His mind racing, Devlin searched for some way of salvaging his first step.
Therese’s smile returned, and she leaned closer to confide, “Don’t worry. You didn’t flummox me—I worked it out.” She patted his arm again, then turned away. “And now I must be off, or I’ll be late to Lady Kettering’s at-home.”
In a state of utter disbelief, Devlin stood in the corridor and watched as, with a swish of her silk skirts, his exasperating wife swanned off.
Devlin stalked into his study and carefully shut the door. After a moment, he walked to the large leather chair behind the desk and dropped into it.
Faintly stunned, he reviewed what had just occurred. “Damn!” He was looking at the complete and utter failure of what he’d fondly imagined would be an easy, if impulsively instigated, first step in guiding Therese along the path to realizing that he loved her.
“Huh.”
Although her interpretation of his words hadn’t occurred to him, he could see how she’d come to her conclusion. Unfortunately, that she’d sought and found a different explanation rather than even suspect his truth didn’t bode well for her readily following any subtle hints he might make.
Oops.
He’d made a mistake, true enough. He’d thought he would be able to use the same approach he’d employed five years ago and, by giving her a tantalizingly oblique clue and engaging her curiosity, lead her to ferret out the truth. He knew he was correct in thinking she would believe in his love if she uncovered it herself, but clearly, that approach was doomed.
Doomed by his success in convincing her that he didn’t love her.
In his mind’s eye, he replayed the recent scene. Something about it had made him uneasy. Several minutes passed before he identified what that was—her tone and the way she hadn’t quite met his eyes while she’d explained what he’d meant by his unwise, impulsive words.
Brittle was the description that leapt to mind. That, along with a certain vulnerability.
He shifted in the chair. He didn’t like to think he might have hurt her in any way yet… He forced himself to look again, to relive the moment and look deeply and searchingly, then softly swore.
He closed his eyes. He’d acted impulsively and hadn’t thought his actions through. By essentially forcing her to examine the reasons she believed were behind their marriage, he’d forced her to face and acknowledge what she thought was the truth, namely that he didn’t love her.
Vulnerable. He’d made her feel vulnerable; that was what had been behind the brittleness he’d sensed.
He knew all about the vulnerability caused by love, by owning to love; at base, such love-induced vulnerability was the reason he had for so long refused to admit that he loved her.
Ironic, perhaps, but where did that leave them? Leave him?
“Obviously,” he muttered, “I’m going to have to be much more careful and exercise more caution over triggering any adverse feelings.” That was going to require a greater degree of finesse and attention to detail than he’d hitherto employed.
After he’d spent several minutes castigating himself over his clumsiness in provoking that unintended reaction, it occurred to him that her still feeling vulnerable over her belief that he didn’t love her was, in fact, reassuring. “At least she still loves me.” If she didn’t, she wouldn’t feel that way.
One positive outcome from my first disastrous attempt to rescript our relationship.
He considered anew. Although the fragility he’d sensed beneath her customary steely armor haunted him, given it arose out of her love for him, it wasn’t, of itself, something he wanted to change. It wasn’t a symptom he wished to eradicate, not that he could.
What he did wish to erase was the cause, namely, her entrenched belief that he didn’t love her in return. Once he’d achieved that, her current wariness and uncertainty over openly showing her love for him would vanish, along, he hoped, with that dreadful vulnerability.
He’d already constructed a mental picture of what success would look like—Therese gloriously confident in her love for him and openly showing it, bolstered and supported by the absolute and unassailable knowledge that her love was fully and completely reciprocated, that he loved her as she loved him.
Essentially, him and her in a Cynster-style marriage.
That was the goal he was determined to achieve, to claim for them both.
He looked inward and found nothing but rock-solid determination and unflinching resolve.
He drew in a breath and shifted to a more comfortable position. “So, how?”
In theory, he could sit her down and explain the truth of his feelings for her. In essence, that was what his ill-fated oops had been about—getting her to question him and drag the truth from him.
That, she would have believed. Him simply telling her…wouldn’t work. He’d done too good a job of convincing her that she knew his mind and, more importantly, his heart regarding her. Overwriting a belief he’d spent more than five years instilling and underscoring couldn’t be done with mere words.
If he tried to simply tell her his truth…not only did he doubt she would believe him, but worse, such an attempt would almost certainly lead her to distrust him. She would unquestionably wonder what he was up to, and he shuddered to think what she might conclude.
While he might have deceived her by omission, by all the things he hadn’t said, he’d never directly lied to her, and he would infinitely prefer to keep it that way.
His fingers found a pencil, and he idly tapped the end on his blotter. “So if words aren’t a viable way forward…”
Eyes narrowing, he thought and imagined, weighing the possibilities. Given it had been he who had shaped their marriage into its current form, if he wanted that form to change, then plainly, it fell to him to do whatever was needed. “Whatever I need to do to open her eyes to the truth that I love her and always have.”
Hearing the words helped him focus. He could, he decided, leave the somewhat damning revelation of when he’d fallen in love with her until later. The essential first step to achieving his desired goal was to convince his wife of the past five years that he loved her now. Today.
Given her character and his, the only approach that might work, that held any real hope of convincing her that her view of his feelings toward her was wrong, was to show her—to demonstrate the reality. She was highly observant and needle-witted; she would believe what she could unequivocally see.
He considered the prospect for several long minutes, then, resolved, tapped the pencil one last time and let it fall. “Actions always speak louder and truer than words.”
Chapter 2
Just after nine o’clock that evening, Therese finished greeting Lord and Lady Walton and moved on into their drawing room.
Therese paused and swiftly scanned the crowd. Her ladyship was well known for inviting a wide range of interesting people to her events. From social mavens to parliamentarians, from critics and bluestockings to masters of finance and business leaders, one never knew whom one might meet at Walton House. Tonight, there were few faces to which Therese couldn’t put a name. The chandeliers threw soft light over glossy heads and elegant gowns, striking gleams from jewels and laying a subtle luster on countless pearls, all set against the backdrop of the severe black of gentlemen’s evening coats. All in all, the sight left her feeling comfortable and assured, and the ambiance beckoned.