Page 13 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
“How can I believe that?” she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “Please, will you just tell me, what is wrong? Can you please tell me what I must do, to fix it, so that we may move forward…”
His heart lurched. He felt so utterly ashamed that he was causing this fine woman so much anguish. That he was causing her to doubt herself.
“It isnotyou, Adaline,” he insisted, gripping her hand tighter. “You are the pinnacle of womanhood. You are so very beautiful, and clever. You are kind, and you are sweet. You are a good wife to me.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “The problem lies with me. It hasalwaysbeen my problem, and you have never been to blame…”
She stifled a sob. “Can you not tell me, then, what that problem is? If I knew what it was, we could work together to fix it…”
He stiffened, dropping her hand, flushing painfully. How could he tell this fine woman what the real problem was? How could he tell her that he was in love with another woman, that it seemed he would never be able to let go of that love, and that he could not open his heart to her?
It would destroy her to know the truth. She would realise that it was utterly hopeless; that there was never a chance that they might have a normal relationship. She would know that he was always comparing her to another woman, and that she could never compete with her.
He could almost see the future, how it would unfold if she knew. She would whittle away, over the years, growing bitter with it. They were man and wife, until death – there was no way to escape one another. That was the truth of it.
“Whatever the problem is,” she continued hesitantly, in her sweet voice, “you do not need to be ashamed of it. I am your wife, and I will accept you, body and soul, whatever your imperfections are…”
He smiled, despite himself. She was so very earnest as she said it. What terrible things was she imagining? He could only wonder.
But he couldn’t enlighten her. Despite what she said – that she would be understanding – he knew that she wouldn’t be expecting it, and that it would crush the little confidence that she had in herself.
It wasn’t anything to do with her. His love had preceded her. Might it have been different, if he had met Adaline, before he had met his love? But it was all useless speculation now.
“I am sorry,” he said again, his heart heavy. “Thank you for your patience, Adaline. I will try, that is all I can do…”
She nodded, looking hurt again that he refused to tell her what the problem was. But she wasn’t going to keep pressing him. She settled down in bed, turning her back to him.
Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, placing it on her shoulder. He felt her tense.
“Good night, Adaline,” he whispered, feeling a lump suddenly form in his throat.
“Good night, James,” she whispered back. But she didn’t turn around to face him.
He took his hand away. Sighing deeply, he settled himself back down.
Self-loathing consumed him. He was a rake, for doing this to her. Why had he agreed to marry her in the first place?
But he knew why. Because he had been running away from it. Because he had hoped, deep down, that he might actually be able to move on from it, one day.
It had always been a useless enterprise, and now, an innocent woman was suffering because of it as well.
It was like a pebble cast into a pond, he thought desolately, staring at the wall. As soon as that pebble hit the surface it caused ripples, spreading outwards in all directions. Adaline had been hit by a ripple, without even knowing it. She was aware of it, but she did not know the source of it. And there was nothing that she could do to change it.
A deep sorrow overwhelmed him. There was nothing that any of them could do. How he wished, with all of his heart, that things had been different.
***
James stirred restlessly, in his sleep, throwing his arms out wide. He was dreaming.
She was walking towards him, across a field of green, her flaxen hair streaming down her back. The bright moonlight above her spun it into a shining cap of white.
He watched her approaching, his heart beating wildly. She always wore the same thing, when she appeared to him like this. A long, flowing gown of blue, that he had seen her wear at a ball one night. She had told him that the gown was a shade called ultramarine, a deeply intense blue, and that artists made it from grinding lapis lazuli into powder.
He could still hear her voice, whispering it to him. “It is from the Latin,” she had said. “From the word ‘ultramarinus’ which means ‘beyond the sea.’”
She was getting closer now. So close, that he could reach out and touch her, quite easily. He stretched out his hand, yearning for her, wanting to pull her to him, to enclose her in his arms and never let her go.
But just as she was almost there, she turned. Picking up the hem of her gown, she sprinted away, her hair flying in long white golden tendrils behind her. The wind caught her laugh, the sweet sound making his heart beat faster still.
He was running after her now. He could see her, just ahead of him, weaving and ducking around trees. Occasionally, she would stop, gripping the trunk of a tree with her hands, laughing breathlessly as she watched him. He would almost reach her before she would duck playfully, and then run away again, tantalisingly out of reach.
