Chapter Nineteen
She had not intended to come.
When the letter arrived, delivered by a footman in Hollowshade livery, who had stood waiting in her aunt’s foyer with an expression of patient determination, Eliza’s first instinct had been to throw it in the fire unread.
She was engaged. To a good man. A safe man. A man who would never shatter her heart the way William had shattered it.
She did not need to read whatever the Duke of Hollowshade had to say.
But her hands had betrayed her, breaking the seal before her mind could stop them. And then her eyes had betrayed her, reading the words that spilt across the page in William’s bold, slanting hand.
I was not honest with you.
The words stopped her heart.
When I told you I could not give you a future, I spoke from fear, not truth.
She had read the letter once. Twice. Three times, until the words blurred and her hands trembled and her carefully constructed composure threatened to collapse entirely.
He loved her.
He had always loved her.
He had pushed her away not because he felt nothing, but because he felt too much.
I spoke from fear, he had written.
Fear. The Duke of Hollowshade, the notorious rake who had bedded half the married women in London, the man whose reputation was built on charm and confidence and unshakeable self-possession, he had been afraid.
Of her.
Of loving her.
Of what that love might cost him.
And in his fear, he had destroyed them both.
I beg you, the letter concluded, to let me say the rest in person.
Eliza had sat with the letter in her hands for a long time, staring at the words, trying to understand what they meant for her future.
She was engaged to Edmund Alcott. The banns would be read starting Sunday. In a matter of weeks, she would be his wife, bound to him by vows and law and the expectations of society.
Her heart had always belonged to William.
Even now, even after everything he had done, it still did.
She had told Beatrice she was going for a walk.
It was a lie, of course. One of many lies she had told in recent weeks, each one adding to the weight of deception that pressed down on her shoulders.
But she could not explain where she was really going.
Could not articulate the desperate, foolish hope that had driven her out of her aunt’s house and into a hired carriage.
She needed to see him.
Needed to look into his grey eyes and know whether the words in his letter were true.
Needed to understand, once and for all, whether there was any hope for them, or whether she should put William Bradworth out of her heart forever and build a life with the man she had promised to marry.
The carriage stopped in front of William’s townhouse.
Eliza sat for a moment, gathering her courage.
Her hands were trembling. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Every instinct was screaming at her to turn back, to return to the safety of her engagement, to stop risking her heart on a man who had already proven he could destroy her.
But she had never been good at listening to her instincts.
She stepped out of the carriage and walked to the door.
The butler who answered looked surprised to see her, a young woman, unaccompanied, calling on a bachelor duke. It was scandalous. Improper. Exactly the sort of behaviour that had landed her in this mess in the first place.
“I need to see the Duke,” she said, before he could turn her away. “Tell him Miss Hayfield is here.”
The butler hesitated, clearly weighing propriety against his master’s certain displeasure if he turned away this particular visitor.
“If you would wait in the foyer, miss, I will inform His Grace of your presence.”
She waited.
The foyer was elegant, understated, nothing like the ostentatious displays of wealth she had seen in other aristocratic homes.
The walls were hung with landscapes rather than portraits, the furniture chosen for comfort rather than show.
It felt like a home. Like a place where someone actually lived, rather than a stage set designed to impress.
She wondered if William had chosen the decorations himself, or if they had been inherited along with the title.
She wondered so many things about him that she had never had the chance to ask.
Footsteps on the stairs.
She looked up.
And there he was.
William stopped at the bottom of the staircase, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the woman standing in his foyer.
She looked beautiful. And exhausted. And fragile in a way that made him want to gather her in his arms and never let go.
She was wearing a simple day dress in pale green, her hair pulled back in a loose arrangement that was already escaping its pins. There were shadows under her eyes, the same shadows he had noticed at the ball, and a tension in her shoulders that spoke of sleepless nights and difficult decisions.
He had done this to her.
He had taken this vibrant, hopeful woman and broken her with his cowardice.
And now she was standing in his foyer, his letter clutched in her hand, looking at him with an expression he could not read.
“Eliza.”
Her name came out rough, scraped raw by hours of waiting and years of wanting.
“William.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They simply stood there, separated by the width of the foyer, the weight of everything that had passed between them hanging in the air like smoke.
Then Eliza held up the letter.
“Is it true?”
“Every word.”
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“You pushed me away. You told me you could not give me the future I deserved. You made me believe there was no hope for us.” Her voice cracked. “You broke my heart.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes, and he saw the tears gathering on her lashes.
“Why?”
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with pain and accusation and the desperate need to understand.
William took a step toward her. Then another. Slowly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.
“Because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I had spent my entire life convincing myself that love was a trap, that caring for someone meant giving them the power to destroy you. Because I watched my father fall apart when my mother left, and I swore I would never let anyone have that kind of power over me.”
“But I didn’t want power over you.” Her eyes opened, blazing with hurt and anger. “I wanted to love you. I wanted to build a life with you. I wanted…” She pressed her hand to her chest, as though trying to hold her heart together. “I wanted you to trust me.”
“I know.” He stopped an arm’s length away from her, close enough to touch but not touching. “I know what you wanted. And I wanted it too. That was what frightened me.”
“Wanting me frightened you?”
“Loving you did.” His voice roughened. “I had spent my life believing love made men helpless, or false, or both. When I realised what I felt for you, I did not trust it. I did not trust myself. So I called my fear prudence and hurt you before you could hurt me.”
Eliza was silent for a long moment.
“You are an idiot,” she said at last.
It was not what he had expected.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You convinced yourself you were incapable of love while doing a very fine imitation of a man ruined by it.” Her eyes shone with anger and tears. “You were not hollow, William. You were afraid.”
“Yes.” The word cost him. “And that fear made me cruel.”
“It made you break my heart.”
“I know.” He looked at her hand and did not take it. “I cannot undo that. I cannot promise never to be afraid again. I can only promise that I will not make decisions for you again. I will not run and call it kindness. I will choose you, if you will still allow me to try.”
“That is not enough.”
He went still. “I understand.”
“No, you do not.” She stepped closer. “It is not enough to mend what you broke. Not yet. But it may be enough to begin.”
Hope struck him so sharply he could hardly breathe.
“A beginning?”
“You hurt me badly. I will not pretend otherwise, and I will not pretend everything is forgiven because you have finally found the courage to speak plainly.” Her chin lifted.
“But I cannot marry Edmund Alcott. Not when I love you. Not when I have loved you through all of it, even when I wished I did not.”
William reached for her. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. She was trembling, or maybe he was, and her hands fisted in the fabric of his coat as though she was afraid he might disappear.
“I am sorry,” he breathed against her temple. “For the fear. For the cowardice. For breaking your heart when all I wanted was to protect it. For not reaching for what I wanted until I had already lost it.”
“You have not lost it yet.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “I am here, am I not?”
“You are here.” He pulled back just enough to look at her face, to see the tears streaming down her cheeks, to watch the hope and fear warring in her beautiful brown eyes. “You came.”
“I had to know.” She reached up to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw with devastating tenderness. “I had to see you. To hear you say the words.”
“I love you.” The words were quiet, but no longer difficult. “I love you, Eliza. I should have said it when it mattered most.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“It mattered then,” she said. “It matters now.”
He kissed her.
There was no triumph in it, no claim, no certainty of forgiveness. Only relief, remorse, and the fragile beginning of hope.
When they parted, she rested her brow against his for a moment.
“There is still Edmund,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I must speak to him. Properly.”
“Yes.”
She searched his face. “And if, when that is done… if I come back…”
His breath caught.
“Then,” he said quietly, “I shall ask you to marry me.”
For a moment, she only looked at him, tears bright upon her lashes.
“You still mean to ask?”