“Let her go,” Hugo said quietly.
“Are you mad?” Laurence tried to shake him off. “I can’t let her-”
“Of course she won’t accept your help outright,” Hugo interrupted, his voice calm and reasonable despite the urgency of the situation. “She’s spent her entire life solving problems on her own. She’s not going to suddenly collapse into your arms and let you fix everything, no matter how much she might want to.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? Let her marry that monster?”
“She won’t marry him.” Hugo’s voice was confident. “Weddings take several days to arrange properly. We have time to make a plan.”
Laurence watched Joan’s carriage roll away down the London road, every instinct screaming at him to chase after it, to drag her back by force if necessary.
“Laurence.” Hugo’s hand tightened on his arm. “Trust me. Let her go for now. We’ll get her back.”
After a long, agonizing moment, Laurence forced himself to nod. He turned and walked back to his own carriage, his movements stiff and mechanical.
They climbed inside, and Hugo called up directions to return to his estate in London.
As the carriage began to move, Laurence stared out the window at the road Joan had taken, his hands clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
I cannot lose her like this,he thought desperately.
Hugo was already pulling out paper and a pencil, making notes with strokes.
Hold on, Joan, he thought, watching the road disappear behind them. Just hold on a little longer. I’m coming for you.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Joan sat rigidly in her carriage, staring out the window at the Duke’s vehicle growing smaller in the distance. Her hands trembled in her lap, and she clasped them tightly together to still them.
A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away furiously.
It’s for the best,she told herself firmly.This is what’s right. This protects Victoria. This protects Damian. This keeps the family safe.
But the memory of Laurence’s face, the desperate concern in his eyes, the way he’d pulled her into his arms as though she were something precious, threatened to break her resolve entirely.
No, she thought, squaring her shoulders. I cannot waver. I cannot hope. Hope is dangerous.
She turned her face away from the window and did not look back again.
Night had fallen by the time Joan’s carriage pulled up to Damian’s London townhouse. The windows glowed with warm light, but Joan felt only cold as she stepped down onto the cobblestones.
Damian was waiting on the front steps, his face drawn and weary. He descended to meet her, offering his arm.
“How are the wedding preparations progressing?” Joan asked, keeping her voice light and conversational.
“Beautifully,” Damian said with heavy sarcasm. “Everyone thinks we must be absolutely desperate, marrying you off to a man like Julian Hawthorne. The whispers follow me everywhere I go.”
Joan allowed him to escort her inside. “The rumors will pass. People always find new topics to occupy their attention.”
“And what if they don’t?” Damian demanded as they entered the drawing room. “What if your reputation is permanently ruined by this association?”
Joan settled into a chair with practiced grace. “Then it is ruined. I can bear it.”
Damian waved to a hovering maid, who brought forward a tea service. The woman poured a cup and handed it to Joan with a curtsy.
“I cannot let you marry Julian Hawthorne,” Damian said.
Joan looked at her brother with something like pity. “And what about Victoria? If I don’t marry him, he’ll pursue her instead.”
