My own eyes followed suit—wanting what I shouldn’t want.
Then nothing.
I opened them again.
His eyes were open too, his lips curled into a smile. “I have my answer.”
“W-what?” I stuttered, completely dazed.
“You’re a liar, Arabella Delafield. You’re more drawn to me than you dare admit. So fight all you want, but in the end, we both know I’m the only one for you.”
I swallowed, incapable of mustering more than a whisper. “You’re delusional.”
“You’re right. I did have some delusions where you were concerned. My vision is clearing rapidly now. When you’re ready for that kiss, let me know. I’ll be all too happy to finish this.”
He turned toward the drawing room door and stalked inside.
I sputtered. Me? Ask him tokissme? He was mad!
And yet, I could barely catch my breath. He hadn’t been right, had he? We weren’t meant to be together. Just because our parents thought we were a sweet pair when we were no more than babies did not make it so. He was still thinking of me as Miss Page. That was the only logical answer. He wasn’t seeing clearly; he was forgetting. Forgetting years of contention.
But I would not forget. I would not excuse his cruelty for a passing attraction.
My conscience pricked. I suppose I could forgive a few small indiscretions if he could. I could overlook when he had passed by me as a child and pulled my hair. I could excuse when he’d called me a giraffe or string bean and snickered when no one was looking because I had grown faster than the boys my age. But only because I had gotten even with him by tripping him with my long legs so he fell into the creek, and by hiding his slingshot.
But some things were too hard to forget. Some things stay with a person, pulling tears from their eyes years later, keeping them awake night after night, repeating in one’s mind until one actually believes them . . . effectively ruining all their hopes and dreams.
My throat tightened. I had wanted to publish my work. I had wanted to have my books found in small, obscure bookshops like Inkwell Books Etc. I had wanted to bring someone else joy with my words.
But his cruelty had paralyzed my courage.
And I despised him for it.
Or at least I had . . . and I was desperately trying to hold on to those feelings before they were entirely replaced by this new sensation that tucked around me like the warmth of a coverlet.
I set my hand on my cheek and tried to pull the remaining heat from it. Clodwick was the man for me. Clodwick! With a shaky breath, I followed Rowan into the drawing room, my feet dragging with every reluctant step.
Chapter 17
Rowan
Imade my way to the window and leaned against it, feigning boredom. In reality, boredom was the last word I would use to describe my state of being. Flustered, hot, and short of breath seemed more accurate descriptions. I had meant to greet Arabella and compliment her dress. That had been my goal. Instead, I had argued with her and never even made it to the compliment.
I had pushed her into the proverbial corner. In one hasty moment, I had gone too far, too fast. Hiding her paintings, which she had yet to discover, and now this? I was a man out of his mind. What had I been thinking to almost kiss Arabella?
Dash it all! I should have followed through if I was going to go that far.
Now I had her floral scent in my head, and I could think of nothing else but her. I set my hand on the cool glass and turned my head so the others might not see my remorse. I owed her an apology, but that was the last thing I wanted to give her. That woman deserved to have some sense talked into her, but it was better her family do it than me. I was well on the way to digging my own grave—and hers—which was a far cry from a wedding.
I felt more than saw Arabella enter the room. The hair on the back of my neck seemed to stand to attention.
“There you are,” Tabitha said behind me. “Are you ready for a trip to town?”
Arabella’s voice held the tiniest of trembles, but not one I missed. “I will be once I fetch my bonnet.”
Some ladies would be reduced to tears after their childhood enemy threatened to kiss them, but Arabella had always been the strong sort. She had only been eleven when she took to her bed with a terrible fever during her summer visit to my home. After two weeks of suffering, the doctor had told us to prepare for the worst.
She didn’t know this, but I had visited her in secret every night for those fourteen days. I hadn’t liked her very much, but neither did I want her to die. Even with our disagreements, I had always felt a tie to her, likely from our parents telling me that she would someday be my responsibility, my wife, the mother to my children. So at my own tender age of thirteen, to see her skin so very pale beneath her freckles, and her hair matted to her pillow, and that fierce scowl so smooth and expressionless scared me more than anything I had ever experienced.