Chapter Eighteen
Thornton was gone within the hour.
Eliza watched from the nursery window as his carriage pulled away from Northmere Hall, disappearing into the gray Christmas Eve afternoon.
She didn't feel triumph, exactly; just relief.
A loosening of the knot that had lived in her stomach since the moment he had first looked at her with those calculating eyes.
"Is the bad man leaving?" Henry pressed his face against the glass beside her.
"He is."
"Good." The word was fierce, decisive. "I hope his carriage gets stuck in a snowdrift. I hope wolves eat his horses and he has to walk all the way to London."
"Henry, that's not…" She stopped, unable to muster the appropriate governess-like disapproval. "Actually, that's somewhat satisfying to imagine."
He grinned up at her, delighted to have corrupted his proper Miss Harrow. "Do you think there are wolves on the moors?"
"I think Lord Thornton would deserve them if there were."
They watched together until the carriage was completely out of sight, until there was nothing left but the empty road and the gathering snow. Then Henry tugged at her sleeve.
"I forgot to tell you that Alistair wants to see you. He sent James to tell you. He's in the library."
Her heart gave a strange little flutter. "Did he say what about?"
"No. But James said he looked…" Henry scrunched his face, trying to remember the exact words. "Determined. Like he was about to go into battle."
Eliza smoothed her skirts, checked her hair in the mirror, and told herself that the trembling in her hands was just residual shock from the encounter with Thornton.
It wasn't, of course. But some lies were necessary for courage.
***
The library was warm, and she found Alistair standing by the window; the same window where he had stood so many times before, watching the moors, lost in his own thoughts.
He turned when she entered, and what she saw in his face made her breath catch.
He looked different. The walls were down…Completely, utterly down. There was no trace of the ice duke, no hint of the careful control he had maintained for years.
"Close the door," he said.
She did.
"Come here."
She crossed to him, her feet moving without conscious thought. He met her halfway, his hands coming up to cup her face the way they had in the corridor, but this time there was no fear in the gesture. Only tenderness. Only want.
"I've been a fool," he said quietly. "For days, for weeks, I've been fighting this. Fighting what I feel for you. Telling myself it was too much, too fast, too dangerous. Telling myself I had to protect you from my own intensity."
"Alistair…"
"Let me finish. Please." His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, gentle as whispers.
"When I saw Thornton with his hands on you, when I saw the bruises forming on your wrist, something inside me broke.
Or maybe it finally put itself together.
I don't know which. I only know that in that moment, everything became clear.
All the fears, all the doubts, all the reasons I had told myself this was impossible… They just... vanished."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I understood, finally, what I was willing to fight for. What I was willing to risk. What I was willing to burn to the ground if necessary." His voice dropped, roughened with emotion. "You, Eliza. Only you. Always you."
She felt tears filling her eyes. "What do you want?"
"You." The word was simple, absolute, spoken with a certainty that left no room for doubt.
"I want you, Eliza. Not as a governess. Not as a friend.
Not as some distant possibility I might pursue if the stars align and society approves.
I want you as my wife, my partner, my equal.
The mother of my children. The woman I wake up beside every morning and fall asleep beside every night for the rest of my life. "
Her breath caught. He had spoken of marriage before, but not like this. Not with this fierce certainty, this absolute conviction, this raw vulnerability that left him completely exposed.
"I know there will be a scandal," he continued, his hands still cradling her face as if she were precious and fragile.
"I know society will talk. I know my peers will disapprove, and my family will question my judgment, and there will be a thousand whispers behind a thousand hands about the duke who married his governess.
I know there will be drawing rooms that close their doors to us, invitations that never arrive, cuts direct and slights subtle. "
"Alistair…"
"I don't care." His voice was rough, passionate, stripped of all the careful control he usually maintained.
"I don't care about any of it. Let them talk.
Let them disapprove. Let them whisper until their jaws ache and their tongues fall off.
None of it matters. None of it has ever mattered.
The only thing that matters, the only thing that has ever mattered, is you. "
"You say that now, but in five years, in ten years…"
"In five years, I will love you more than I do today.
In ten years, more still. In fifty years, when we're old and gray and surrounded by grandchildren who have your eyes and my stubbornness, I will still be telling you that you are the best thing that ever happened to me.
" He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers.
"That is not a hope, Eliza. That is a certainty.
I have never been more certain of anything in my life. "
"How can you know that?"
"Because I know myself. Because I know what I feel.
Because every day without you has been a kind of death, and every day with you has been a kind of resurrection.
" His voice cracked. "I love you, Eliza.
I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you so much that when I saw another man touching you, I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands.
I love you so much that the thought of living without you feels like a kind of death I wouldn't survive. "
She was crying now; she could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks, pooling where his thumbs pressed against her skin.
But they were good tears. Healing tears.
The tears of a woman who had spent her life caring for others, who had never dared to hope that someone might care for her with equal devotion.
"I spent six years frozen," he said. "Six years convinced that love was weakness, that feeling was danger, that the only way to survive was to shut down every emotion before it could destroy me the way it destroyed my father.
I watched him die by inches after my mother passed, and I swore I would never let myself be that vulnerable.
I swore I would never love anyone enough to be destroyed by their loss. "
"I know."
"But I was wrong." His voice softened. "I was so wrong. Because what I had wasn't safety; it was paralysis. What I had wasn't protection but prison. I locked myself away from pain, yes, but I also locked myself away from joy. From connection. From everything that makes life worth living."
"And then you walked into my study," he continued, his eyes burning into hers, "with your copper hair and your stubborn heart and your absolute refusal to accept the walls I had built.
You looked at me and saw the man I could be, not the man I had become.
You challenged me and infuriated me and made me feel things I had sworn never to feel again. "
"I didn't mean to…"
"You did. You meant every word. Every challenge.
Every moment when you refused to back down or be intimidated or treat me like anything other than a man who was failing the people he loved.
" A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn't try to hide it.
"You saved me, Eliza. You reached into the ice and pulled out something that was still alive.
Something that still knew how to love. Something that still wanted to be loved in return. "
"I didn't save you. You saved yourself."
"We saved each other." His lips brushed against her forehead, tender as a prayer. "And I want us to keep saving each other. For the rest of our lives."
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His face was open, vulnerable, everything he was feeling written clearly for her to see. Fear and hope, love and need, all tangled together.
"Are you proposing?" she asked.
"I'm begging." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Is there a difference?"
"Perhaps not." She reached up and touched his cheek, mirroring his gesture. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll marry you." The words came out strong, certain. "Yes, I'll be your wife. Yes, I'll face the scandal and the whispers and the disapproval with you. Yes, to everything. Yes, to you."
For a moment, he simply stared at her—as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, as if he expected her to take it back.
Then his face transformed.
Joy. Pure, radiant joy, the likes of which she had never seen on his usually guarded features.
It was like watching ice melt, watching winter give way to spring.
His eyes brightened with tears he didn't try to hide, and his smile—oh, his smile was like the sun breaking through clouds after a long winter.
It changed his whole face, softened it, made him look younger and more alive than she had ever seen him.
"Say it again," he breathed.
"Yes. I'll marry you."
"Again."
"Yes." She was laughing now, laughing and crying at the same time, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of this moment. "Yes, yes, yes…"
He kissed her.
Not gently. Not carefully. Not with the restraint he had shown during all their almost-moments.
He kissed her like a man who had been drowning and had finally found air.
His hands tangled in her hair, scattering pins across the library floor, and she felt her careful coiffure come undone, felt her copper curls tumble free around her shoulders.
His mouth claimed hers with a fierce possessiveness that left her breathless.
There was nothing tentative about this kiss, nothing questioning.
It was a declaration, a claim, a promise made flesh.
He kissed her like she was everything he had ever wanted, and she kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him closer.
All the wanting, all the waiting, all the moments they had stopped just short of this…poured into this kiss. It was all here, all now, all finally given its full expression.
She tasted salt from her tears, or his, or both, and beneath that, something warmer. Something that felt like home.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping, his forehead pressed against hers once more.
"I've wanted to do that," he said roughly, "since the day you walked into my study and told me I was failing my brother."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I was afraid. Because I thought I didn't deserve you. Because I told myself that wanting you was selfish, that loving you was dangerous, that the only responsible thing to do was keep my distance."
"And now?"
"Now I know that the only irresponsible thing would be to let you go." He kissed her again, softer this time, a gentle brushing of lips that made her heart flutter. "You're mine, Eliza Harrow. And I'm yours. And nothing is going to change that."
She buried her face against his chest, his arms came around her, holding her close, and she felt something she had never felt before in her life.
Home.
Not a place. Not four walls and a roof. But this—his arms, his heartbeat….
This was home. This would always be home.
***
Later, they sat together on the library settee, Eliza tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders, and her hair still loose.
"We'll need to write to Lady Pufferton," he said. "She'll want to know immediately. She's been championing this match since you arrived."
"She told you to court me."
"She did. I believe her exact words were Court her, woo her. Show her what she would be leaving behind." He smiled. "I wasn't very good at it, was I?"
"You were terrible at it." She tilted her head back to look at him. "Books on my nightstand. Lingering in doorways. Staring at my hair like a man possessed."
"In my defence, your hair is extraordinarily worth staring at."
"In my defence, a normal man would have simply told me how he felt."
"I've never been accused of being normal." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "We'll marry as soon as possible. After the banns are read…unless you prefer a special license?"
"The banns are fine. I want to do this properly."
"Then properly we shall do it." His arm tightened around her. "Mrs. Crawford will need to know. And Henry…"
"Henry will be beside himself with joy."
"He'll claim credit for the entire thing."
"He probably deserves some." She thought of the boy's innocent scheming and his transparent attempts to throw them together. "He saw it before either of us did, I think."
"Children often do. They haven't learned to lie to themselves yet."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the snow fall, feeling the warmth of the fire and the warmth of each other. It was Christmas Eve, and Eliza thought she had never received a better gift.
"I love you," she said quietly. "I don't think I've said it today."
"You've said it in a hundred different ways. Every time you looked at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you chose to stay when you could have run."
"Then let me say it with words." She turned in his arms, facing him. "I love you, Alistair Ravenshaw. Duke of Northmere. Ice duke no longer. I love you, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing you what that means."
"I look forward to it." He kissed her again, and that was a promise, a seal, a beginning. "Merry Christmas, future Duchess."
"Merry Christmas, future husband."
And outside the window, the snow started to fall again, blanketing Northmere Hall in white, turning the world into a clean slate on which they could write whatever future they chose.