Page 25 of Now Comes the Mist

It is not difficult in the least to imagine being swept up in his arms. Pressing my smile into his neck as he runs up the stairs with me held tight against his heart, and then falling into a feather bed in the shadows. His lips on my ear, my neck, and my shoulders, trailing kisses all down my skin as his skilled and capable hands drive my rising need for him.

Yes, I believe him. He would make me very happy indeed.

But I feel rising dread and the hot, panicked threat of tears once more. Because though I have enjoyed his attentions, his flirting, his flowers, and his eyes on me like melting caramel, and as many times as I have imagined him knowing me in all the ways a husband would, the truth is that I have never been serious about Jack Seward, either.

“Dr. Seward,” I choke out.

“Jack,” he whispers, his fingers still on the buttons of my dress. “Call me Jack.”

His gaze is ravenous, and I know he wants to kiss me more than anything. Just as Arthur had been in my power that evening, Jack Seward is in a similar position here and now. He wants to claim me as his own, but he will not move until he is sure of me. He waits with bated breath, his eyes roaming my face, desperate for my agreement.

I consider that this is a good offer. Dr. Seward is a wealthy and respected man, barely thirty and yet already established enough to give me a comfortable position in society. He would be a passionate, adoring husband. Mamma would like him, and I think it is true that Papa would approve as well. If I said yes, it would be suitable and appropriate and smart. I would be safe and well cared for and ease Mamma’s constant worry.

Jack Seward watches me with hope and terror, as though I hold his very life in my hands.

“Dr. Seward,” I say again, my voice trembling.

Something in my face makes him stand up and stare down at me in silence. The shock and pain in his expression are indescribable. His hands shake at his sides.

I cannot bear it. I cannot withstand facing the consequences of my thoughtless behavior again and hurting yet another man. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” I say, and then I burst into tears. It is a testament to my grief over the pain I have caused him and Quincey, for I know full well how blotchy and red crying will make my face. The thought of going into the house afterward to face everyone like this makes me sob even harder, and I bury my face in my skirts.

After a long moment, I feel Jack kneel in the grass before me. He places one gentle hand on my shoulder and, with the other, strokes my hair with the utmost tenderness.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I repeat as a handkerchief is pressed into my hands. I wipe my eyes, and it is then that I smell the scent of a deep pine forest with an underlying aroma of cigars.

I know that scent.

I look up, and it is not the doctor kneeling before me.

It is Arthur.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We are alone in the garden. Dr. Seward is gone, and all is quiet: I hear the muffled din of voices from the house, the rustling of the trees around the bench, and Arthur’s soft breathing. He is on one knee before me in his fine evening clothes and his face is calm, though his eyes are not. He watches me apprehensively, as he had the night he overheard me telling Mamma that he did not care. I look back at him, remembering his laugh as we danced, and I wait to feel joy. After all, it washisface I pictured even as two other men proposed to me tonight.

But instead of relief, I feel an intensifying shame for my childish resentment toward Arthur. I was angry with him for toying with my affections … when I have only done the same to Quincey Morris and Jack Seward. Regret builds at my temples, a mounting pressure that feels like a pot coming to boil. I heartily despise myself but cannot find a way to express this to Arthur, not when his hazel eyes meet mine with such fear and hope and longing.

My torment is such that when I speak, my voice comes out cooler and more distant than I had intended. “Is there something you want, Mr. Holmwood?”

Arthur’s hands drop to the bench on either side of my lap at my chilly formality. He takes a deep breath in through his nostrils, his shoulders moving with the inhalation. When he exhales, the breath comes out with words. “I want you to marry me,” he says.

Inside the house, a man laughs, the bright brassy sound carrying toward us. The door has been left open, either by Arthur when he came out or by Dr. Seward when he went back inside. I wonder if the doctor and Quincey Morris are talking about me. Perhaps they are comparing theirproposals and my refusals of each of them. I feel the inexplicable desire to laugh once more, and I know it must be the emotional turbulence of being tossed and turned between these men like a toy tugged between children. All wanting to play with it. All wanting it to belong to only them.

“I want you to marry me,” Arthur says again. “Please, Lucy.”

For the first time in my life, I am without words. I, who have always had the perfect jest or the wittiest, most sparkling retort, can think of nothing to say to this declaration.

“I know you’re still angry with me about the other night, but it’s only because you don’t understand. You thought I didn’t want to kiss you.”

I put my hand up. “Arthur, it is I who owe you an apology. You don’t have to explain—”

He continues speaking, his voice low and pleading. “You thought I didn’t want you, but it was the opposite. I knew that if we kept kissing the way we did, I would not be able to control myself. You make me not want to remember what is proper, and most of all, you make me not want tocare. I kept arguing with myself when you were in my arms, telling myself we didn’t need a big society wedding, the kind that both of our mothers want. I kept thinking about my carriage waiting nearby and how quickly I could take you to Gretna Green by dawn.”

My hands are claws around Arthur’s handkerchief. I can feel the imprint of my own nails in my skin. “You wanted me? You wanted to marry me that night?”

There it is again: Arthur’s smile, like a flash of light behind clouds, and I am sick, sick with the need to see it once more. “So badly, I would have gone against our parents’ wishes and eloped with you, had our behavior led us to … to impropriety.” He lays a large, warm hand on my clenched fists and it calms me instantly. “Lucy Westenra, I have wanted to marry you for almost twenty years. I have been desperately in love with you for almost twenty years.”

I hold my breath, waiting to feel the prickle of guilty tears or the pain of knowing that I have to disappoint him. But I do not … nor do I sense overwhelming joy or relief. There is only numb unease and disquiet deep in my belly, heavy like a bag of stones in water.This is it, I think.The moment in which I lose what small freedom I had.

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