Chapter 32
The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones, each turn loud in the silence that pressed upon them. Margaret kept smoothing the folds of her skirts, her gaze fixed on the dark blur beyond the window.
A dull ache had begun at her temples, the kind that came not from noise or light but from the strain of too much feeling, too much revelation. At length, she raised her hand, pressing her fingers lightly against her brow as though the gesture alone might soothe the pain.
She could feel Sebastian beside her, tense and unyielding, his anger still coiled like a storm not yet spent. Neither spoke. There were no words for what had been revealed in that room, no balm for the ruin they had left behind.
When at last the carriage slowed, Margaret stirred, expecting the familiar gate of Moreland Manor, but when she glanced out, her breath caught.
Not the neat, welcoming facade of her aunt’s home, but the looming grandeur of Ravenscourt House rose before her, its stone face shadowed and severe beneath the lamplight.
Her headache seemed to pulse sharply, confusion mingling with unease. She darted a glance at Sebastian, but he did not look at her. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed forward as the footman lowered the step. He offered his hand without a word.
Her gaze darted to Sebastian, but he did not look at her. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed forward as the footman lowered the step. She felt a pang of surprise—unease, even. She had not crossed the threshold of this house since leaving it in anguish. That he brought her here now… what did it mean?
Margaret hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand gently within his.
And as the great doors opened, she felt her steps falter.
Sebastian stopped in the drawing room, his back to her for a long, unbearable moment. His shoulders were rigid, his hands fisted at his sides. When at last he turned, his face was stark with resolve.
“You are free now,” he said. His voice was low, steady, though she could hear the strain beneath. “If you wish for a quiet separation, I will grant it. I will not hold you in chains you did not choose.”
Margaret’s lips parted, but no sound came. The words struck deep, leaving her at once shaken and hollow.
He pressed on, each word as if torn from him.
“I cannot undo the wrong that was done to you, but I will make it right as far as I am able. The truth will be told. I will stand before every man and woman of the ton and swear it myself. I will see your name cleared so that no one will dare whisper it with scorn again.”
Her breath caught. “But if you do that…” Her voice broke, and she forced it steadier. “If you do that, it will ruin you. Your title, your family’s name, everything you have ever borne—”
“Let it,” he cut in, sharp, unflinching.
She stared at him, stricken. “How can you speak so? You have lived your whole life for duty, for the Ravenscourt name. You would throw it all away—for me?”
He moved closer, and Margaret saw it then.
Margaret realized the steadiness he wore was a lie, trembling at the edges.
It was only a mask stretched thin, trembling as though one breath might tear it apart.
His shoulders were too rigid, his jaw too tight, his hands restless at his sides.
She had never seen him quite like this, not even in anger.
For a moment, he only stood there. The silence was unbearable, filled with the sound of his uneven breath. Margaret’s heart pounded against her ribs, each beat loud enough to drown out thought.
“Do you not see?” he said, almost hoarse.
“That name, that duty—it has been my prison. Since the day I could walk, it has bound me, chained me, demanded every breath.” His hands flexed once, twice, as though the words were shackles he could not shake.
“And still… still… I bore it without complaint. I bent myself to its weight until I no longer knew where I ended and it began.”
She wanted to speak, to soothe, but her throat had closed. The force of his words pinned her in place.
“But to see you suffer beneath it, Margaret—” His voice broke.
He dragged a hand across his mouth, as though even speaking the thought tore him open.
His chest rose hard, the breath shuddering from him.
“To see your life ruined by the sins of others… by shadows not your own… God…” He turned his head aside, the motion sharp, almost helpless. “God, I cannot bear it.”
Her eyes stung, hot and sudden. She pressed her hands tight to keep them from trembling.
His hands clenched then opened helplessly before he let them fall, useless at his sides as if he might reach for her and yet could not. She felt the ache of that unfinished gesture as though it had been torn from her own body.
“I would burn Ravenscourt to ash before I let it destroy you.”
Margaret’s breath shivered loose, the air in the room pressing heavy, trembling. His control was gone; she could see it in every line of him—shoulders taut, chest heaving, the proud mask shattered into pieces at her feet.
His chest heaved, his composure breaking at last. He raked a hand through his hair, as though to steady himself, then dropped it helplessly.
And then, unguarded, raw, the words tore from him, words she had scarcely dared to imagine, words that struck like fire to the heart.
“Because I love you.”
It was not calm, nor was it noble, but rather, it was desperate. His chest rose and fell like a man who had leaped from a height and only now felt the ground rushing up to meet him.
The words fell sharply into the room like a struck bell. He stood there, waiting. Waiting for her voice, her eyes, her hand… something.
But Margaret was struck still, her throat locked, her heart so painfully full that not a single syllable could escape.
The silence stretched.
A shadow crossed his face, and he swallowed hard, shoulders drawing taut as though bracing against a blow.
“I see,” he murmured at last, almost to himself. His gaze dropped, and he turned from her, retreating step by step, as if her silence had answered more cruelly than words ever could.
Margaret’s heart throbbed painfully, her throat tightening. The ache in her temples was nothing beside the ache in her chest. She could only stare, stunned, as he turned from her, as if ashamed of the confession, as though he would leave her with those words hanging in the silence like a wound.
“Wait.” Her voice was little more than a breath, but it was enough to halt him.
She rushed forward, and her hand found his sleeve, trembling, desperate to hold him there. He stilled but did not turn, and for a moment, she feared he would shake her off, walk away, leave her in the silence she herself had created.
Her feet carried in front of him, her heart pounding until it hurt.
“Do not go,” she whispered, the words breaking from her like a prayer.
And before she could falter, before her courage could fail, she reached for him with both hands now, clutching his arm, his shoulder, then pulling him into her embrace.
Her cheek pressed against the broad plane of his chest, and the sob she had held at bay escaped her. “I love you,” she breathed, her voice broken with the truth. “God help me, I love you.”
The words tumbled faster now, jagged, desperate, before she could stop them. “I tried not to. I swore I would not. I told myself it would ruin me—but it was no use. I cannot stop. I cannot breathe without it.”
Her fingers curled in the fabric of his coat, clinging. “I am afraid every moment that I will lose you. And still—still I would rather face ruin at your side than safety without you.”
Her voice broke, and she pressed her cheek harder against his chest, as if she might hide from her own confession. “I thought I was sparing you. Do you see? I thought if I pushed you away, if I let you believe I was cold, you would be free.”
She drew in a ragged breath, her fingers fisting tighter in his coat, as though afraid he might vanish if she released him. Sebastian stood utterly still, his breath held, the weight of her words striking like blows.
“They whisper about madness in my blood; they call it a curse upon my family—I could not bear the thought of it staining you. So, I lied. I told myself I could endure it, that I was strong enough to carry the loss.”
For a heartbeat, she faltered, the sob rising too fast to swallow. Her chest shook against him, and she pressed her lips together as though the truth itself might break her.
“But I am not.” Her breath hitched, sharp as a sob. “I am not strong at all.”
Her hands tightened, shaking. “I let the rumors rule me. I let them convince me you deserved better than the shadow that clings to me. I thought I was saving you when all I did was tear us both apart.”
Her words faltered into silence, her body trembling against his. “I love you,” she whispered again, raw and bare. “Too much to let go. Too much to pretend I do not.”
For a heartbeat, he did not move. His breath shuddered above her crown, his body rigid in disbelief.
Then, with a sound almost like a gasp, his arms closed tight around her, and he was trembling, as though he might never let her go again.
He buried his face in her hair, holding her tightly as if he was afraid she might vanish if he let her go.
When at last he drew back enough to look at her, his eyes were luminous, shining with something she had never seen unguarded in him before. They shone with awe and relief and a love so unashamed, it undid her utterly.
“Margaret…” he whispered, her name breaking on his lips, his voice raw with awe and wonder.
He cupped her face with reverent hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears even as more slipped free. Her lips trembled, parted with a sob she could not swallow. He bent, slow and certain, until his warm breath mingled with hers, carrying all the words he could not say.
“I’ve loved you… always,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple before they met hers.
When their mouths met, it was soft at first, trembling and damp with her tears.
His lips pressed to hers as though she were something fragile, something holy, and the tenderness of it stole her breath.
She tasted the salt of her own tears between them, felt the shiver that went through him, and clung harder, her fingers curling into his coat.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” she murmured against him, her voice breaking, her fingers clutching his coat.
He shivered and kissed her, still careful, each movement reverent. “Never,” he breathed against her lips. “Never a moment.”
She let herself cling to him, tears spilling freely, whispering her own confession, “I love you too… so much.”
He kissed her again, deeper, still careful, his mouth moving against hers with aching reverence. His hands moved with deliberate tenderness, sliding from her shoulders to cradle her face, tilting her head slightly, coaxing her closer.
Her fingers threaded through the dark fabric of his coat, clutching as if he could anchor her to this certainty. Each brush of his lips was measured, lingering at the corners, at the curve of her jaw, at the tender swell of her lips, as though he could convey a lifetime of devotion in each contact.
When at last he drew back, it was only far enough for his forehead to rest against hers.
His eyes glistened, his breath ragged as though the kiss had undone him, too.
She gave a shaky laugh through her tears, then rose to meet him again, her lips finding his with quiet certainty.
This time she kissed him, not as the girl who had lost everything but as the woman who had found where she belonged.