“For everyone to see.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice swallowed, her throat tight, her chest aching as though something had broken open there.
She looked up at him. For a moment, she could not speak.
The paper trembled faintly in her hands, the ink blurring where rain had spotted the page. She read the last line again, not because she doubted it, but because her mind refused to move past it.
And I love her.
She lifted her gaze slowly, afraid that if she moved too quickly, all of this would vanish. That she would find Edward already retreating, the moment broken, the courage spent.
But he was still there, watching her with an attentiveness that made her heart flutter. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes glinted with something dangerously close to hope.
“I meant every word,” he said quietly, before she could ask. “Not because it makes a fine declaration, but because I am finished hiding behind silence.”
Her breath shuddered out of her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she whispered. “You could have protected yourself.”
“I’ve had quite enough of protecting myself,” he replied. “It cost me you.”
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them. One slipped free, then another.
Edward stepped closer, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.
He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears with careful tenderness, as though she were something fragile and precious.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured.
“I’m not—” She laughed weakly through her tears. “I’m not sad. I just—Edward, you put yourself in print.”
“Yes.”
“You gave them everything.”
“I gave them the truth,” he corrected. “They can do whatever they like with it.” He stepped closer. “Besides, I didn’t write that for theton. I wrote it so you would never doubt where I stand again.”
Beatrice drew a careful breath. Her thoughts were scattered—astonishment, relief, a treacherous hope she had spent months forcing herself not to feel.
She had told herself that she wanted nothing. That wanting was foolish. Dangerous. And yet her heart was pounding as though it had been waiting for this very moment.
“You said you loved me.” Her voice shook.
“I do.”
Not past tense. Not conditional. But present. Certain.
She searched his face, looking for hesitation, bravado, regret—anything that might soften the weight of what he had done. There was none.
“You understand,” she said slowly, “that loving me is not simple. I am not quiet. I am not convenient.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve noticed.”
“And I may never be what thetonexpects.”
“God willing.”
