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 herchest 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.
TheMayfair 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—hisfullname. His title. No shield. No anonymity.
“You wrote this.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
“Yes.”
