his gaze upon her then. “You were right to name me a coward, Cece, for I have always been one.”
“No, George!” she insisted, another emotion suddenly claiming her heart. “You are stubborn and foolish at times, but never a coward. I never truly believed that. I was a fool myself. I was reckless and childish, and I never imagined my words might have wounded you so!”
Their gazes met for several seconds, and Cecelia felt tears creeping into her eyes.
All this time, this was what had kept them apart, kept their friendship from rekindling.
Suddenly, she snatched her hand away.
“All those letters,” she gasped, remembering the months she had spent in her room, pondering why he had never written her back. “I wrote so many letters and not once did you respond!”
Anger bubbled up inside her, and she rose from her seat. The weakness in her legs was gone, utterly replaced by adrenaline.
“You could have written me. You could have told me all of this before!”
His grace did not rise. He instead turned his gaze up to hers, his face twisting in pain.
“Then you truly see me for the coward I am,” he said, and she thought she saw his lip quiver.
“No,” she demanded, firmly shaking her head, “No! I do not accept that.”
The emotion that had been welling inside her all evening came to a head, and her tears burst forth in a flood down her cheeks.
“You could have written,” she insisted, struggling to keep her voice even as she tried her hardest to hold back the tears. “You should have!”
In an instant, his grace stood before her. He pulled her into his arms so abruptly that it was a shock to Cecelia's system.
In the blink of an eye, her anger began to ebb away, and she relaxed into his arms. The tears continued to stream down her cheeks.
“I am truly sorry, Cece,” he said, his hand caressing the back of her head as he held her to his chest. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Cecelia wished to tell him that she couldn't, that she would never get over the years of hurt his silence had caused, and yet, when she lifted her gaze to his, she was overwhelmed by the desire to say yes.
Her lip trembled, her eyes still streaming, and she was surprised when he raised a handkerchief to her face. The gentleness with which he wiped her tears away almost broke her heart.
Suddenly, it felt as if there was nothing left to say. She feared that if she spoke, she might say the wrong words, and this tender moment would be lost like a leaf on a stiff breeze.
Instead, she found herself pushing up onto the tips of her toes.
And when he leaned down in response, her heart skipped a beat.
His gloved hand, handkerchief still loosely gripped, cupped her cheek as their lips connected, leaving Cecelia utterly breathless.
Desperation and desire consumed her; her body pressed so intently against his that she felt as if they melted into one. The night all around them seemed to whisper words ofencouragement as her hand slipped up his chest, traced along his neck, and came to rest upon his cheek.
“Cecelia—” he whispered her name, barely more than a breath, and the world exploded all around her.
For one more second, she was swept away. Her entire body sang with the need of his kiss, with the desire to remain there like that for all eternity.
