Page 54 of The Lady Confesses
“Oh, I do not deny it. I cannot wait to see my wife again. But I love her. Is your eagerness to see Hettie an indication that a shift has occurred in your stance on the existence of that particular emotion?”
The question, posed in a very bemused tone, grated on his nerves. “You know better than that. I’m happy that you have found what you believe to be love... and perhaps for you and Honoria it is real. But it’s not for me. It’ll never be for me.”
Vincent shook his head in exasperation. “If you do not love Hettie, why such eagerness? No, not eagerness. Longing. It’s a far different thing than simply the need to slake one’s lust.”
“For fuck’s sake, must you poke at everything?” The exasperation in his tone was unmistakable. “We’re not all sentimental fools under the surface, Vincent. Some would say, based on your current behavior, that the Hound of Whitehall has been turned into a lapdog.”
No one said that. But it was a low blow and one that he hoped would end the conversation. The truth was, that might have been speculated as a possible truth two weeks earlier, before Ardmore had made his play. Before Vincent had once more established why he had control of so many vast enterprises, both legal and otherwise, in London. The unscrupulous moneylender, while not broken, was still beaten. The lines demarcating the territories ruled by each of them had been reestablished quite firmly. There had been a few injuries. A bit of blood shed and a couple of teeth on the floor. But in the end, the Hound of Whitehall had kept all that he’d earned over the years.
It had come down to a singular challenge. A boxing match. The two competing lords of the underworld squared off toe to toe and pummeled one another until one submitted. Obviously, it hadn’t been Vincent. Courtesy of Stavers’s many lessons, each of them could more than hold their own in the ring. Ardmore had conceded defeat and retreated to the east end of London, and Vincent would continue running everything west of the bridge. Hardly a lapdog.
“I’m merely pointing out, Joss, that for a man who proclaims himself incapable of love, you do seem to have missed your new bride a great deal.”
Rather than continue the debate, Joss remained silent. Primarily because he could not refute Vincent’s assertion. He had missed her. While they’d been focused on finding Arthur Ernsdale’s murderer, they’d spent more time together. Almost daily in fact. And somehow, even in that short time, he’d grown quite accustomed to her presence. Sharing a word or twoin passing, seeing one another at meal times, and, on a few occasions, slipping into one another’s room for more intimate encounters—and for two weeks, he hadn’t laid eyes on her. Was it any wonder he was eager to see her?
But missing someone was not the same as loving them. One could miss things and people that one only liked or had a fondness for. Those were perfectly reasonable feelings to have for someone. Liking or fondness for someone or something meant that losing that someone or something would not be devastating. No attachment meant no loss, no grief. Because the pain of losing things—or people—that truly mattered was something he had no wish to endure. Not ever again.
“Why are you so determined not to feel anything?” Vincent asked. “Or is it the other way around?”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means that perhaps it isn’t that you think yourself incapable of loving someone so much as you think yourself completely unworthy of being loved,” the other man mused. “I should hope such a foolish thought, if it ever entered your mind, would be dismissed as being both asinine and baseless.”
It had. That thought had plagued him for all of his life. Try to dismiss it as he might, he had never succeeded. “You do not know when to quit.”
“Are we going to brawl in the carriage, then? I think not. Answer the question, Joss.”
“Because I don’t bloody well deserve her, do I?”
Vincent was quiet for a moment. “No one does. Not a man alive is worthy of a woman like Honoria or like her sister. But that’s not stopping me from seizing what happiness I can. I very nearly cocked it up too, you know? It’s a hard thing—to just hand someone the power to break you. But if you hand the power to the right person, it will only make you stronger.”
“Shall I confess my feelings for her to you so that you’ll shut the hell up?”
Vincent shrugged. “I’m not the one who needs to hear them, am I?”
Banging on the roof of the carriage, Joss shouted, “Can’t this bloody thing go any faster?”
With a satisfying jolt, the horses shot forward and the carriage picked up speed. And neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey—Vincent because he’d said all he needed to, and Joss because he was digesting all that had been said.
*
Hettie squirmed onthe settee. It seemed to have happened quite overnight. She’d woken up one morning and her belly had grown quite round. Not large, and certainly easily concealed beneath her gowns, but still very present. And not entirely comfortable. She felt thrown off balance by that small bump. But perhaps it was that it made the very abstract notion of her child far more substantive. It wasn’t just something in the distant future. It wasn’t just being nauseous or any of the other symptoms associated with early pregnancy that could just as easily be some other illness. It was now an undeniable physical presence, even if still in her womb.
“Why are you so antsy?”
“Likely because my clothes have grown too tight,” she replied balefully. “Why else would I be?”
“Because you miss your husband?” Honoria voiced it as a question, but it didn’t feel like one. It felt as if her sister knew the answer already.
Hettie simply elected not to answer. There was no need. If she admitted the truth, she’d only be confirming Honoria’ssuspicions. If she denied it, then her sister would instantly recognize the lie.
Honoria, after receiving no response, simply forged ahead. “I’ve received word. Vincent sent a courier ahead of them. They will be here this afternoon.”
The relief Hettie felt at that bit of news was overwhelming. “Well, that is wonderful to hear. I know you’ve been terribly worried about Vincent.”
“Yes, I have. And you’ve been worried about Joss. I know because you’ve moped around here looking utterly miserable. You are pale and have shadows under your eyes,” Honoria observed.
Hettie was well aware of her appearance. She’d looked at herself in the mirror, after all. The sleepless nights she had endured for the last fortnight had taken their toll on her. But it stung to have it pointed out. “Your flattery will go to my head, sister.”
