“Tom—wait—”
Tom shrugged out of Marianne’s reach, his feet moving him swiftly towards the front door. “I have to go.”
From the moment he stepped foot in Marianne’s townhouse, it felt like he’d become trapped in some strange dream. She’d been so anxious that he stay, offering him tea, then luncheon. The table was already set for two…and those pale blue eyes were open wide, pleading with him for his continued company. He figured it was the least he could do to repay her kindness for bringing them to London in the dead of night.
It was clear Marianne had something on her mind. After his third refusal of a second cup of tea, she finally admitted the truth: she lied to Rosalie at the ball and told her they were engaged.
All the pieces of the previous night clicked together with a violence, nearly making him dizzy. That haunted look Rose gave him. The way she recoiled and ran. The tears in her eyes. Without even realizing it, Tom had given her as much of a reason to flee as Burke, leaving them both scrambling to chase after her.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Marianne cried, following him down the hall, one hand clinging to his uniform.
Tom growled and spun around, jerking his arm free of her touch. “Are you really so obtuse? You told Miss Harrow we’re engaged. We are not engaged!”
Marianne stepped back as if his words were a physical blow. “Why are you being so hateful?” she whispered, raising one hand to press over her heart. “This isn’t like you, Tom.”
Tom dragged a hand through his unruly curls. “Christ, Mari. You’re telling people I proposed to you. I never proposed to you.”
A small smile flashed on her lips. “Well…that’s not entirely accurate.”
“Fine, but I have not proposed to you in many, many years.” He leaned his face down towards hers. “And if you’ll remember, the one and only time I ever did propose, you said no.”
“Ask me again.”
The words shot through the air, knocking Tom breathless. A strained moment stretched between them as they stared into each other’s eyes.
He took a shaky breath. “Mari—”
“I mean it, Tom. Ask me.” Her hands fluttered out to grip his arms, stopping him from turning away. “I know you feel what there is between us. I know you want me too. I wrote to you, and you came. You said such beautiful things, Tom. I knew then that you must still love me!”
He groaned. This was an unmitigated disaster. Nothing she said was untrue exactly. He had traveled to London expressly to visit her. But she’d completely misunderstood his purpose. He apologized for his resentment and wished her well. Nothing in his tone or manner should have encouraged her to think he wanted anything more than a clean break at long last.
“Marianne, that wasn’t—”
“I know you have a softness for the girl,” she went on. “She’s sweet and innocent. A rose as lovely as her name.”
He grimaced, surprised by how much he disliked the sound of Rose’s name uttered from Marianne’s lips.
“But she is a passing fancy,” Marianne pressed, raising a hand to cup his face. “You will soon forget her. For what you and I have is so much more. We have a connection, Tom. Your spirit is bound with mine. It has been for these eight long years. Was I wrong to end Miss Harrow’s suffering? Was I wrong to tell her what we both know to be true?”
He pulled her hand off his face. “And what is that?”
Her eyes glistened with tears. “That our love is for the ages. Whether now, or in a year from now, the fact will remain: we are meant to be together.” She leaned up on her toes, inching closer. “Tell me you can deny it, Tom. Tell me you can deny us.”
Her free hand tightened on his arm as she gazed longingly into his eyes. Eight years had done nothing to lessen her beauty. Her icy blue eyes, her porcelain smooth face framed by dark curls, those perfect apple cheeks blooming pink. She was beautiful…but it no longer caused Tom’s pulse to race. The intensity in her eyes no longer made him weak. The curve of her lips no longer called him to claim her. The feel of her in his arms no longer set him on fire.
She was beautiful, yes…a beautiful stranger.
In truth, the feel of her wrapped around him now was making him squirm. His gut clenched as he imagined Rosalie walking through the door, seeing Marianne so close. He stepped away.
“You’re determined to hurt me,” she said, voice trembling. “I see it in your eyes. I feel your resentment. You still blame me for Thackeray. You want me to prove my devotion by denial. I’ll do it—”
“No, Mari.” He felt suddenly so tired, so emotionally drained. “God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’ve always been so tongue-tied around you, such a fool. I don’t know how to just say what I mean and assure you that I mean what I say…”
“Love makes us do crazy things,” she replied.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, taking a deep breath. “No.” He opened them, jaw set. This had to end. He had to make her understand. “Immaturity makes us do crazy things. Ignorance and jealousy, they make us crazy. For those have been the driving factors that have kept me tied to you all these years. Not love…not really.”
“You’re being cruel again,” she whimpered, wiping at her eyes.
“Mari, look at me.”
Her wet lashes fluttered up as she met his gaze.
He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words that would leave her in no doubt of his intentions. “I loved you once,” he admitted. “I loved you and would have married you…then. But eight years have now passed.”
A soft sob escaped her as she tried to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulder. These words had to be spoken for both of them.
“I’ve traveled around the world and around again,” he went on. “I’ve seen and done so much in the last eight years. I’m not the same immature lad of sixteen, chasing after your skirts, desperate for a smile or a look. I’m not the jealous man of eighteen who wanted to kill Thackeray when he won you fair and square—”
“Oh, but Tom I wanted you then too. I wanted you to come save me. I never loved Thackeray. How could I as long as you walked the earth?”
How desperate had he once been to hear these words from her lips? Now they rang hollow. Giving her the gentlest smile he could muster, he let the hammer fall. “I am not the man for you, Mari. I can never be that man. I could never make you happy in the way you deserve—”
“But what of your happiness?” she cried. “You want to rank up, yes? You want to be captain? I can fund it for you, Tom. Together we can make any life we want. I have Thackeray’s money. I have this house. We could be free—”
“I am free,” he countered.
The moment the words were spoken, a weight lifted off his chest and he took an unrestricted breath, his mouth curving into a relieved smile. He was already free. Free of Marianne’s pull, free of doubt, free of indecision. He leveled his gaze at her, shoulders set.
Marianne shrank away from him, reaching blindly behind her until she felt the back of a chair. She sank down, tears falling.
“Oh, Mari…I’m more sorry than I can say,” he offered, feeling the words wholly inadequate for the depth of his feeling.
He was sorry, and not just for her benefit. He was sorry for himself too. For the wasted years. For his anger, his long-suffering jealousy. What a fool he’d been. What an insufferable arse. In this moment, standing in Marianne Young’s entry hall, Tom resolved himself to being the master of his own happiness.
He dropped to one knee at her side.“You will recover from this in time.”
She gave a little sniff, not looking at him.
“Besides, why should you bother with getting remarried?” he added, determined to see her smile again. “You’re in a position so many women would envy.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, offering it to her.
She took it with a shaky hand.
“You are mistress of your own house, with control of your accounts. You are well-loved in society, with friends aplenty and a busy social calendar. What need have you to bring a man into your life who would only upend your comfort?”
She dabbed at her eyes. “You wish me to remain alone forever?”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly, rising back to his feet. “But don’t marry to please a man. Don’t marry someone like me, a wastrel of a second son who you would have to support financially.”
“You’re not a wastrel, Tom,” she said through her sniffling.
He gave her a crooked grin. “You haven’t known me for a long time, Mari. For all you know, I am King of the Wastrels on three continents.”
This earned him a little hiccuping laugh as she dabbed at her eyes again.
“If it is truly your wish to marry again, find a good man,” he went on. “A man who will not be intimidated by your independence. A gentleman who is independent himself and not in need of a wife he can use as his personal bank. Marry a man who is mad about you and you about him. Someone who makes your heart race and your passions flare white-hot, even as your soul settles, rested in comfort entwined with theirs. If you find that in another person, marry them without delay. Until you find that…well…be your own mistress. Live your life on your terms. I wish you well, Marianne. I always will.”
He turned to leave at last, grabbing his hat off the side table.
“And what of you?” she called, rising to her feet, his handkerchief still clutched in her hand.
He glanced over his shoulder as he donned his hat, slicking his curls back behind his ears. “What of me?”
Her watery eyes were wide, her cheeks blotchy and her nose red from crying. She looked at him with such open longing. It made his heart twist in his chest. He hated hurting her, but he couldn’t make his heart beat for her again. Never again.
“Have you found that person?” she whispered. “The one who fans the flames of your heart and eases the quiet of your soul?”
His mouth went dry as his mind suddenly flashed with visions of his future—his deepest desires, all his unspoken cravings. What might it take to make those dreams a reality?
Clearing his throat, he gave a soft laugh. “That was my advice for you. I imagine my own path will look quite different.”
With a nod, he took his leave.
As he closed her front door, he heaved a sigh of relief. Standing in the shadow of her house, he resolved to leave Marianne and everything she represented resolutely behind him. Striding off down the street, he didn’t look back.
