Martin stepped toward her. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you did. How could you—” Her throat tightened. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than I trusted myself. You were like a brother to me.”
Martin swiped his face and grabbed the ends of the desk, leaning into it. “I didn’t want to be a brother to you.” He stared her down. “I wanted you in the way I knew you would never want me due to our age difference. Which is why I sought to change that by writing those letters. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She glared at him, her cheeks feeling ablaze. “So you let me make an utter fool of myself? By making love to me through words? By pretending to be someone you weren’t?”
He leaned toward her, shifting his weight against the edge of the desk, and fiercely met her gaze. “I wasn’t pretending. Mister X was real. Everything he wrote was real. That was me. All of it. I only withheld my name because I wanted to know if you and I could ever step beyond the friendship we had. And we did. You wanted me. As much as I wanted you.”
Oh, God. To think of all the letters she had written in response to his. Letters that had been as equally romantic as they had been erotic. She had even written one letter confiding how much she longed to be touched by him. In that way. It was…humiliating. She had been writing to a seventeen-year-old boy all along.
Scrambling toward the desk, she gathered the piled letters in a blur, bunching them into her arms, and hurried toward the lit hearth. “I’m burning these. They have no right being in existence.”
“Jane!” he boomed, his booted feet darting toward her.
Tears blinded her as she frantically tried to get to the fire before he reached her. Large hands grabbed her waist from behind and yanked her back hard before she could fling them onto the coals.
Her letters scattered everywhere as Archer jumped up and barked, equally startled.
A sob escaped her as she turned and shoved him away.
He jerked her back harder toward himself, molding her tighter against the solid warmth of his body. “Jane.” His fingers buried themselves in her shoulders as he set his shaven chin against her head. “Don’t destroy them. I have suffered well enough and won’t have you burn the last of what we shared. I won’t.”
She tried shoving herself out of his grasp again, but he tightened his hold, the scent of his hair tonic and the crisp mint from his clothing drowning her ability to breathe and think.
She shoved again, but to no avail. “You must think me quite the whore after everything I wrote. No wonder you invited me here for brandy. You probably thought I was going to—”
He shook her. “Cease! For God’s sake, I never thought that. Not once. I didn’t invite you here for that. I’m not that sort of man. Never have been and never will be.”
“Then what did you invite me here for? What did you—”
“To get to know you again. In the way we used to know each other. You and I used to be—”
“Used to be! You abandoned me, Martin. Even as a friend! You took off on tour for…for years. Without so much as even saying good-bye to me! Why? Why did you—”
“Because I couldn’t pretend anymore. I just couldn’t.”
“So you created an illusion and then abandoned me to it?” She glared. “You ought to be ashamed of the letters you wrote, given how intimate they were. You were a boy! How could you—” She reached up to smack him, to smack out the anger and the shame and agony of knowing it had been him all along, but he caught her wrist, jarring it.
He searched her face for a long moment, his dark eyes heatedly holding hers. His fingers around her wrist tightened. “Yes, I was seventeen,” he rasped. “What of it? Even a seventeen-year-old knows passion and love when he feels it. It doesn’t make it wrong or any less real. And given your reaction, it’s fairly obvious I did the right thing by not making myself known.”
Yanking away her wrist from his hold, she released a sob in a desperate effort to let the anguish go. The anguish of knowing that Mister X had been real and that it had been Martin all along. “You should have told me. Not…not left me to wonder what I did to make you leave. You were the only true friend I had. The only one I thought I could rely on for everything. Only you—”
“Jane.” He released her waist, his hands jumping to her face. He cradled her face, the tips of his fingers gently smoothing away her tears. “I tried to tell you. I tried and I couldn’t. It was obvious you were already in love with another. And it wasn’t me.”
She stared up at him through tears, remembering his unexpected visit to her dressing chamber at the opera house. He had dawdled about the candlelit room, listening to her talk and talk about Philip before eventually excusing himself by giving her a kiss on the hand and leaving. It was the last she had seen of him. He went on tour and didn’t bother to even write. She had cried and cried knowing he had left without offering a single missive and didn’t understand what she had done wrong or why her dearest and most ardent friend, whom she knew she could trust with anything, no longer wished to associate with her. She was convinced it was because his father didn’t approve of her scandalous independence.
Now she knew why he had left. He left because of Philip.
His brow pinched in concern as he leaned in closer. “Nothing has changed. Even after all these years, I have been unable to recover from this passion I feel for you.”
She tried to swallow back whatever remained of her tears, but they slipped down her cheeks. She felt like she was fading into a realm she didn’t understand.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, dragging his fingers from her cheeks to her lips. “Please don’t.”
She stilled against that intimate touch. Something about the way he touched her so possessively, yet tenderly, and held her gaze frilled more than her body. It frilled her soul.
A breath escaped her. She wasn’t thinking right. He was the reason why she hadn’t been able to move on. He was the reason why she had been unable to get back onstage, for she knew somewhere in the crowds the faceless Mister X would be watching and judging her for having given her heart to another man.
Jane jerked away from his grasp. With what little strength she had left, she choked out, “You and Philip destroyed the perception I had of myself as a person, as a woman, and as a singer. I wanted to disappear. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t sing. I hated myself knowing I had submitted to not one but two passions that weren’t real.”
Those dark eyes and lean face tightened. “My passion for you was real. Let there be no doubt in that. Piecing together words on a page was the only thing I was ever good at. It was the one thing of worth I had to give. The only thing of worth I still have to give.”
Her lips parted, knowing he believed it. Even after all these years. Even now that he was duke and his father was dead. “You are an utter fool. Your father, unfeeling that he was, made you believe you had nothing to offer merely because you were different. Whilst he roared, you whispered. Whilst he smoked, you coughed. Whilst he shot three bucks, you couldn’t shoot a single one. But what of it? Did it make you any less of a man? In his eyes, maybe, but in my eyes, you offered up gentleness when he had none. If you mean to compare yourself to your father, Martin, you are wasting your breath, your mind, and your soul. Because the one thing you always had that he never had, that you learned to embrace from your mother, was the ability to be compassionate and kind. And that, I assure you, is the only worth to take pride in. And you are not only good at it but incredibly good at it. And you needn’t be good at anything else. For nothing matters more.”
He stared, a muscle visibly flickering in his jaw. His expression was one of raw intent. After a long moment of silence, he said, “You were the only person in my life who believed in me. The problem is, I didn’t believe in me and in turn, it cost me the one thing I wanted. Which was you. Am I sorry that I walked away from you and never revealed myself? No. In many ways, I was too young to have been the man you needed me to be. Am I sorry that in doing so
I unknowingly hurt you? Yes. A thousand times yes. It is the only thing I regret.”
Those words and their tone were exactly that of her beloved Mister X. Tortured, romantic, and real. It was overwhelming. It was like the real Martin had finally stepped forth. The real Martin he had never given her a chance to know, due to his quiet ways.
He slowly made his way toward her, never once breaking their gaze. “I’m ready to be everything you need me to be. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for us. The question is, are you?”
She edged back, her heart pounding. He meant it. There was no doubt wavering in those words. Her booted foot stopped against one of her scattered letters. She glanced down, confused. A part of her wanted to believe that he was still the same Martin she had once known and loved and trusted.
Clasping a trembling hand to her mouth, she tried to focus but couldn’t think under that smoldering gaze that awaited an expression of her own feelings. He wasn’t a friend anymore. He wanted to be her lover. Something she didn’t want. Something she didn’t need. Not after Philip. “I need to go.”
“Stay.” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want you leaving angry.”
The aching in his voice pulled at her heart. She hated it. It meant she still felt love for the boy she once knew. The one who had been too young for her to love in the way she had always wanted to. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t stay.”
“I’m not letting you leave angry.” His baritone voice was strained and low. “If you walk out that door with the intention of never seeing me again, I will walk out after you.”
She closed her eyes, knowing he meant it. “Martin. For one moment, forget that I am angry. Forget that I am hurt. It will pass; it will fade. But what will not pass and what will not fade is the trust you broke in me.”
“I will mend it.”
Her eyes snapped open. “You say it as if it can be easily done. Do you expect me to forgive all? Merely because you reappear in my life and use your good name to persuade my father to receive me again?”
“The Jane I once knew had the ability to forgive me anything.”
“I’m not the same Jane you once knew.”
“And I’m not the same Martin you knew. But that doesn’t mean we should turn away from what we used to mean to each other.” He strode toward the scattered letters and lowered himself to the floor. His dark hair cascaded into his eyes as he gathered them together in a pile. “I took these with me on tour,” he murmured. “They never left my sight.”
She turned to watch him, noting how carefully he stacked each one. It was as if they truly did mean everything to him. Even after all these years. It was as if she truly meant everything to him. She couldn’t help but be touched knowing it. She had scribed hours of her hopes and dreams and passion into each and every one of those letters.
Propping them against his waistcoat, he rose to his full height and strode back to the desk. He quietly set them onto the surface of the desk, wrapping and binding the sash back around the stack.
Hauntingly, it reminded her of the way she used to tend to and wrap the letters he sent. She honestly didn’t know who was the bigger fool. He or she. All she knew was that throughout the years they had been apart, she had never once forgotten her dear Martin or…Mister X.
And to think, they had always been one and the same.
A shaky breath escaped her as she drifted toward him. She paused beside him, setting a hand on the desk. “I need a brandy. Before I leave.”
He glanced up, his fingers stilling against the sash he had tied. “Of course.” Pushing aside the letters, he leaned over and took up a filled glass. He held it toward her. “Take it.”
Reaching out, she took it, her fingers grazing his. Her hand trembled from the contact as she drew the glass away from that hand.
He leaned against the desk and, holding her gaze, raised his filled glass in silent salute.
Wanting to tamp down the nervousness she felt, knowing she was having a brandy with Mister X, she held up her glass in turn. Bringing the drink to her lips, she gulped down the welcoming smoky burn that warmed her tongue and throat. It was surprisingly divine and reminded her of exactly that: better days.
Leveling the empty glass, she glanced toward the decanter. “I need one more glass. Before I can leave.”
He slowly set aside the brandy he hadn’t touched. Picking up the decanter, he removed the crystal stopper and poured more brandy into her glass. “I didn’t realize you liked brandy.” His tone was low and conversational as he set the decanter back onto the silver tray.
She fingered the filled glass. “I always had a glass of brandy before going onstage. It had a calming effect.” She lifted the cool glass to her lips again, savoring each additional sip.
Martin took up his glass again, still leaning against the desk. Tilting it, he tossed the amber liquid back with impressive swiftness. He poured himself another glass. “I hope, in time, you will forgive me.” He tossed back another glass. A breath escaped him.
She blinked, the warming effect of the brandy dazing her. She finished what was in her glass and settled against the desk close beside him, her skirts bundling against his thigh.
He paused.
She silently held up her glass.
He silently refilled it.
And then refilled his own.
They drank glass after glass after glass in silence until all the brandy in the decanter was gone and Jane knew she was mentally and physically compromised.
She held up her empty glass, trying to focus. “I think we need more brandy.”
He eyed her. “I think we’ve had enough.”
She huffed out a breath, knowing he was right.
He slipped the empty glass out of her hand and set it back onto the tray with his own. He swiped his face and sat on the desk as if he were too exhausted to find a chair.
She tucked herself up onto the desk as well, booted feet dangling. It reminded her of the days when they would sit atop the garden wall and drink lemonade. She missed those days. She had everything then but didn’t realize it. She’d thought she needed more. She thought she needed the world and the adventure and fame that her talent for singing could bring.
Some adventure. She now spent her mornings using a boot to kill roaches.
Repositioning herself beside him, and with the brandy now blurring the edges of reality, she blurted, “I’m not angry anymore. I forgive you. But only because you’re Martin. If it had been anyone else, I would have already left.”
He glanced toward her, his dark eyes searching her face. “You forgive me?”
She nodded and kicked her feet out and in, feeling very much like she was twenty again. She had no doubt the brandy had everything to do with it. “How many glasses of brandy do you think we drank?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“That isn’t good.”
“No. It isn’t.”
They sat in silence.
Not wanting to sit in the awkward quiet a moment more, she poked at his trouser-clad leg. Like she used to when they were younger. When she was trying to get him to say something.
He shifted toward her. “You poked me.”
“I did.”
“Which means you want me to say something.”
He remembered. “I do.”
He shifted his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”
“The first thing that comes to mind.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Quite.”
He nodded and then asked, “Would you stay the night?”
She snapped her mouth shut, stunned by his bluntness. She did ask him to say the first thing that came to mind.
He tilted his head, watching her. “With the weather being what it is, you should stay. You could take the guest room.”
She could feel her face heating. Whilst she could tell he was being quite casual about it, the idea of staying a night, just down the corridor from him, now that they were both well o
ver twenty, seemed risqué. “I can’t. I have a lesson in the morning. In fact, I should probably go.”
He softly tapped a fist against his thigh. “Do you have to leave? Couldn’t you stay another hour? Or two?”
If she stayed, heavens only knew if she’d have the ability to resist him. She, as a woman, knew when to go. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Can you at least sing something for me before you go? I miss hearing you sing. You used to sing for me all the time. Do you remember?”
She pursed her lips. “I probably shouldn’t. Not in my condition.”
He nudged her. “In our condition, it will sound all the more beautiful. Don’t you think?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “You wish me to sing? Now?”
“God, do I ever,” he rasped, stilling his tapping fist against his thigh. “Sing ‘Ah, Mio Prence.’ Then I will let you leave.”
She was too astounded to object. “That was the first song I ever sang onstage.”
He leaned in. “I know. I was there for it.”
She blinked, almost unable to focus. “You were? You came to my debut?”
“Yes.”
“How is it that I didn’t know?”
“Because I got caned for it and was confined for too many weeks to count.”
Her heart squeezed, searching his face. “You got caned for attending my performance?”
He leaned away and shrugged. “It didn’t hurt.”
She lowered her chin. “You lie. If your father delivered the caning, it probably swelled for days.”
“If it did, I don’t remember.”
She slowly shook her head. Bless him. He had been there for the greatest moment in her life and she never knew. “Do you really want me to sing?” she whispered.
“I won’t let you leave until you do.”
She sighed. Better to sing than to stay. “I shall have to stand for it.” Sliding off the desk, the room tipped and she stumbled.
Martin jumped toward her, catching her arm. He lurched, making them both stumble back toward the desk.
She caught the desk and he caught her.
Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Page 6