Page 68 of A Secret Correspondence
“Miss Farrow is lucky to have you,” she said. “You will make one another happy, I am sure.”
Samuel looked at her. Pain crawled up his body like acreeping vine. Loneliness had once been his steady, constant companion, but in recent months, he had felt it abate. Now, knowing he had been so close to true happiness but had utterly missed the mark, the creeping, dark weeds had returned. He was suffocating in them.
“But she is not the one…” Samuel did not finish that sentence. He swallowed, understanding that Miss Farrow deserved better. “I wish things had been handled differently, Marguerite.”
She blinked, not looking away from him. “I am destined to remain alone.”
“It does not have to be that way.”
Marguerite chewed her lip, her teeth sinking into the pink lushness of them and drawing his attention. She finally let out a frustrated sound. “There have been too many…I cannot be certain to trust anyone again. “
Samuel felt her words like a hit to the gut. “You do not trust me.”
Pain flashed in her eyes. “That is not…do not ask me that. It hardly matters.”
“It matters to me.” He could not sacrifice her entirely, not when he had only just found her. “If we can be nothing else, can we not remain friends? Our letters do not need to stop. Our conversation may continue.”
Her blonde eyebrows hitched up. “Surely you see the foolishness in such an endeavor.”
He let out a groan, because hedidsee how foolish he had sounded. It would not be right. If he married Miss Farrow, he would be forced to cut Marguerite from his life completely. He could not have her in it and not feel the need to be near her, to speak to her, to desire her opinion as he had done these last eight months. But how could he lose his closest friend? Particularly when he felt as though, in some ways, he had only foundher today—yet, in others, as though she had been in his life for ages?
His fingers trembled, reaching for a stray blonde curl at her temple. He yearned to run it through his fingers, to feel if it was as soft as it looked, but just before he reached it, he froze. If he felt her, any part of her, he could not remove that from his mind.
Marguerite sucked in a breath of surprise. Energy coursed between them, strong and heavy. She closed her eyes, and it killed him to see that she was affected as well. Everything in Samuel’s body urged him to take her in his arms and press his lips to hers. He wanted to hold her, to feel the way her strong walls melted away beneath his affection.
He cared so deeply for this woman, for her heart, her thoughts, the way she formulated her opinions. It was no great surprise to discover she had been directly under his nose all this time.
He had been so blind.
“When did you know it was me?” he asked softly, afraid speaking too loudly would break the spell between them.
Her eyelids fluttered open, her icy blue eyes focused on him. “When you wrote to tell me of the mischief with the cats.”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “I should have known.”
Her small smile was breathtaking. “I had written to tell you of the same thing. I was forced to dash back and retrieve my letter before you found it.”
He frowned. Everything made more sense now. The sky was beginning to lighten, the sun making its ascent. “I will leave you now.”
Marguerite’s smile dropped. She opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air.
Samuel stepped through it, his hand curving around the edge of the door, and paused, looking back at her. “We will catch Leclair tonight, and this will be over.”
“That is my hope,” she said softly.
His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. Looking in her eyes, he made her a promise. “The relationship between us has only begun, and I do not plan on allowing it such a quick death.”
“But Miss Fa?—”
“Yes. I know.” He swallowed, looking into her eyes with fierceness he could feel to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes. “I am not giving up yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marguerite surprised herself and managed to sleep for a few hours after Samuel left. The emotions had been so raw and heavy, Marguerite had only made it to the parlor. She’d sat on the sofa beside Claude and promptly fell asleep. When she woke, it was later than she would typically open, but she changed her gown, splashed water on her face, fixed her hair, and opened the shop.
It was important to treat today as any other. Oliver had laid it out in his plan, and she had agreed with him.
Each time the bell rang over the door, Marguerite hoped it would be Samuel, but she recognized the foolishness in such a dream. She sat on her stool, her hands eager to be busy. She couldn’t embroider at present, though. When she was this tired, she feared she would ruin the stitching and put too many holes in the fabric.
