To Have and to Hoax(99)
She could comfort this man—this infinitely precious man—over and over, but doing so would not solve their problems.
At this point, only he could solve them.
“I love you,” she said simply, and felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest, so light did she feel with this unburdening of the truth. She felt as though she had carried these three small words around with her every day for the past four years, that they had grown heavier each day for being unspoken.
“I love you,” she repeated, feeling almost giddy, and she saw him open his mouth, perhaps to speak these same words back to her, and again she forestalled him, knowing that allowing him to do so would weaken her resolve. “But I don’t want to hear what you have to say right now. I’m going to tea with my mother, and then I am going to dine at Diana’s, and then I am going to the Goodchapel musicale with Emily tonight, and I don’t want you to follow me, not unless you mean it.” She swallowed, surprised by the sudden rush of emotion she felt. So often had she wished that he would trust her, love her without anything coming between them. So often had she wished that he had followed her from the drawing room on that horrible morning four years ago—wished that he had refused to let her walk away, forced her to argue with him until their issues were laid bare and things were right between them once more.
And yet, now that she thought he might follow her at last, she was turning him away. Because she realized something now—something that perhaps she should have realized long before.
She wanted him to follow her for the right reasons. She wanted him to follow her because he loved her and trusted her above all others. She wanted him to follow her without having to think twice about it, without ever doubting her word. She wished for him to follow her without her having to ask him to—and without her having to convince him, once she did, that she had been worthy of the pursuit. She was no longer willing to settle for a marriage that involved anything less, with a man who claimed to love her, but who failed to put his faith in her when it counted the most.
“I have missed you more than I can say,” she said, swallowing again, and he reached for her, his arm extending halfway across the space that divided them before freezing, falling to his side once more. She saw in his face the effort that the simple action of dropping his arm took, and she was grateful for it, though she couldn’t bring herself to tell him as much.
“I want this to be a true marriage again—I want us to be together. I want to spend my days and nights with you. And I think you want that, too. But I want you to trust me beyond all measure. I want a real marriage, and I don’t think we can have that in the absence of trust. And I don’t think we can have that until you stop allowing your obsession with your father to dictate everything about our lives. You were thrown from a horse less than a fortnight ago, a horse you never should have been riding in the first place. And you cannot tell me that your foolishness had to do with anything other than your obsession with showing your father your worth.” She paused, swallowing around the lump that had appeared in her throat. “I already know your worth. You don’t need to prove anything to me. I need for my opinion to be the one that matters the most to you, because I am your wife. So please, James, I am begging you. I am leaving now, and please don’t come after me until you can make that true.”
And, with more strength than she had known she possessed, she turned from him and walked to the library door. Deep in her heart, she knew that she was somehow hoping he would race after her, block her exit, refuse to let her leave without fixing this, once and for all. She didn’t want him to follow her for the wrong reasons, it was true—but she could not help hoping he might already understand the right ones, and that he might not let her walk away after an argument once again. And yet, when he made no sign of stopping her departure, she prided herself on the fact that she left the room without once looking back.
Seventeen
After Violet left the room, James lingered. He didn’t wish to—every instinct in his body was screaming at him to run after her, apologize once more, promise her that he would never lie to her again. He’d fall to his damn knees if he had to.
And yet, something held him back. She still thought him in thrall to his father. She still thought him unable to trust, to love her the way she deserved. He needed to prove to her, somehow, that this wasn’t true. But how?
How could he show her what he felt so deeply? He was an Englishman, after all; dramatic declarations weren’t really his forte. How could he make her trust him? Trust them?
An indeterminate amount of time later, Wooton appeared at the door. “The Marquess of Willingham and Viscount Penvale, my lord.”
James looked up wearily from his seat by the fireplace. It was an unseasonably cool day for July, and the weather had turned gray and foggy in the afternoon; he was seated in his favorite armchair, another glass of brandy in hand. He could still feel the faint stickiness on one side of his face where he’d failed to entirely wipe away the drink that Violet had hurled at him. Despite his rage in the moment, his mouth now twitched slightly at the memory.
“You look terrible,” Jeremy said without preamble, appearing behind Wooton and sauntering into the room.
“It’s not been my finest day, I must confess.” James gestured lazily at the sideboard without rising, merely raising his own glass. “Help yourselves.”