Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
“Philip!” Anna’s voice broke through the silence as the door swung open.
Despite the urgent need for medical attention, Leo had fetched Philip from Adrian’s residence and brought him to the Chelsea house.
Anna stood frozen for a heartbeat, disbelief written all over her features, before she rushed forward.
Philip caught her in his arms with a strangled half laugh, half sob.
“Anna,” he breathed, burying his face in her hair. “My God, I thought I would never—”
Her fingers clutched at his coat, desperate and trembling. “I’ve been so afraid,” she whispered. “Every day wondering if you were alive, if Westbury had found you—”
“I’m sorry,” Philip said, pulling back just enough to cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed away tears that had begun to roll down her cheeks. “I should have come to you immediately. I shouldn’t have left you alone, not for a single moment.”
Leo stepped back from the doorway, the pain in his side increasing as the rush of confrontation with Westbury began to fade. Blood had soaked through his hastily bound wound, but he ignored it, unwilling to interrupt the reunion unfolding before him.
Anna’s gaze landed on the dark stain spreading across his waistcoat. “You’re hurt,” she gasped.
Philip turned, noticing his cousin’s injury for the first time. “Leo—”
“It’s nothing,” Leo dismissed with a wave of his hand, though the room tilted slightly as he moved. “A small price to ensure Westbury won’t threaten anyone again.”
“Is he…?” Anna couldn’t finish the question.
“Arrested,” Leo confirmed. “The evidence against him is substantial. The Home Secretary has personally guaranteed his prosecution.”
Philip’s shoulders sagged with relief. He looked down at Anna, something shifting in his expression as he took a deep breath.
“I should have done this months ago,” he said quietly. “Before all of this happened.”
To Leo’s surprise, his cousin lowered himself carefully to one knee. He took Anna’s hand in both of his.
“Anna Finley,” Philip began, his voice catching. “I’ve loved you since the moment you laughed at my terrible attempt at cards. I schemed to avoid scandal, to protect you from Society’s judgment, when I should have simply asked you to be my wife. Will you marry me?”
Anna laughed through her tears, pulling him back to his feet. “Yes,” she said sweetly. “Though your timing is appalling.”
Philip’s smile transformed his haggard face, erasing weeks of fear and deprivation in an instant. “I’ve never had your sense of propriety,” he admitted, pulling her close again.
Leo felt an unexpected tightness in his throat. “Congratulations,” he offered, his voice rougher than he had intended. “The ton may look askance at your choice, Philip, but—”
“I don’t care what they think,” his cousin interrupted. “I love her. That’s all that matters now.”
The words hung in the air, resonating with the truth Leo had been avoiding for too long.
Anna glanced around suddenly, furrowing her brow. “Where’s Beatrice? I thought she’d be with you.”
Leo stiffened, pain that had nothing to do with his wound lancing through him. “She’s… safer now,” he said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.
Philip’s gaze sharpened. He turned to Anna and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Give us a moment?”
She nodded in understanding. “I’ll make tea. You both look like you need it.”
As she slipped out of the room, she cast a knowing look back at the two men.
Philip gestured to a nearby chair. “Sit before you fall, Leo. You look terrible.”
“Your flattery remains unmatched,” Leo muttered, but sank gratefully into the seat, pressing a hand to his side.
“What happened?” Philip asked quietly, taking the chair opposite. “With Beatrice.”
Leo’s jaw tightened. “I sent her to her family. For protection.”
“Did you?” His cousin’s voice carried gentle skepticism. “Or did you push her away because you were afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of Westbury,” Leo snapped.
“I wasn’t talking about Westbury.” Philip leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “What went through your mind today, Leo? When you faced him. When that knife cut you.”
The question struck with unexpected precision.
Leo looked away, unable to meet his cousin’s searching gaze. “That’s irrelevant now.”
“Humor me.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of Anna moving about in the kitchen.
“Beatrice,” Leo finally admitted, the name barely audible. “I thought of Beatrice.”
Philip nodded, as though confirming something he already knew. “And yet you sent her away.”
“To protect her.”
“From what? Westbury was arrested. The danger is past.”
Leo’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “There will always be danger.”
“Yes,” Philip relented. “There will always be. But that’s life, Leo. Danger exists. Loss exists.” His voice softened. “But so does love, if we’re brave enough to accept it.”
Something cracked in Leo’s carefully constructed defenses.
“I don’t know how,” he choked out. “My father—”
“Your father never let anyone love him,” Philip finished quietly. “And he died a miserable, lonely man, leaving you with a legacy of pain you don’t have to perpetuate.”
The truth of those words hit Leo with brutal force. Images flashed through his mind: his father’s cold eyes as he ordered another ice bath, his mother’s indifferent gaze as she turned away, the endless lessons in emotional detachment that had shaped his life.
And then, Beatrice. Her quiet strength, her unwavering honesty, her refusal to accept anything less than the truth. The warmth that had begun to thaw the frozen pieces of his soul.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said hoarsely.
Philip smiled slightly. “A family trait, it seems.”
Leo stood up abruptly, ignoring the pain in his side. “I need to go to her.”
“You need a physician,” Philip countered, eyeing the blood-soaked waistcoat.
“Later.” Leo was already moving toward the door.
“Leo.” Philip’s voice stopped him. “Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t waste another day.”
The ride to the Ironstone townhouse passed in a blur of pain and determination.
Leo barely noticed the streets blurring past the carriage window, his mind fixed on what he needed to say, in the hope that he wasn’t too late.
The house was quiet when he arrived; most of the servants had already retired for the evening, and Beatrice’s father and stepmother were asleep.
Isabella received him in the parlor, her gaze deadly as she eyed him like an executioner.
“Please. I need to speak with her,” Leo pleaded.
Isabella’s fists clenched. “Fine. But if I hear a single sob from my sister, I’ll kick you out myself.”
He took the stairs two at a time as Isabella led him up, ignoring the dizziness that threatened with each step, until they reached the door to Beatrice’s chambers.
“I’ll be here. Waiting,” Isabella said like a warning, and Leo nodded.
Then, he knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent corridor. No response came from within.
“Beatrice,” he called, knocking again with greater force. “Please, I need to speak with you.”
Nothing but silence answered him.
He glanced at Isabella, who merely crossed her arms in front of her chest.
He turned back to Beatrice’s door, and pressed his forehead against the cool wood.
“I deserve your silence,” he said, his voice rough with emotion he no longer tried to conceal. “I deserve your anger. But I’ll stay here until you open the door.”
Half an hour passed, marked only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.
Leo remained standing, though his legs threatened to buckle beneath him, his wound throbbing with increasing urgency.
The blood loss and exhaustion finally overcame his determination. He felt himself sliding down the door, unable to remain upright any longer. As darkness dotted the edges of his vision, he heard the soft click of the latch.
“Leo?” Beatrice’s voice sounded distant. “My God, Leo!”
Her face swam above him, beautiful and terrified, as he fought to stay conscious.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, before everything went black.
“His color’s improving,” a man’s voice said from somewhere nearby. “The wound was clean, thankfully. Missed anything vital. Rest and proper care should see him recovered within a fortnight.”
Leo struggled toward consciousness, fighting through layers of disorientation. The familiar scent of his bedchamber surrounded him, along with something else.
Lavender and roses.
Beatrice’s scent.
“Thank you, Dr. Morris,” her voice came from beside him. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“I do not doubt that, Your Grace. Send for me if the fever returns.”
Footsteps retreated, followed by the soft click of a closing door.
Leo forced his eyes open, blinking against the sunlight streaming through half-drawn curtains.
Beatrice sat in a chair beside the bed, the dark circles beneath her eyes suggesting she had maintained her vigil through the night. As she turned to him, relief washed across her features.
“He’s awake,” she said to someone behind her. “Please inform the servants, and have some broth prepared.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The valet’s voice carried quiet approval. “I’ll also fetch those additional pillows you requested.”
“Thank you.”
Leo tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through his bandaged side.
“Don’t,” Beatrice said quickly, moving to place a hand on his shoulder. “The doctor says you mustn’t strain yourself.”
“Beatrice…” Her name emerged as little more than a whisper from his parched throat.
She reached for a glass of water on the bedside table, helping him drink with gentle efficiency. Her face remained carefully neutral, revealing nothing of her thoughts.
“Leave,” Leo said, his voice stronger now. “Leave us, please.”
“Your Grace, the physician was most insistent—”
“I won’t exert myself,” he promised. “I just need a moment alone with my wife.”
The man hesitated, glancing at Beatrice, who gave a small nod. “Very well, Your Grace. I’ll return shortly with the tonic.”
As the door closed behind him, Beatrice began to rise. “I should—”
“Stay.” Leo’s hand caught hers, desperate and clinging. “Please.”
She hesitated, then settled reluctantly on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on their joined hands rather than his face.
“You almost died,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“I know.” Leo tightened his grip on her. “Beatrice, I’ve been a fool. Worse than a fool. I’ve been a coward, just as you said.”
Her eyes rose to his, startled by the raw emotion in his voice.
“I told myself I was protecting you by pushing you away,” he continued, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. “But I was protecting myself. From the fear of loving someone I might lose.”
Beatrice’s breath caught, her eyes widening.
“I’ve spent my life building walls,” Leo said, struggling to sit up despite the pain. “My father taught me that emotions were a weakness, that vulnerability invited destruction. I believed him. Until you.”
“Leo—”
“No, let me finish.” He drew a shaky breath. “When I faced Westbury, when his knife found me, do you know what I thought of? Not strategy, not survival. But you, Beatrice. Only you. Your smile, your courage, your mind—everything I might never see again.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, though she made no move to wipe them away.
“I hurt you,” he acknowledged, the admission tearing at him. “I pushed you away when I should have held you closer. I claimed it was for your safety, when it was my own fear driving me. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m asking for it anyway.”
The silence that followed seemed endless.
Leo watched her face, searching for any sign of the feelings she had once let him glimpse.
“You hurt me deeply,” she finally said, her voice steady despite the tears now rolling down her cheeks. “I thought… I thought I’d found someone who saw me, truly saw me. And then you looked right through me, as though what had grown between us meant nothing.”
“It meant everything,” Leo whispered fiercely. “That was why I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. But I lost you anyway, because of my own fear.”
Beatrice studied him, her gaze penetrating in a way that made him feel utterly exposed.
“Do you know what was worse than the hurt?” she asked. “The waste of it. The needless suffering we both endured because you wouldn’t let yourself be loved.”
The truth of her words struck him.
“I want to learn,” he said simply. “If you’ll give me a chance, I want to spend the rest of my life learning how to love you as you deserve.
Because I love you, Beatrice. God, I am madly, utterly, completely in love with you, dear.
And I swear I’ll make you feel it, every single day for the rest of our lives. ”
Beatrice remained silent, considering his words with the careful deliberation he had come to cherish in her. Then, with gentle movements that belied the strength behind them, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was brief, tender rather than passionate, but it kindled hope in Leo’s chest that had nothing to do with desire.
When she pulled back, her expression had softened.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” she said, a hint of steel beneath her soft tone. “And I cannot believe you got yourself wounded while we were fighting. It’s a terribly unfair advantage.”
Leo laughed despite the pain in his injured side. “Unfair? You’ve had the advantage over me from the moment we met,” he countered, relief washing over him. “I never stood a chance against you, Beatrice.”
“Good,” she murmured, leaning in to kiss him again. “Because I have no intention of letting you push me away again. Not ever.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Leo promised, drawing her closer despite the protest of his wound. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“I love you, Leo,” she told him.
“I love you, my darling.”
As her lips found his once more, Leo finally understood what his father had never grasped.
True strength lay not in isolation, but in the courage to be vulnerable, to allow oneself to be loved. And in Beatrice’s arms, he had found that courage at last.