Unlocked (Turner, #1.5)

Evan found her in the garden, sitting on a bench amidst a quiet symphony of cricket calls. She looked at him as if she were holding court—regal and unattainable. There was almost no moon to speak of, but the stars were bright, and her eyes were, too.

Finally, she spoke. “How did you escape last night?”

He hoisted his sleeve and turned back his cuff. In the darkness, it was almost impossible to see where the rope had rubbed his skin into agitated redness. “A middleman’s noose can be converted into a slipknot. With a good bit of effort, it turns out. I’d never done it one-handed before.”

She looked at his wrist and then glanced away.

He sat next to her on the bench.

“I feel as if I should apologize for that,” she said, “but…but I can’t quite bring myself to do so. What was I supposed to think? You were talking about seducing me. That wasn’t a sign of respect.”

“I’ve wanted you for years.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Respect doesn’t enter into it. Had anything happened, I surely would have married you.”

She hid her face. “Oh, Westfeld. Don’t.”

“But I must. Will you marry me?”

The silence stretched into awkwardness.

“I know you’ll have a hard time believing that I am serious. But please—I beg you to see that what happened all those years ago is in the past. I’m not the same man today.”

She raised her face to his. The starlight reflected in her eyes, gray and silver together.

“Do you really think I would want to marry you?”

No. Still, it was a blow to hear it out loud.

“I had hoped—I had so hoped I might convince you. Let me court you, then. You don’t know who I am now, and perhaps once you come to know me…”

He reached over to take her hand. The contact was inadequate—after last night’s intimacy, the mere feel of glove-on-glove seemed confining. She didn’t respond to his caress. But at least she didn’t push him away.

“I don’t think it matters what I know of you,” she said simply. “Do you know what you did to me?”

He could feel the tips of his ears flush. “I remember.”

“No.” She pulled her hand from his now. “You only saw the public moments. You cannot know.” Her voice dropped. “You are handsome and wealthy and titled. Perhaps I might someday believe that you are kind, too. But let me tell you what I feel when I look at you. In my first year out, two months into the Season, I tasked my maid to tell me a series of jokes. We filled a bath. And every time I laughed my laugh, I told her to duck my head under the water. I hoped I might cure myself.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“The first few times, it was just funny. And that made me laugh all the harder. So I asked her to hold my head under longer and longer.”

“No,” he breathed.

“Yes.” Her voice was sharp. “But it never worked. After the eighteenth time, I couldn’t stop laughing. Not for anything. I inhaled water into my lungs and was bedridden for days on end.”

“Oh. God.”

“What did you think you were doing to me when you called me those names? When you egged on your friends to poke fun at me?”

“But you were so serene. I wasn’t even sure you heard me half the time. You never—” He swallowed his protests. She shouldn’t have to break down in public for him to have a conscience.

“I’ll be the first to admit, Westfeld, that you’re an attractive man. When you’re not being cruel, you can be quite charming. You’re handsome.” Her voice dropped. “And I’m very curious about what we spoke of the other night.”

Such a bare recitation. Any other lady would have gladly accepted him for half as much reason, and he’d be kissing her already. Too bad he didn’t want any other lady. He wanted this one. He was only beginning to realize how much.

“But none of that matters. When I see you, I remember that you made me want to drown rather than be myself.”

He’d known he had been cruel. But this was the first time he’d really felt it, a deep ache that went straight to his bones. He didn’t want to believe that that could be chalked up to his account. How could he ever make up for that?

You can’t, you ass.

He’d never understood what regret meant until now. It wasn’t the pallid sort of wish he’d entertained before. He wished he could reach inside himself and take back what he had done. He didn’t want to be himself any longer.

No words could make it up to her. And perhaps that was precisely what struck him at that moment. He was always going to be the man who had done that to her. No matter how hard he wanted, his past followed him around as faithfully as his shadow. He would always cast darkness on her.

“Well,” he said eventually. “That’s it, then.”