Drops of Gold(48)

“And the story doesn’t end well.” Layton finished the thought for her. He barely resisted the urge to reach out and touch her hair as a breeze fluttered through it.

He heard her sigh before she said, “I think Caroline has endured quite enough tragic endings.” Their eyes met, and Marion smiled a little tremulous smile. Layton’s heart flipped in his chest. “I think we all have,” she added.

“And yet you smile.” Layton shook his head in amazement.

“Life has a way of repaying the prices it exacts along the way, making up for our losses. Knowing that, I have reason to hope, to believe things will get better.”

“Optimism.” Layton smiled. “You have been collecting those Drops of Gold.” When had he taken hold of her hand? He didn’t let go, just wondered how it had come to be there.

“Have I made you a believer, then?” She looked up at him with twinkling brown eyes and a playful smile on her lips. “You were rather unconvinced when I told you the story the first time. I wondered if you even believed there was such a thing as hope.”

“Perhaps I just needed a few Drops of my own,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

She didn’t reply but continued to watch him, her eyes and smile soft and tender.

No, he didn’t need a Drop of Gold. He needed Marion. How was he ever going to get on without her?

“Something is bothering you.”

Gads, did he just whimper? He must have done something, made some kind of sound. Marion slipped her hand from his. He wanted to object, to plead with her to stay, if only for a moment, knowing in the end he’d lose her. He couldn’t bear the thought and closed his eyes as if to shut out the world around him, the world that would keep them at a distance.

“Marion.”

“I haven’t left you, Layton.”

He felt her hand press softly to his cheek. Layton pulled back, hating that he had to. He turned away, toward the river. Why did God hate him so much? To let him find Marion only after he could no longer have her, when his own past prevented any future between them? It was cruel, the kind of thing a vengeful Deity saw fit to inflict on an undutiful subject. Fitting.

“Layton?” The uncertainty in Marion’s voice cut him to the quick.

“Your free time is probably nearly at an end.” He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the Trent.

“I have nearly an hour remaining.” A question hovered in her tone.

Stiff, apathetic employer, Layton reminded himself. Setting his features, he turned back. Marion watched him, a smile still on her lips. He knew his facade slipped a little. “It is growing increasingly chilly, Miss Wood.”

She stared a little harder at his return to formality, brows drawing together in confusion, her smile slipping almost imperceptibly.

He pushed on. “You should probably return to the house before you catch cold.”

“I am quite warm, I assure you.”

“Miss Wood,” he said in his most autocratic voice, “you can hardly perform your duties as Caroline’s governess if you contract an inflammation of the lungs. I am asking you as your employer to return to the house.”

“As my employer?” she asked, forehead wrinkling further.

He kept himself aloof, needing her to go, to give him room and time to adjust to the situation, to ready himself to see her every day and yet keep a proper distance, to reconcile himself to the fact that she was beyond his reach.

“But you said when it was just the two of us—”

“I should never have asked to be permitted such familiarity, nor should I have allowed it.” His jaw tensed almost painfully. With a supreme effort, he kept his fists unclenched.

“Familiarity?”

“An overly friendly—”

“I know what it means, Lay—sir.” She spoke over him, though she didn’t speak loudly. Her smile had entirely disappeared, and her brow was drawn in consternation. “You said last night, you wanted to be . . . my friend.”

“I do not believe that is a good idea.” He reminded himself to remain firm. He needed distance.

Her somewhat blank expression dimmed visibly, a slight frown marring her usually cheerful face. Marion’s fingers floated to her lips as if she were unaware she’d even made the gesture. “But I thought . . .” She little more than whispered. “You . . .” Her brow creased further. “We . . .” Her fingers remained pressed to her lips.

That kiss. He knew that was what she was thinking of. How could he apologize or say he regretted it? On some level, he did. But on every other level, he didn’t regret it in the least. His only regret was that he could never do it again.