Chapter Twenty-six
Cam came to a halt at the bottom of the dark staircase. He wanted to fall into his bed and put an end to this evening—to this day, to these past weeks—but the staircase unfolded before him in an endless procession of steps, the upper landing so impossibly high, so far away, so obscured by shadows it seemed insurmountable. A mountain, not a staircase.
He’d left the ball early. It wasn’t much past midnight now, but it felt later.
Darker. Quieter.
He worked his fingers into the tight knot at his throat and clawed at the fabric until his cravat hung limp around his neck.
There. The cravat was a start. Now, the stairs. One at a time.
Step. She’d worn a deep wine-colored gown tonight. The color flattered her creamy skin and dark hair and eyes. Hadn’t she worn a similar color, the first night he’d seen her? Yes. He’d thought at the time the color echoed her scent, that faint hint of black currants.
Step. Lovely. Always she was lovely, yet tonight she hadn’t looked the same to him. Other gentlemen watched her, admired her. Cam saw the way their eyes followed her, and he wondered why none of them noticed something was missing.
The spark, the flash in her dark eyes.
Step. He’d noticed, as he should. He was the one who’d stolen it from her.
More steps, more sharp clicks as the bottom of his shoes hit the cold marble. Endless, these stairs.
One step at a time.
She’d left the ball early, claiming fatigue, but her sudden departure had more to do with whatever her sister had said to her out on the terrace. Two dances elapsed before they returned, and when they did, Eleanor’s face was pale and her eyes red, as if she’d been crying.
Step. He hadn’t objected to leaving early. No doubt she was fatigued. God knew he was. It exhausted him to pretend, to play this never-ending game of charades.
Cam reached the second floor landing at last. He drew a deep breath and turned right, toward Amelia’s bedchamber. He opened the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Denny? I’m awake.”
He’d known she would be, but Amelia expected the usual mild scold, so he indulged her. “You should have been asleep long ago, minx.”
Amelia sat upright, propped against a mound of pillows. “I wasn’t tired.”
“You will be tomorrow.” Cam sat down on the edge of the bed. “You can’t stay up until all hours and wait for me to return when I go out in the evenings.”
Amelia fiddled with one of her pillows. “I know. I promise this is the last time. Since I am awake, though, won’t you tell me about your evening?”
“I’ve heard that promise before.”
Amelia turned appealing dark eyes on him. “Please?”
He gave her his best stern look. “Very well, then. But this is the last time.” They both knew it wouldn’t be, but he always said so, and Amelia always nodded in agreement. “All right, then. What do you want to know?”
“What did Lady Eleanor, that is, Ellie—what did Ellie wear tonight?”
He’d known Amelia would ask questions about Eleanor. He’d tried to brace himself for it, but it hurt to talk of her. To think of her. “A wine-colored silk gown. Short lace sleeves and a square neck, with a scalloped lace edging.”
Amelia nodded with approval. She insisted upon hearing every detail of the gowns. “Color of the lace?”
“Black,” he answered promptly. Amelia had trained him well.
“On the skirt, as well? Did she have a sash?”
“Not a sash, really, but there was some black ribbon or cording, I believe, on the waist and sleeves. The skirt did have lace, yes, in a narrow pattern down the front and along the hem.”
“Jewels?”
“A ruby necklace, and hair combs, rubies and diamonds.”
“She wore her hair up, then. Simple or fancy?”
Cam drew a deep breath. Her heavy dark hair had been gathered into a loose knot at the back of her head, and the long white nape of her neck had driven him mad all evening. “A simple chignon, with tendrils trailing over her shoulders.”
Amelia sighed with delight. “Oh, my. Did she look beautiful?”
“Yes.” She’d looked beautiful, that quiet, wan Ellie. That Ellie who wasn’t Ellie at all.
“Did you dance every dance with her?”
“We danced three times.”
“Does she dance well? She must.”
“Yes. So graceful. I’ve never seen another lady to equal her.” Such exquisite agony, to hold Eleanor in his arms with all the empty, silent space between them.
Amelia gave another girlish sigh. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go to balls and dance with all the handsome gentlemen. You were the handsomest gentleman in the room, weren’t you?”
There was only one acceptable answer to this question as far as Amelia was concerned, so Cam gave it. “Yes, of course. The tallest, too.”
He waited while she mulled this over. She’d ask about gowns, then about the music and the supper—
“When will you and Ellie get married?”
Cam’s heart lurched at the unexpected question. He hadn’t yet told Amelia about the betrothal. He’d meant to, ever since the last evening at Lindenhurst when Eleanor accepted his suit, but now it was weeks later, and he still hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t had the first of the banns called yet, either.
He was waiting for something. Hoping for it. Yearning for it, but as each day slipped into night it drifted further and further away, and trying to hold onto it was like clutching at the sun to keep it from sinking below the horizon.
That night at Lindenhurst, the night they’d made love, Eleanor had given him everything. She’d placed her body and her pleasure in his hands, yes, but she’d given him her trust, too. He’d felt it in every sigh, every gasp, every kiss, and it had devastated him. Humbled him. It was the sweetest pleasure he’d ever known.
Then, in the next breath, it was gone. She’d taken it back again. She’d given him that precious gift, then she’d taken it away, and left him broken from its loss.
So he waited. He counted each breath, each beat of his battered heart, and waited for her to give it back again. He held off on calling the banns, held off on telling Amelia, because he kept hoping . . .
But every day the sun set, despite his best efforts to stop it, and it had yet to rise again.
“Denny?” Amelia watched him, puzzled. “When do you think you and Ellie will marry?”
“I—why do you think we intend to marry at all?” His voice wasn’t quite steady.
“Because Lady Charlotte told me you would, in the carriage on the way back to London from Lindenhurst.” She gave him a strange look. “Why wouldn’t you marry? You love Ellie, don’t you?”
He thought of her, of how she’d looked tonight, her jewels sparkling in her dark hair, so beautiful she made his heart ache. But her beauty, her name, her father’s name—it wasn’t enough. It all meant nothing if she lost that spark, that flash in her eyes that made her who she was.
He wanted her. All of her. Anything less was unbearable. “Yes. I love her. My best hope for you is someday you’ll find someone you love as much as I love her.”
Someone who loves you in return.
Amelia smiled then, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “She loves you, too, Denny. She must, otherwise she’d never have agreed to marry you.”
Cam shook his head. “People marry without love all the time, Amelia.”
“Not Eleanor. She never would, no matter what. She told me so.”
Cam stilled. “She told you . . . what, exactly?”
“She told me ladies marry for all kinds of different reasons, but she never would. She said she wouldn’t marry for any reason other than love.”
Cam stared at her, his breath frozen in his lungs. Love. He almost laughed; it was so simple.
Three seasons. Six suitors. Six offers. Fine gentlemen, some of them. Advantageous offers. Any other lady would have accepted, any other lady would have been thrilled . . .
Any other lady, but not Ellie.
Six refusals.
She’d never told him why, and he, in his arrogance, imagined he already knew her reasons. Vanity, at first, and then later, after he knew her better. . . a wish for freedom? Yes, that was part of it. She’d told him that much, but it wasn’t her only reason.
Love. He should have known, should have seen it, but it had been easier for him to remain blind, to pretend she lost nothing by marrying him. To tell himself he’d be good to her, kind to her. To tell himself he wasn’t stealing from her.
The night they’d made love at Lindenhurst, for the most fleeting of moments, she’d given everything. To him. And he’d taken it, as if he had a right to it. Afterwards, she’d been afraid. Vulnerable. He should have held her in his arms until her panic faded away. He should have fallen to his knees in front of her in gratitude.
He should have told her he loved her.
Instead, he’d raged at her. He been brutal, and afterwards, when she was pale and trembling from the shock, he’d spoken to her of obligations.
He’d wanted to hurt her that night, to punish her for taking the gift of herself away. Never once had it occurred to him he didn’t deserve her gift. Never once had he thought he wasn’t worthy of it.
Not once, until now, had he understood such a gift wasn’t something he could take.
He could take her freedom. He could take her body. He could take her name and use it, use her, both for Amelia and for himself. He could take her future away, and tell her she owed it to him. Tell himself she owed it to him, too.
An eye for an eye.
But he couldn’t take her love. He couldn’t force it from her, or steal it from her. She had to choose to give it to him. She had to reach down into her heart, past the panic and the fear, and offer it to him willingly.
Her love was the only thing that mattered. It had always been the only thing that mattered. The best he could do, the most he could do, was try and deserve it.
“Denny? Why do you look like that? You’re scaring me.”
Cam jerked his attention back to Amelia. He took her hand. “I’m sorry to scare you, minx. I need to explain something to you, and it may be difficult for you to understand. I’m not going to marry Ellie, despite what Lady Charlotte said. Ellie . . . she doesn’t love me.”
Amelia stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head. “Yes, she does. She said—”
“I know what she said, sweetheart, but when she said she’d only marry for love she didn’t mean she wants to marry me.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense, Denny. Why shouldn’t she want to marry you? I know she loves you.”
Cam smiled a little. To Amelia, there could be no question of any lady resisting him. “I know this won’t make much sense to you, but the truth is, I didn’t give her a chance to say no to me. I haven’t been fair to her.”
Amelia considered that. “You mean, you cheated? Like when someone cheats at a game?”
It seemed as good an explanation as any. “Yes. Something like that.”
“Beg her pardon, then. She’ll forgive you.”
“Perhaps she would, but forgiveness isn’t love, Amelia. Even if she forgives me, I don’t think she can—” Cam stopped, swallowed. “I don’t think she can love me. Not after I cheated at the game.”
Amelia gripped his hand hard. “Won’t you even try? You said you loved her, Denny. Surely that matters more than some silly game?”
He wished it were that simple. “If I try she might give in, but if she did, it would be because she loves you, Amelia, not me. That might be good enough if I loved her less, but I love her so much I want her to have everything. She wants to marry a gentleman she loves—she told you so herself. Do you understand?”
Amelia didn’t answer for a long time, but at last she nodded.
“I thought you would. Now here, I want you to have this.” Cam reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. It was nearly worn through at the creases, as if it had been folded and unfolded many times.
Amelia took the sheet and unfolded it. “This is the drawing I did of Eleanor, from that day in Lady Abernathy’s garden. Have you carried it in your pocket all this time?”
“Yes. But now it’s time I give it back to you.”
Amelia looked down at the limp paper in her hands, then back up at Cam. “But . . . you said it was your favorite.”
Cam took the paper from Amelia. “It is.” He gazed at it for a long time, traced his finger over the eyes, the curve of the chin. “But it doesn’t belong to me.” He held it out to her.
She hesitated, but at last she took it. “Perhaps I’ll give it to Ellie. She might like to have it. You don’t mind if I bring it to her, do you, Denny?”
“No. I don’t mind.” He leaned forward to look into her eyes. “Whatever happens between Eleanor and me hasn’t anything to do with you, Amelia. You know that, don’t you? You’ll still see the Sutherlands, as often as you like. Eleanor cares a great deal for you. She’ll always be your friend, just as she promised she would be.”
But she wouldn’t be his. Never his.
Amelia nodded. “I know.”
Cam rose from the bed, aching with weariness in his body and his heart. Tonight he’d try to sleep, but tomorrow he’d do what he should have done weeks ago. Tomorrow, he’d call on Eleanor, and he’d release her from their engagement.
He drew the covers up under Amelia’s chin. “Now go to sleep.”
“All right. Good night, Denny.”
“Good night, minx.”
Amelia lay awake for a long time after Denny closed the door behind him, thinking. Finally, she kicked off the covers, rose, and lit the lamp Miss Norwood always left on the table by the window. She picked up the drawing of Eleanor that lay on the coverlet, smoothed it out, careful not to tear it at the creases, and brought it close to the light.
Yes, she’d drawn the eyes just right. It had been a challenge to capture the dark, velvet softness there, but she’d done it. She could draw Ellie’s eyes from memory now, too. She only had to imagine how they went soft when Ellie looked at Denny, and she knew just how to draw them.
She shook her head. No, it wouldn’t do, would it?
Amelia gazed at the picture for a while longer, then she folded it again, and slipped it under her pillow. She blew out the lamp, swung her legs up onto her bed and burrowed into the nest of blankets, rubbing her cold feet against each other to warm them.
No matter what Denny said, it simply wouldn’t do.