Chapter 17
The household retired early, subdued by the quiet dread of the next morning’s departure. Lamps dimmed along the corridor; carpets drank the sound of servants’ steps. Ashdale seemed to hold its breath.
In their chamber, the lamps had been lowered, but Kitty left one candle standing tall upon the escritoire.
She shifted it nearer the glass, so that its flame burned steady against the night.
Light mattered. Without it, lips blurred into shadow, words dissolved into mystery.
With it, she could see him—all of him—when he came.
Kitty sat upon the edge of their bed, slipper dangling from her toes, fingers playing idly with the lace at her neck. Her hair had been loosed, falling over one shoulder in waves pale as honey. The silence was her own realm, deep and unbroken, save for the quick beat of her heart.
She felt him before she saw him. Fitzwilliam’s tread carried a rhythm she knew better than any voice: measured, sure, with the faintest weight of his old wound. His step sent a vibration through the oak floor, a muted thrum that reached her before the latch turned.
The door opened.
He entered still in his coat, hair damp from the mist, gloves tucked beneath one arm. The candle caught his face, lined by years, shadowed at the jaw, yet softened at the sight of her. He halted, as though the chamber itself demanded reverence.
Kitty lifted her hands. You are late.
His mouth curved—faint, apologetic. “Forgive me. A long sitting with my father. Letters from town. Matters of coin.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and set it aside.
She tilted her head. The colonel is still at war, even in his chair.
His laugh came low, brief. “Aye. And his heir must now be a soldier of accounts.”
She smiled, though the word ‘heir’ still settled uneasily in her. He was her husband, her Fitzwilliam, her heart entire. Titles were for others.
He crossed to her. His hand brushed her cheek—calloused, warm, reverent. She closed her eyes to it. The scar at his temple brushed her brow as he bent close, and she breathed the familiar mingling of leather, horse, and him.
When she opened her eyes, she raised her hands again. I waited for you.
“I am here,” he said simply. His lips formed each word with the clarity he had learned for her alone.
He bent and kissed her.
It was not the hurried claim of a soldier returned from the field, nor the distracted kiss of a man overburdened with estate and Parliament.
It was patient, grounding—as though he wished to anchor her in him, and himself in her.
She leant into it, into the steady pressure of his mouth, into the warmth that had been hers since the day she first dared to believe he loved her.
When he drew back, her fingers spoke swiftly. Stay with me. Tonight, speak nothing of fathers, nor of coin, nor of Viscounts. Only us.
He nodded, his gaze steady.
She rose, and he followed her to the fire. The flames whispered low, shadows flickering along the walls. She tugged at the clasp of her gown, her hands deliberate. He caught her wrists.
“Kitty—”
She read his lips. He hesitated. Always when he hesitated, his thumb pressed against the scar at his jaw. Her gaze caught it, and she knew: fear.
You love me still? she signed, eyes never leaving his.
“Always.”
Then prove it, she signed. Give me another child.
He stilled.
Her hands fell, trembling faintly. She had not meant to let it show so soon, yet the words were truth. They had both borne the near loss—and she would not let fear rule the space between them.
His lips formed her name, broken across a breath. He turned aside, staring into the fire as though it might answer him. She watched the taut line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the way his hand curled against the mantle’s edge.
At last, he looked back. “Do you know what you ask?”
I ask for life. I ask for love, made flesh.
“It may take you from me.” His voice roughened. “The last time…”
The last time I lived, she answered, hands sharp, sure. And I will again. With you.
He shook his head, but she saw the conflict in his eyes. The soldier who calculated risk, the husband who feared loss, the man who loved too deeply to bear it.
She stepped closer, laying her palm against his chest. His heart beat hard beneath her touch. Richard, my love. You are my heart and soul. Let us not be ruled by ghosts. Let us make joy again.
His breath left him in a shudder.
She reached for him, kissed him again, harder now, her hands sliding to his neck. He yielded—not in defeat, but in surrender. His arms closed round her, fierce, as though to shield her from the very world.
They moved together towards the bed, the chamber hushed save for the crackle of the fire and the quickening of their breath. She drew him down, guiding him not with words but with touch, with the surety of one who had always spoken best with her hands.
When at last the candle guttered low, he lay beside her, chest heaving, eyes closed. She touched his cheek, traced the line of his scar with tenderness. He opened his eyes, and she signed softly. You are mine. Entirely mine. And I am yours.
His hand caught hers, held it tight. “My silent viscountess.”
She smiled, resting her head against him, reading his breath and the steady beat beneath her palm—each pulse a promise renewed.