Page 34 of Impossible
She longed to touch him, to tell him she was there for him, that he could share his story with her if he wanted. But his defenses were back in place, and she didn’t want to push him to anger. She knew how easily she annoyed him.
Unless by kissing her, he could become somehow immune to that? No, she wouldn’t be that naïve. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was drawn to him, that she had been almost since the moment she’d arrived.
“You should return to your chamber.” He didn’t look at her.
“Yes. Good night.” She turned to go on suddenly quivering legs.
“Good night.”
She made it out of his chamber, closing the door behind her, before her shoulders drooped and she clapped her hand over her mouth. This couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t allow it.
All she needed was another Jonathan—another mistake—to remind her that the only way she found happiness was on her bloody own.
Chapter7
Somehow, Max had been able to find sleep again after Miss Treadway had left. “Miss Treadway.” That was an awfully formal way to think of someone he’d kissed so thoroughly and desperately.
Or so he thought. He’d kissedsomeone—it had been too real to be a dream. Except his dreams, or more accurately, his nightmares always felt disturbingly real.
But she’d been there, in his bed, so he had to believe he’d kissed her. His body had certainly been aroused as if he had.
He wasn’t going to ask her for confirmation. Better to just pretend it hadn’t happened or at least that he didn’t remember it happening.
He had to admit that made him feel a little cowardly. Or something unsettling.
Finishing with his cravat, he looked at himself in the mirror. Unfortunately, he still didn’t like what he saw and doubted he ever would. He turned to grab his coat and hesitated, his fingers brushing the sleeve. Then he gritted his teeth and pulled it on, along with the guilt and sadness that accompanied the daily act.
Putting on a coat. Riding a horse. Eating a meal. Simple things he should be able to do, but couldn’t without suffering.
Ada’s words from the night before lingered in his mind:Guilt is a terrible thing. It will eat at you until there’s nothing left.
He wondered if he was getting close to that end.
Then he thought of everything else she’d revealed to him. She was a woman of amazing courage and strength. To think of her at fifteen, overwhelmed with guilt and grief, and driven away by the only family she had left made him want to take her in his arms and hold her until every last remnant of those terrible emotions washed away. But he feared they couldn’t. He didn’t expecthisguilt or grief ever would.
Perhaps things could improve for him, however.She’dmanaged it. She’d dragged herself from the darkness and forged a path forward. Not just to a peaceable existence, but to actual happiness. He saw real joy in her. That she could experience that after all she’d been through made him wonder what the hell was wrong with him.
She was likely just stronger than him. If he were lucky, he could learn something from her.
Too bad he wasn’t lucky.
Max went downstairs to the breakfast room, a place he hadn’t been to in years. Not since before he’d returned from Spain.
The room was empty, unfortunately, but the food was covered on the sideboard. Perhaps Miss Treadway hadn’t come down yet.
He filled his plate with more food than he could ever eat and sat down at the small round table where he’d had years of breakfasts with his parents and his brother, Alexander. He and Alec would compete over who could eat more kippers.
“Good morning!” Miss Treadway’s cheerful greeting startled him, which she seemed to realize. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to surprise you.” She sailed to the sideboard and dished up her food before joining him at the table.
“Good morning,” he said gruffly, not entirely certain how he ought to behave with her after last night.
They ate in silence for a moment, but he’d come to know her well enough that he recognized she wanted to say something. He decided to help her for once. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you. I must apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have come to your room, and I should not have shared so much. It’s a bad habit, I’m afraid.” Bright color swathed her cheeks, and she took a bite of eggs.
“What’s a bad habit?” he asked, wondering if she meant invading his room or oversharing.
“Trusting people too easily.” She lifted a shoulder. “I look for connection with people when there sometimes isn’t any. Or shouldn’t be,” she muttered.
