Unlocked (Turner #1.5)(15)

Did it make it better or worse that he’d understood what he had done to her? She couldn’t decide.

“So I did what any young, senseless idiot would do. I ran away. A retreat to the country wasn’t enough; I couldn’t bear to stay in England. I had to outrun the person you all believed me to be. I spent a summer in Greece, but every woman I saw brought me back to Lady Elaine. Finally, while passing through Switzerland, I talked to a man who had attempted the ascent on Mont Blanc. He told me that he’d nearly died in the process. To my mind, that seemed like the best thing I could do with myself.”

Westfeld gave the entire room a tight smile. “And so that was why I started mountaineering: because I was too cowardly to come home, apologize, and try to make things right.”

Right. She didn’t know where right lay any longer. But what he’d said was irrevocable. This gossip would race through polite society. She’d wanted him vulnerable, unable to hurt her…and here he was.

“And so here I am,” he echoed, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Older, wiser, and I hope a good deal braver. Lady Elaine, you have my sincerest apologies for what I did to you. I don’t hope for your forgiveness, but I am in your debt. Deeply. Should you ever need anything—anything—you have only to ask, and it is yours.”

“You see,” her mother said into the resounding silence that followed. “I told you Westfeld was sweet on you. And I was right!”

Elaine could almost see the rising speculation in the eyes of those around her. After a declaration like that, she could guess what would come next. She could feel the future pressing against her, like a crushing weight of humid air overpowering her lungs.

He was looking at her. His eyes had always fascinated her, and this time she could see nothing of the snake in them. No lies. No jokes. Just a painful, awkward, humiliating truth. He was going to ask in front of all these people, and…and they would all expect her to say yes.

She stood so swiftly her chair was knocked over behind her. And without saying a word, she turned and left the room.

She knew even as she did so that he would follow.

Chapter Six

Evan found her in the garden, sitting on a bench amidst a quiet symphony of cricket calls. She looked at him as if she were holding court—regal and unattainable. There was almost no moon to speak of, but the stars were bright, and her eyes were, too.

Finally, she spoke. “How did you escape last night?”

He hoisted his sleeve and turned back his cuff. In the darkness, it was almost impossible to see where the rope had rubbed his skin into agitated redness. “A middleman’s noose can be converted into a slipknot. With a good bit of effort, it turns out. I’d never done it one-handed before.”

She looked at his wrist and then glanced away.

He sat next to her on the bench.

“I feel as if I should apologize for that,” she said, “but…but I can’t quite bring myself to do so. What was I supposed to think? You were talking about seducing me. That wasn’t a sign of respect.”

“I’ve wanted you for years.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Respect doesn’t enter into it. Had anything happened, I surely would have married you.”

She hid her face. “Oh, Westfeld. Don’t.”

“But I must. Will you marry me?”

The silence stretched into awkwardness.

“I know you’ll have a hard time believing that I am serious. But please—I beg you to see that what happened all those years ago is in the past. I’m not the same man today.”

She raised her face to his. The starlight reflected in her eyes, gray and silver together.

“Do you really think I would want to marry you?”

No. Still, it was a blow to hear it out loud.

“I had hoped—I had so hoped I might convince you. Let me court you, then. You don’t know who I am now, and perhaps once you come to know me…”

He reached over to take her hand. The contact was inadequate—after last night’s intimacy, the mere feel of glove-on-glove seemed confining. She didn’t respond to his caress. But at least she didn’t push him away.

“I don’t think it matters what I know of you,” she said simply. “Do you know what you did to me?”

He could feel the tips of his ears flush. “I remember.”

“No.” She pulled her hand from his now. “You only saw the public moments. You cannot know.” Her voice dropped. “You are handsome and wealthy and titled. Perhaps I might someday believe that you are kind, too. But let me tell you what I feel when I look at you. In my first year out, two months into the Season, I tasked my maid to tell me a series of jokes. We filled a bath. And every time I laughed my laugh, I told her to duck my head under the water. I hoped I might cure myself.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“The first few times, it was just funny. And that made me laugh all the harder. So I asked her to hold my head under longer and longer.”

“No,” he breathed.

“Yes.” Her voice was sharp. “But it never worked. After the eighteenth time, I couldn’t stop laughing. Not for anything. I inhaled water into my lungs and was bedridden for days on end.”

“Oh. God.”

“What did you think you were doing to me when you called me those names? When you egged on your friends to poke fun at me?”