She traced her hands over the curve of his shoulder. “No, I suppose not.”
She leaned in for one last kiss wishing it wasn’t their last. “I’ve thought of nothing but you since last evening,” she said. “And when you leave, I wish for you to know that won’t change. I don’t know what to do, but I do know I don’t want to lose you again, Henry.”
“You don’t have to lose me.”
“But you don’t understand, I do. It’s dangerous for me and you to be together for lots of reasons. But mostly because I will lose everything if I am discovered. Mr. Haskett will see that my career ends and my family is sent back to Dublin. I will lose.” Her mind searched for the right words. She wished to tell him the truth. It was terrifying to do so. They’d only known each other for a handful of days, and though she knew that she trusted him more than anyone, she was afraid of handing over the truth. Men with power did tricky things.
And what happened if it turned out she and Henry couldn’t be together, and he became jealous? What happened if they couldn’t be together, and he turned out bitter? She didn’t wish to find out, but she also didn’t wish to keep the truth from him. The truth was dangerous.
And what if after discovering the truth about Ethan, Henry didn’t like her anymore? That would be understandable. She had a son born out of wedlock with a man who left her with child, alone to bear the consequences. She was considered a ruined woman. Why would he wish to be with her after learning the truth, tarnishing whatever perfect image of her he had in his mind?
“For now,” he said, “I will continue with my plans to leave. But we are not done, Tilly. I will see that the maid gives you my address, and we can write to one another. I have to leave London soon to manage the estate, but I swear to you, I will write.”
That sounded nice. But letters over time would slowly stop coming and then what?
“I am a great actress, Henry. I know that. I know I can walk into that drawing room in a few minutes and command everyone’s attention, and I know I can draw them away from the truth. But what I can’t do is pretend as if this never happened when I am alone at night. I will never be able to forget what we shared. But I don’t have an answer on how we can continue.”
“Then for now,” he said “kiss me one last time, and I promise to write. And I will walk into that drawing room cold and indifferent and pretend as if I don’t think about you constantly. I am not a great actor. But people have claimed that I have no heart for most of my life and for that, I am thankful in this instant. I’ve spent thirty-one years pretending as if I do not love, and I know what to do. But I wish for you to know that I will hate every moment of it.”
Henry placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. The sweetness of it nearly melted her there in the dark of the small closet.
“I won’t leave if you wish it,” he said. “Tell me to stay.”
The damnedest thing was that Tilly wished for him to stay. But it wouldn’t be safe to do so with Roger close on her heels. He would know. And she didn’t want any trouble coming Henry’s way. He and his family didn’t deserve the scandal that was sure to follow.
Instead of answering, she traced her fingers up the side of his jaw and ran her hand back into his thick black hair.
One day, they would have their moment. One day, it would be safe to love him. One day, she could have her happy ending instead of constantly feeling as if she were to be chased out of Town. Or something equally damning and life-ending.
One day.
But she didn’t trust her heart to make a decision today.
She leaned in and kissed him, long and slow, then pulled back to whisper against his ear. “Merry Christmas, Henry. I will be thinking of you.”
She slipped out of the closet, righting her dress and squaring her shoulders. Her heart hammered in her chest as the other guests’ chatter grew louder. All of London was in love with Matilda Brennan, she could pretend for a few days that she was enchanted by all these houseguests.
Tilly must.
“There you are,” Roger said, stalking out of the drawing room to find her. “It’s time to replace Mrs. Craven. She didn’t know where you were. Considering that is her one job…”
“I forgot my shawl.”
“Seems you still have.”
She smiled, even as panic gripped her throat. “I managed to get turned around trying to find my room. How was your journey, Roger?”
“Send someone for your shawl and come with me. We have a busy few days, and I expect you to entertain everyone here.”
“Of course.”
He stopped, hauling her close. She slammed her eyes shut, pain radiating up her arm from his grip. “You will do it with a smile and not a hint of sarcasm toward me. Understood?”
Tilly nodded her head, wrenched away from his grip, and raced toward the drawing room, a coward because she never looked back once.
“It’s a miracle London loves you,” Roger said, cutting off her approach. “You’ve not an ounce of brains in that head of yours.”
She froze in the doorway, the words sticking to her. They always did. Eventually, Henry would understand that it couldn’t be. And that would be for the best.
The fire crackled beside Henry. He stood by the mantel, studying the room with a scowl on his face. There was too much cedar and pine, and oranges and cloves, and dried pomegranates. The holiday cheer turned his stomach.
Or perhaps it was only that Tilly stood across from him, surrounded by the other guests as she sat at the card table and quietly laughed at a joke with the duke and duchess. Even in the candlelight, she lit up the entire room. It was not a surprise she was so regarded on Drury Lane.
He wished it were only the two of them once again. Like the first night they met.
Tilly glanced up and met his stare for a moment, nodding slightly in recognition.
It was unfair of him to be so greedy, and he knew that. But that didn’t dull the edge of jealousy that hit him in the gut as Lord Garvey and Mr. Silas Drake flirted with her shamelessly.
And that, even if performing, she flirted back.
Love was a wicked thing. He didn’t like who it made him become. He might have been insufferable being a lovesick fool, but playing the part of a jealous lover didn’t, and wouldn’t, suit.
No, this was not how he would live. Nor would it be how he spent the rest of this year.
“Drink, sir?” The footman stopped, holding up a polished tray full of port.
