Chapter 31
Her heart lurched violently at the sound of his voice, slamming hard enough to make her dizzy.
Beatrice looked up.
Of course, it was him. As though her mind had summoned him with the same reckless ease it had been doing all morning.
Edward stood before her, one hand steady on her waist, the other clutching her elbow. Rain darkened the shoulders of his coat and beaded on his lashes. His expression was intent, focused, as though he had expected to be exactly where he was.
She blinked rapidly to confirm that it wasn’t just her mind playing cruel jokes on her. It wasn’t.
For a beat too long, neither of them moved.
The street seemed to fall away. Sound dulled, as though the rain itself had withdrawn out of politeness. All she could feel was the heat of his palm through damp wool, the solid line of him holding her upright as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then awareness flooded in all at once. Her skin tingled at his touch, his proximity, the intimate quiet created by his presence.
She straightened abruptly, stepping back out of his hold, the loss of contact oddly disorienting. Her cheeks warmed despite the cold.
“Thank you,” she said briskly. “That was careless of me.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. “Though I’d argue the stones bear more blame than you.”
Do not look at him like that.
She flexed her fingers in a bid to distract herself. “What are you doing here?”
There it was. It was better that way—no pleasantries or pretense.
Edward did not answer at once, and the pause scraped at her nerves. She had the absurd sense that he was deciding whether to tell her the truth or not.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something close. “I didn’t come all this way merely to prevent you from falling.”
Her pulse stuttered.
She lifted her chin. “Then why?”
“I came to find you.”
The words landed heavily beneath her ribs.
She let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “Find me.”
“Yes.”
She gestured toward the orphanage behind her. “You could have asked. I wasn’t hiding.”
“No,” he said evenly. “But you were moving. And I needed to see you before you did again.”
The driver cleared his throat.
Beatrice ignored him. “Edward, if this is about courtesy—”
“It isn’t.”
“If it’s about guilt—”
“It isn’t that either.”
Her arms folded across her chest before she consciously decided to do it, a barrier she had learned to erect long before the Duke of Wrexford had entered her life. “Then say what you mean.”
He studied her for a moment, rain gathering at his lashes, his gaze steady and unflinching. “I’m done running.”
Her breath hitched. She forced it back under control. “That’s a curious thing to announce to your wife in the middle of the street.”
“I’m not announcing it,” he said quietly. “I’m correcting it.”
She shook her head. “You left.”
“Yes.”
“You decided distance was preferable.”
“I decided,” he replied without heat, “that leaving was easier than wanting something I wasn’t certain I deserved. I decided I was a coward, and I don’t intend to remain one.”
That startled her into silence.
“I heard about the orphanage,” he continued. “Sebastian mentioned it. Books. Food. Repairs. He said it as though it were mildly diverting.”
Of course, word of her actions had already spread.
“And you?” she asked, her voice sharper than she had intended.
“I thought,” Edward said, “that I married a woman who steps into places others avoid and improves them quietly. And that leaving her alone with that inclination was the poorest decision I’ve made in a lifetime of questionable ones.”
Her throat tightened. She looked away, focusing on the rain-speckled hood of the carriage, anything that was not his face. “You speak very well when you want to persuade.”
“I’m not persuading.”
“No?” Her mouth curved faintly. Her smile felt thin even to herself. “Then what are you doing?”
“Explaining,” he uttered. “Belatedly. Badly. Honestly.”
She turned back to him. “Honesty doesn’t undo the truth. Our marriage was not built on sentiment. It was built on convenience. On necessity. On salvaging reputations.”
“I know.”
“And that hasn’t changed,” she said firmly. “Whatever you feel now does not rewrite that.”
He nodded once. “It doesn’t. But it does make it intolerable to pretend otherwise.”
Her chest tightened. “Pretending has served us well enough.”
“Has it?” he challenged softly.
She hesitated, only a fraction, but she knew he saw it.
“I watched you with the children,” he murmured. “The way they flocked to you. The way you knelt without concern for your skirts or your title. That is not pretense, Beatrice.”
Her fingers curled inside her gloves. “And what of you?” she scoffed. “What is it you want from me now?”
His answer came without hesitation. “The truth, even if it changes nothing.”
Silence stretched again, thick and uncertain.
“You should go back to Bath.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “I won’t.”
“Edward—”
“I’ve had enough of empty houses and careful distances,” he spoke over her. “Enough of convincing myself that I can want nothing and lose nothing. I want you. And I intend to stay.”
Her pulse quickened. “Wanting me does not make this marriage real.”
“No,” he agreed. “But leaving certainly ensures it never will be.”
The driver shifted again, clearly uncomfortable.
Beatrice exhaled slowly, the rain dampening her lashes. “I’m tired,” she muttered. “And I don’t make decisions in the street.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
Edward didn’t move closer. He didn’t retreat either. He simply nodded once, as though accepting a boundary he had no intention of crossing.
“Let me give you something,” he said quietly. “And you may decide whatever you want afterward.”
Her brow furrowed. “What sort of something?”
Instead of answering, he reached into his coat.
The movement was unhurried, deliberate. She watched his hand disappear into the inner pocket, felt a strange tightening in her chest as though she already knew this was not a trinket or a token, but something heavier.
He withdrew a folded paper and held it out to her. The masthead was unmistakable.
The Mayfair Gazette.
Her fingers froze mid-air.
“I don’t want—” She recoiled instinctively. “Edward, if this is another column, another speculation—”
“It isn’t,” he said gently. “It’s mine.”
That stopped her.
“Yours?”
He nodded. “An open letter. Printed this morning.”
Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears.
Slowly, cautiously, she took the paper from him, the thin sheet crackling beneath her gloves. The ink was still dark, the folds sharp.
She opened it, and her eyes fell to the first line.
And then she stopped breathing.
I have been many things the ton enjoys pretending to condemn: careless, indulgent, selfish. Every rake Miss Verity ever scolded, I have been, without apology. Until now.
Her grip tightened on the paper.
I will not pretend that reform comes easily, nor that I deserve applause for it. I write only to say this: I am done living as though my name matters more than my conduct.
Her vision blurred slightly. She blinked hard and kept reading.
The Duchess of Wrexford is the bravest woman I know. She has spoken truths others fear, stood when it was easier to bend, and borne scandal with a dignity few could manage. I stand with her. With her work. With every word she has written.
Her hands began to tremble. She barely registered the street, the waiting carriage, the insistent rain. There was only the paper and the man standing before her.
And I love her.
The words were stark. Unadorned. Impossible to misinterpret.
At the bottom of the page was his name—his full name. His title. No shield. No anonymity.
“You wrote this.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
“Yes.”
“For everyone to see.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice swallowed, her throat tight, her chest aching as though something had broken open there.
She looked up at him. For a moment, she could not speak.
The paper trembled faintly in her hands, the ink blurring where rain had spotted the page. She read the last line again, not because she doubted it, but because her mind refused to move past it.
And I love her.
She lifted her gaze slowly, afraid that if she moved too quickly, all of this would vanish. That she would find Edward already retreating, the moment broken, the courage spent.
But he was still there, watching her with an attentiveness that made her heart flutter. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes glinted with something dangerously close to hope.
“I meant every word,” he said quietly, before she could ask. “Not because it makes a fine declaration, but because I am finished hiding behind silence.”
Her breath shuddered out of her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she whispered. “You could have protected yourself.”
“I’ve had quite enough of protecting myself,” he replied. “It cost me you.”
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them. One slipped free, then another.
Edward stepped closer, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.
He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears with careful tenderness, as though she were something fragile and precious.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured.
“I’m not—” She laughed weakly through her tears. “I’m not sad. I just—Edward, you put yourself in print.”
“Yes.”
“You gave them everything.”
“I gave them the truth,” he corrected. “They can do whatever they like with it.” He stepped closer. “Besides, I didn’t write that for the ton. I wrote it so you would never doubt where I stand again.”
Beatrice drew a careful breath. Her thoughts were scattered—astonishment, relief, a treacherous hope she had spent months forcing herself not to feel.
She had told herself that she wanted nothing. That wanting was foolish. Dangerous. And yet her heart was pounding as though it had been waiting for this very moment.
“You said you loved me.” Her voice shook.
“I do.”
Not past tense. Not conditional. But present. Certain.
She searched his face, looking for hesitation, bravado, regret—anything that might soften the weight of what he had done. There was none.
“You understand,” she said slowly, “that loving me is not simple. I am not quiet. I am not convenient.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve noticed.”
“And I may never be what the ton expects.”
“God willing.”
Despite herself, she smiled—small, unguarded.
“And if this changes nothing?” she asked softly.
“It already has,” he pointed out. “I’m no longer running.”
His thumb stilled against her cheek. The contact suddenly felt unbearable in the best way.
She leaned forward before she could second-guess herself. He exhaled, his forehead lowering until it rested briefly against hers, as though the nearness alone was almost too much.
Their kiss was not hurried. It was warm, certain, deep. His mouth was warm despite the cold.
His hand slid to the small of her back, steadying her as though she might fall again. Her fingers curled into his coat, as if anchoring her to reality.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“I love you too,” she confessed, her voice barely above a breath.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment, as though the words struck him somewhere deep and true. Then he laughed softly, quietly, like a man who had just found his way home, brushing his nose against hers.
“That’s inconvenient,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her waist. “I’ve already proven I’m dreadful at wanting you halfway.”
Beatrice folded the piece of paper carefully and tucked it in her bodice.
“Yes.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “I think we’ve established that.”
She had spent so long learning how to endure—how to be composed, correct, unassailable. Standing there now, with her hem damp, cool air on her cheeks, she realized she did not feel on edge at all.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, the path ahead did not look like something to be managed or survived. It looked… open.
She turned toward the carriage at last, his hand still on her back, and let herself believe—fully, deliberately—that she was not walking forward alone.
And this time, she did not look back.