They rode in silence for a time; then she spoke. "Thank you. For what you did tonight."
That drew his attention from the passing scenery. He looked at her, dark and angry, from his corner across the narrow space. "Rockley had no idea what he'd walked into tonight. This is exactly the reason you cannot marry, Victoria. Your two worlds simply cannot intersect as they did tonight. Continuing on this path will only cause more destruction."
And with that, he turned back to the window and said nothing more.
Victoria did not sleep well that night. Her dreams were filled with a storm of images melding together: Phillip and Sebastian, Aunt Eustacia and Max, and words and voices running together: I've always wanted to taste a Venator… You cannot marry… That is something I would pay dearly to see… Does he know you walk the streets at night?… What else did he take?
She woke to find sun streaming through the window, nothing at all like the dark dinginess of her clash of memories. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Madame LeClaire would be arriving in two hours for her gown fitting.
Her wedding gown fitting.
Victoria passed a hand over her eyes. Was Max right? If she married Phillip, was she attracting more destruction?
Emptiness clawed her belly, and it was not because she'd had nothing to eat. How could she not marry Phillip? Charming, funny, handsome Phillip? The man who made her laugh, who jested with her, who helped her to see the humor in the society she was forced to live in. Who'd brought her flowers after she lectured him. The man who did the right thing, what was expected. A man she could understand.
He had followed her last night. Followed her into a den of vampires with little thought for his safety and no understanding of the world he was entering. If she married him, would she be able to keep her secret? Would she have to? If he knew she was a Venator, and safer than anyone on earth, would he understand?
He had made his confessions… harmless they were. Did she owe him the same?
Sebastian's words haunted her. Does he know that it means his love walks the streets at night? That she must mingle with those from the dark side to learn their secrets? That she kills every time she raises her weapon? That she has a strength he cannot hope to possess?
How could he understand? It had taken her weeks to understand, and she was called to this duty.
He was so good, so proper. How could he be married to a woman who stalked evil? Who was violent… who killed? He could never accept that in a wife—he should not have to.
He couldn't understand her world. Aunt Eustacia, and Max, and Kritanu… even Verbena and Barth… they understood. They were all a part of that world, that life.
Phillip was not, and could never be.
She drew a deep breath, knowing what she would do.
A heavy knot settled in her middle as she began to consider life without Phillip. A life that consisted of lurking in dark streets, in subterranean pubs, the need to always hunt and kill. The end of dancing and laughing and no hope of having someone to love, someone to care for her.
Perhaps that explained Max: his demeanor, the undercurrents of anger, and his ripping sarcasm. He was so alone. Victoria had believed it was by choice. Perhaps she was wrong.
Perhaps she had no choice either.
A loud slam from below, and the sound of pounding footsteps rushing up the stairs, caused her to turn toward the door to her bedroom.
Shouts; they sounded like Jimmons, and even Verbena, and suddenly her door flew open, slamming into the wall.
Phillip.
"Victoria!" He stood there, tall and wild, his cloak whirling about him and his hair falling over his brow. "You are here, and safe!"
She was so aghast she did not move even to close her jaw; Verbena and Jimmons and Maisie the housekeeper were standing in the doorway, all speaking at once, explaining how it had happened that Phillip had made his way up here.
"Send them away," he said to her, striding toward her where she remained in bed, her blankets pulled over her nightgown. "I am your betrothed; we are to be married in three weeks… send them away!"
She had never seen him like this, the unruffled and proper Phillip in such a stir. "Go ahead; you may go." She waved at Jimmons and Verbena. Then, amazingly, considering the situation, she had a logical thought. "Is Mother up and about?"
"She will be now," replied Verbena.
"Keep her from me, then. Tell her whatever you wish, but keep her from here until the marquess leaves."
"But it is not proper—" began Maisie.
"Go. Please. It will be fine if no one speaks of this."
Only after they left did Victoria allow herself to look at Phillip. The knot in her stomach had twisted tighter. She had thought to have more time to decide what to do… how to respond to Phillip. How to tell him she could not marry him.
But her decision was made. It was the right one.
"Victoria, Victoria." He stood next to her bed, hands behind him, as if trying to keep himself from reaching for her. "I am so sorry, but I could not wait. I needed to make sure you were here, were safe."
"Phillip…" She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. What could she say? "Phillip, I am fine. You see me; I am safe. I only had the headache."
Where had that come from? She hadn't planned to continue her charade.
He looked at her from above, standing over her, his blue eyes sharp but still wild. "Victoria."
"Phillip, sit down. Here." She smoothed her hand over the French-knotted coverlet, making a space for him next to her hip.
"I don't know if I… should." He looked at her, and she saw something in his gaze she'd never seen before. "If it's proper."
Victoria laughed; she couldn't help it. "Phillip, don't be absurd… you are already here, in my bedchamber. In three weeks I will be in yours." Their eyes met and her mouth dried. Had she really said that? That lie?
He sat, his solid weight heavy on the edge of the bed, tilting her toward him. Through the layers of blankets his leg touched hers.
"In three weeks. I don't know that I can wait so long." He reached over, touched her unbound hair, and let his hand trace her cheekbone before curling it back next to him. "But I must know, where did you go last night, Victoria? Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"I wasn't feeling well," she told him. Why was she still lying? She had to let him go.
"Victoria, I love you and you will be my wife, but one thing I cannot tolerate is dishonesty." He was angry, an emotion she'd never seen in him before. True anger, layered with a sort of desperate concern. But not frightening. No, this was an anger she could live with. "What were you doing in St. Giles last night? Tell me the truth."
Then her tears burst forth. Everything she had held back in the last weeks, since she had had those dreams. Since she had learned of her calling.
Racking sobs, shaking, and trembling—the results of fear she'd submerged so deeply when fighting for her life—everything poured out of her into Phillip's shoulder, for he'd gathered her close, the bedsheets falling away as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Victoria, Victoria," he crooned, smoothing his hand over her head, down over the tangled curls of her hair, bumping along her spine. "My God, Victoria, what is it? I will fix it; just tell me. I will make it right. I am not without resources; I will use them all if I must."
When she pulled away from his drenched coat, he had a handkerchief ready to mop her face and wipe her nose, as if she were a child. She felt like a child being cared for. For the first time in almost two months she felt like she didn't need to be in charge. In control.
The strong one.
She had never loved Phillip more than she did in that moment.
"Thank you," she said with the soft hiccup of her last sob.
He dropped the handkerchief and grabbed her shoulders. "What is it? Tell me. I cannot bear to see you like this."