Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
T he morning looked deceptively warm as sunlight streamed through the windows of Westwood House. Grace sat in the morning room with her embroidery, her stitches slow and uneven as her thoughts wandered. Theo and Evalina played with some knotted thread she’d tossed to them, while her sisters and Maeve dotted the room at their own tasks.
The monotony was broken by the sudden arrival of a footman, who carried an elegant bouquet of pink roses, freesia, ivy, and violets. Their fresh scent wafted gently through the air as he presented them to Grace.
“For you, miss,” he announced, bowing slightly before withdrawing.
Grace’s fingers stilled on the fabric, her brow furrowing as she set aside her work and reached for the flowers. Tucked among the blossoms was a small, folded note, its edges embossed with a simple yet elegant crest. Her heart quickened as she recognized the seal.
With trembling hands, she opened the note and read the neatly penned lines:
Dear Miss Whitford,
Would you please do me the honour of accompanying me on a drive this morning if you are not otherwise engaged? I will call for you at noon, should that be convenient to you.
Your obedient servant,
Carew
For a moment, she simply stared at the words. The note was simple, but it carried a weight that set her pulse racing. He was holding out an olive branch by asking to see her—so perhaps she had not ruined everything last night.
“Look! These flowers mean love, hope, sincerity, and fidelity, and there are love knots woven inside.” Hope would know such things as she was the romantic one. Still, did the bouquet really hold such meaning? Had Carew chosen them with that in mind? It could be a coincidence.
Joy leaned over, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What is it, Grace? You look flushed. Pray tell.”
“’Tis nothing,” Grace replied too quickly, clutching the note to her chest and feeling a bit timid with Lady Maeve present. However, her evasiveness only piqued their interest further, and soon Hope and Faith joined the fray, each pressing her for details.
When she finally relented, holding up the note with a resigned sigh, the room erupted into a flurry of exclamations and advice.
“You must go, of course,” Patience declared, ever practical.
“And wear something becoming,” Joy added with a grin. “This is no time for drab grey.”
Faith, more measured in her response, laid a hand on Grace’s arm. “This is the chance you hoped for.”
“It is from my brother? I knew it,” Lady Maeve said with a satisfied smile.
At noon precisely, the sound of hooves and wheels on gravel drew Grace and the others to the window. There he sat, in a gleaming curricle pulled by a pair of matched bays, their coats shining like polished bronze in the afternoon sun. Ronan’s posture was relaxed, his hands steady on the reins, but even from a distance, he was the most striking man she’d ever seen.
Her nerves, which had already been frayed by the morning’s anticipation, threatened to unravel entirely as she adjusted her bonnet one final time and descended the stairs. She had chosen a gown of her favourite emerald green with delicate embroidery at the hem—simple yet flattering, at Joy’s insistence—and a matching cloak to guard against the lingering chill.
When she stepped outside, the crisp air brought a faint colour to her cheeks. Ronan turned at the sound of her approach, his gaze softening as he took her in. He descended swiftly, tossing the reins to the groom, then offering his hand to help her into the curricle.
“Miss Whitford,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—nervousness, perhaps? “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” she replied quietly, her gloved hand resting lightly in his as she climbed into the seat. She settled beside him, hating the stiff formality of this exchange and longing for the easy way they’d known before.
The silence that followed was not unpleasant, but it was charged, Grace acutely aware of him as the curricle began to move. The bays, well-trained and spirited, responded to Ronan’s light touch, their strides even as they pulled the carriage down the lane.
Grace kept her gaze fixed on the scenery, the gentle sway of the curricle and the rhythmic clatter of hooves doing little to calm her nerves. She was painfully aware of his nearness, of the way his shoulder or thigh brushed hers when they turned a corner.
“I hope the flowers were to your liking,” he said at last, breaking the silence.
“They were lovely,” Grace replied, her voice steadier than she had expected. “Thank you.”
He nodded, his attention briefly on the horses before returning to her. “I was concerned they might be too plain. You deserve more than a handful of blooms.”
Grace glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Simplicity is often the most elegant, my lord.”
“Ronan,” he corrected softly, his gaze unwavering.
Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear.
He smiled faintly, the tightness in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “Thank you for coming, Grace. There are things I need to say—things I did not say properly the first time.”
Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice even. “I am listening, sir.”
And as the curricle carried them farther from the house, past the city and into the countryside, Grace braced herself for the words that might mend or break her heart entirely.
The curricle moved steadily along the winding country lane, the matched bays pulling with an effortless grace that opposed the tension-laden air between its two occupants. The countryside stretched out before them, the fields fallow and the trees barren. She sat composed, though her fingers twisted slightly in the folds of her cloak. She waited for something to cut the tension between them.
“I asked for your forgiveness last night.”
Grace’s gaze shifted to him, and knew she must be forthright. “I have thought about that a great deal, and I do not think you need my forgiveness, my lord,” she replied quietly. “I understand you thought you were acting in my best interests.”
Ronan glanced at her, his jaw tightening. “But I should like it just the same. I let fear and pride dictate my actions, and in doing so, I caused you pain.”
“You acted as you thought best. I cannot fault you for wishing for my happiness.”
“But that is where I failed,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I did not ask you for your opinion.” He drew the reins lightly, slowing the curricle and pulled it to the side of the road. “I convinced myself that pushing you away was the proper thing to do, but in truth I was a coward, too afraid to admit how much you mean to me.”
Grace’s breath caught, and she turned to him, her composure wavering. “Ronan…”
He stopped the curricle entirely, the horses stamping lightly as they came to a halt. Carew set the reins aside and turned to face her fully, his blue eyes bright with intensity. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you, Grace. Not to another man, not to the distance I put between us. I have spent weeks regretting my actions; all the moments I let slip away and every word I left unsaid.”
Grace stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. The vulnerability in his expression and the raw sincerity in his voice were unlike anything she had ever seen from him.
“I love you,” he said, the words spilling forth as though he could not help himself. “I have loved you from the moment you held my great sword up to defend yourself, even before I had the sense to realize it. And if you will allow me, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
Tears welled in Grace’s eyes, and she raised a trembling hand to her lips.
“Say that you will give me a chance,” he implored, his voice breaking slightly. “Say that you will let me make amends for my foolishness, that you will let me spend my life making you happy. Say that I have not thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Grace’s heart ached with the weight of his words, her emotions a tangled web of joy, fear, and longing. She reached out, her hand brushing lightly against his. “I was devastated when you sent me away, but I could never stop hoping.”
Ronan’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he took her hand in his, holding it as though it were the most precious thing in the world. “I will treasure you every day, Grace. That is my solemn vow.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile, the tears spilling over as she whispered, “Now is a good time to kiss me, Ronan.”
His lips slid into a sly smile. “Why did I ever think you were the quiet, shy one?”
“Perhaps I am just like one of those rare flowers that only blooms in the right conditions.”
“I do not mind if you only bloom for me, but I am afraid now that your petals have unfurled, there will be no hiding your glory.”
She shook her head. Such nonsense. “Stop talking, Ronan.”
Even though she expected it, her breath hitched as Ronan leaned closer, his deep blue eyes searching hers with a tenderness that made her heart ache. She barely had time to register the warmth of his hand cradling her cheek before his lips brushed hers, soft and reverent. Her eyes fluttered closed, the world around them dissolving into only the two of them and that moment. The kiss deepened, tender and unhurried, each moment imbued with unspoken promises. When they parted, his forehead rested gently against hers. It was not the kiss of a man claiming what was his, but of one giving her his heart.
Ronan kept his eyes on the winding road as the curricle bumped gently over the fallen leaves that blanketed the path. The trees on either side stood bare, their spindly branches reaching towards the pale sky, and the late-autumn air carried a sharp chill. Beside him, Grace tucked her gloved hands into her lap, her expression serene yet thoughtful. They had been driving for over an hour, and only now did she glance at him, her curiosity breaking through her composed exterior.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last, her tone tinged with amusement and intrigue.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting. Grace’s patience was one of her many virtues, though it had its limits, it seemed. “’Tis not much to look at in winter,” he admitted, “but this has always been one of my favourite places to escape London.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing more, her gaze shifting to the path ahead as the curricle rounded a bend. Ronan slowed the horses, his anticipation building as they approached the estate. When they passed through the gates, the drive opened to reveal the house: an elegant, sprawling manor of honey-coloured stone with ivy climbing its walls. Its modest grandeur fit the landscape perfectly, set amidst rolling fields that sloped gently towards the horizon.
Grace’s breath caught, her hand instinctively tightening on his arm. “Oh,” she whispered, her voice soft with awe. “It’s beautiful.”
He guided the curricle to a halt and leaped down, offering her his hand. “I hoped you might think so,” he said as she stepped lightly to the ground. “This is Farleigh Manor, my mother’s childhood home.”
He led her through the grounds, pointing out the stables, the gardens now laid bare by the season, and the small orchard nestled beyond the house. Finally, they reached the edge of a pond, its surface rippling faintly in the breeze. The willow tree that stood beside it had shed its leaves, its stark branches arching gracefully over the water.
“This is my favourite spot,” Ronan said quietly. “I have spent many an hour here, thinking, skimming stones and sometimes swimming.”
Grace stepped closer to the water’s edge, her cloak brushing against his as she tilted her head to study the landscape. “I can see why,” she murmured. “It is so peaceful.”
Ronan gestured to a nearby bench, and they sat together, the stillness wrapping around them like a warm quilt. He stole a glance at her profile, trying to decipher her thoughts.
He changed tactics. “I wanted you to see it before you made any decisions about where we might live.”
Grace turned to him sharply, her eyes widening. “Live?”
Ronan gave her a small, teasing smile. “We can stay in London for the Season, but I thought…perhaps you might like it here, away from the chaos.”
Grace’s lips parted, her gaze flickering between him and the house. “You mean to say this could be our home?”
“If you wish it,” he replied simply. “This place has always been a refuge for me. I thought it might be one for you as well.”
For a moment, she said nothing, her expression as unreadable as her thoughts had been. Then she turned back to the house, her gaze softening. “It is quite, quite perfect.”
Encouraged, Ronan reached for her hand, his tone growing more serious. “Grace,” he began, his voice faltering slightly. “Will you give me your answer?”
She turned to him, her brows knitting together. “My answer to what?”
Ronan gave a rueful laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The question I have yet to ask properly, it seems.”
A teasing light entered her eyes. “You have not actually asked,” she said, her tone gently chiding. “You declared your intentions and left me to interpret the rest.”
“You are maddening,” he said, shaking his head with a smile, “but you are also right. Very well—I shall be precise.”
Taking her hand in his, he leaned closer, his blue eyes searching hers. “Grace Whitford, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Of letting me spend my life proving myself worthy of you?”
Her teasing air fell away, replaced by a quiet intensity. She studied him for a long moment, her gaze flickering over his face as though seeking assurance.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice trembling but firm. “I will. But I have begun to loathe the word worthy. Just love me, Ronan, and that will be enough.”
Ronan raised her hand to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to her knuckles, his heart full. “You have made me the happiest man alive,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Grace’s cheeks coloured, but she did not look away. “And you,” she replied, her voice just as soft, “have made me believe in happiness again.”
The air around them seemed to hum with quiet contentment, as though the world itself paused to bear witness to this moment of joy. Ronan’s hand, still cradling Grace’s, trembled slightly—a rare admission of the depth of his feelings. He could scarcely believe that she had said yes, that this remarkable woman, with her gentle strength and quiet wit, had agreed to bind her life to his. She was everything opposite to him—everything he needed but didn’t deserve.
Her gaze met his then, and the playful banter fell away, leaving only the quiet intensity of the moment. The gentle rustle of fallen leaves and the faint ripple of the pond seemed to fade into silence as Ronan lifted his free hand to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed lightly against her skin, and her breath hitched, her pulse rushing beneath his hand.
“Grace,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Finally,” she murmured. “Happy am I that I did not have to beg.” She leaned towards him, her lashes fluttering closed. Ronan needed no further encouragement. His lips met hers in a kiss that was at once tender and fervent, showing a love so profound it left him breathless.
Grace’s hands rested lightly against his chest, the warmth of her embrace wrapping around him like a shield against the chill of the autumn air. How poetic he’d become in love! Of its own volition the kiss deepened, until they both drew back, their breaths mingling in the stillness.
Ronan searched her face, his blue eyes alight with wonder. “I feared I might wake and find this all a dream,” he admitted softly.
Grace laughed, the sound low and melodious. “I assure you, I am quite real, though perhaps I should pinch you, to remove any lingering doubt.”
He grinned, his gaze warm. “After the wedding, if you please.”
They both laughed, the sound echoing softly over the water. Grace leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting over the landscape around them. “It is strange,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “to think of all that has brought us here. Had I not slept through the ship’s departure, had I not stayed aboard…”
“Had Flynn not been the scoundrel he was,” Ronan added, scowling at the memory for a moment. “There are many twists of fate to consider.”
“And yet,” Grace continued, her tone brightening, “those same twists led to this moment. It is difficult not to feel grateful, even for the tribulations.”
Ronan studied her, his heart swelling with appreciation. How she could find gratitude in the face of all she had endured was beyond him. “You find the light, even in the darkest of times,” he said quietly. “It is one of the many things I admire about you.”
Grace smiled, her cheeks tinged with pink from the cold. “Perhaps it is easier to find the light when one has to search for it.”
For a moment, he was silent, reflecting. “I had not realized how empty my life had become until you appeared in it,” he admitted, hearing the vulnerability in his words.
“Unexpectedly.”
He chuckled. “You can have no notion what an understatement that is, my love. And you tempted me with the Grace Whitford I had yet to see. Then you left me.”
“Only because you told me to!”
“There is that. Though you made me see that there is more to living than duty and revenge.”
Grace tilted her head, looking at him tenderly. “And you showed me that there is strength in being vulnerable, even when it requires risk. You have been my anchor, Ronan, though I suspect you might not realize it.”
He reached out, taking her hand gently in his. “If I have been your anchor, then you have been my compass, guiding me back to what truly matters.”
They sat in companionable silence, enjoying the quiet harmony they had found together.
“Twists of fate, indeed,” Ronan said at last, his tone lightening as he glanced at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Grace laughed, her fingers tightening around his. “I would do it all again.”