So why had he kept it? Why did he carry it in his pocket to this day?
She knew all about his protectiveness; it was something that had always been there—that had simply come to be the way he related to her, unchanging and absolute.
She’d grown so accustomed to it—that overbearing protectiveness—that she’d long ago stopped being surprised by it, or by anything he did while in its throes.
What she hadn’t previously realized was that he was as aware of his reaction to her as she now was, as aware of the longevity of those feelings, as demonstrated by that pebble.
It meant something to him. Something definite. Something important.
Something very real.
That longevity, that constancy—the fact that his protectiveness toward her had never ever faltered, and it certainly hadn’t waned—wasn’t something she should have been so cavalier in taking for granted.
Given what she now knew, all that she’d seen and felt, put that obsessive protectiveness together with all that had flared between them since they’d left their normal world behind, and what did that add up to?
It was tempting—oh, so tempting—to leap to conclusions, but she wasn’t about to do that. This was too important. Far too important.
Yet whatever the reality was, she needed to know and was determined to find out.
But if she left further exploration of that topic until after they returned to town…she would never learn what she needed to know. She understood him well enough to be one hundred percent certain of that. No matter whatever happened in the future, if she wanted a clear and unequivocal declaration of what drove him, she would have to push for one now—while they were there, away from their families and the world they usually inhabited.
The simple truth was, once they returned to London, any further interaction between them would be at his discretion, not hers. She could refuse to engage with him, but she couldn’t make him engage with her. She wouldn’t have any opportunity to initiate anything he wasn’t prepared to allow.
That prospect thrilled her not at all.
If she was reading the signs correctly, them being thrust into this situation—one neither of them, of their own accord, would have instigated—had stripped away the veils and screens they both normally kept in place, especially with regard to the other.
Whether intentionally or unintentionally, wittingly or unwittingly, until now, neither of them had faced, much less focused on, what was, in truth, between them.
But courtesy of the hours they’d spent there, in each other’s company, they now recognized what that potentially was.
Both of them knew that much.
But he liked control—more, he insisted on control, on control remaining in his hands.
Ergo, he would put off dealing with what lay between them, at the very least until they returned to town.
And possibly even after that.
She had no idea how he saw the lady he would wed, but it was perfectly possible he had some entrenched notion of eventually marrying some meek and mild miss he could easily control.
That was not just possible but likely.
She hadn’t ever thought about being the Marchioness of Earith. Knowing him as she had, it had simply not occurred to her—much as a prize she wasn’t at all sure she would want to win. Marrying Sebastian hadn’t ever featured on her list of things to do because…
Carefully drawing in the final lines on her copy of the plan of the basement, she realized that she’d always known that marrying him would be a challenge—one she hadn’t been sure she could win.
She still didn’t know if she could win.
If she could win the one thing that, according to all those ladies who knew, was the only viable guarantee when marrying a nobleman.
She knew how he felt about her protectiveness-wise.
She had no idea about his heart.
Holding up her copy, which she knew to be exact, she pretended to compare it to the original while her heart thudded, slow and certain, and her mind raced.
Would she attempt it—would she open Pandora’s box and find out what their truth really was?
Or would she cling to safety and let the moment—the next few days—pass without risking it?
She stared unseeing at her copy for several silent seconds, then she compressed her lips, picked up the four sheets she’d prepared—one for each level of the house—rose, and shut the heavy volume with a thump.
She looked at Sebastian, seated at the nearer end of the long library table. As he looked up, she met his eyes. “I’m ready.”
He pushed back his chair, picked up the single sheet on which he’d sketched the grounds, tucked it into his pocket, and rose. “Let me put these away.”
He lifted the box, came and fetched the volume of house plans, and carried both to the shelves.