Marquesses at the Masquerade(67)

He gave a bitter laugh. “Very much.”

“I’ve spent all my time worrying about my parents and taking care of them and my home, and I’m not ready to be thrown into marriage just yet. I want space to breathe. I feel like I’ve lost myself, and I’m trying to find her. And I never really forgot…” She trailed off, too ashamed to talk about Patrick. She changed the subject. “I can’t imagine that you could possibly love someone after your wife’s passing. To me, you will always be married to her. I remember how much you admitted you loved her that night… well, the night of my infamous midnight visit. Her loss must be devastating.”

He shifted in his chair and glanced toward the counter. “Yes,” he said quietly. He ran his thumb down his cup. “The night of your so-called infamous midnight visit, you swore that you would always love Patrick. And as you look at me now, I believe you still do.”

What to say? It seemed foolish to admit to all the hours she had thought about him, the stacks of letters that she had never sent. Now it was her turn to look away. “I do.” She shook her head. “I know he doesn’t love me. You don’t have to tell me that. He never wrote to me. My love is all my own.”

Exmore said nothing, but when she ventured a glance at him, she saw pity in his eyes.

“Do you ever hear from him?” She blurted the question that had been in her mind since the night they had danced together. “No.” She raised her palm, catching herself. “Don’t answer that.” Yet, she paused, waiting for an answer. What was she doing? She already knew the answer. Hearing it wouldn’t soothe her hurt but make it worse. Yet, she had to hear him say it.

“Yes,” he said slowly, drawing out the one syllable. “I do.”

She had gone too far already, so she kept going down this painful course. “Does he ever mention me?”

“No, he doesn’t.” He was holding something back. It lurked behind his words.

“I fear you are not telling the truth.”

He paused for a moment. She could tell he was choosing his words to tell her gently. At last, he said in careful tones, “Your assessment that he doesn’t love you is correct. Please don’t ask me for more.”

The rain picked up. A gust of wind splattered it on the windows. “He probably thanked you for your counsel in the matter.”

Exmore remained quiet. She could see the back of his jaw work.

“You once said that one day I would love more wisely, but clearly I haven’t,” she quipped.

He reached across the table, touching her arm. “Please ignore what I said that night. All of it.”

Her eyes burned with the beginnings of tears. “I thought of him every day. I spoke to him as if he were there. I just needed... I needed someone to talk to. I couldn’t share my worries with my mother or father. They had to contend with dying. I felt…” She stopped, not wanting to admit how alone and scared she had been. “I guess that’s why I came back to London. I was chasing memories of a better time.”

“And now you are leaving.”

She smiled. “I didn’t find what I was looking for. It’s gone forever.” She turned, self-conscious, having admitted too many honest, vulnerable feelings. She no longer wanted to talk about herself. “Did you have someone to talk to after your wife’s death?”

He thrummed the table with his thumb. She noticed his lashes. They were thick and curled, the kind women coveted. They softened his otherwise hard features.

“My wife’s pregnancy was difficult.” His voice was hollow. “She couldn’t keep down any drink or food. Then she contracted a chill, and her body… she hadn’t the strength.”

Annalise took his hand that rested on the small table beside hers. “I’m sorry.”

“But the answer to your question is no, I had no one with whom to confide my feelings.” There was an odd quality to his voice, something she couldn’t articulate. But he slid his fingers between her gloved ones and gave them a small squeeze. She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.

“I was alone because, well, I was truly alone in the country, unless you count the sheep, but they aren’t very commiserating,” she noted. “I’ve spoken to enough to say that the species, as a whole, is not a sympathetic one. Yet, you had people buzzing all about you, and you still felt alone. Feeling alone is so personal.”

He tilted his head, his eyes burrowing into hers. “Do you feel alone now?”

She shook her head. “Not today. Despite the rain, today is lovely, for I have excellent company and tea. There is little else to want.”

“I concur, my friend.”

“Friend,” she echoed. The word, the pressure of his hand on hers, and the kindness in his expression sent the smile that warmed her lips to her heart. Several seconds passed in silence. It wasn’t an awkward, dangling pause of not knowing what to say, but a full and content silence. Her father’s kind of soothing quiet. This silence said, I’m here. You aren’t alone. We’ve found each other. We are true friends.

Moments later, they spoke again. Not returning to the subject of pain and loss but ranging across topics. He listened to her, leaning back in his chair, shaking his foot where he had braced it casually over his knee. When he spoke, he leaned forward with a smile twisting the side of his mouth, often playing devil’s advocate. He declared outrageous things that he seriously couldn’t believe and made her laugh. Cup after cup of tea was poured and biscuits were consumed, until Mrs. Bailey edged over, breaking into the invisible circle that seemed to have formed around Annalise and Exmore.