“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.
