Jasper's jaw tensed. "And I am sorry. For all of it. I miss your friendship more than I can say. You and your family were part of my life for so long, and your absence... I feel it like the loss of a limb."
Philip's hands curled into fists. "You believed a woman we both knew to be manipulative. I was never anything but loyal to you."
"I didn't believe her—at least, not at first," Jasper said, his voice rising with old torment. "When she first accused you, I thought she was lying. Or twisting the truth. But then she claimed she'd lost the child—and that my disbelief had driven her to it. I felt responsible. I thought, who would lie about such a thing? I should have trusted my first instinct. Should have opened my eyes. But I didn't. I gave in to guilt. And worse, I married Abigail not out of love, but out of spite—and then I left her."
He sank into a chair, elbows braced on his knees, running his hands over his face. "There's no excuse. None."
Philip stood unmoving.
"You destroyed her," he said quietly.
"I know," Jasper whispered.
The silence between them stretched, heavy but no longer explosive.
Philip drew in a breath and glanced toward the door. "She laughed today. When she met Frederick. She said your name with a smile. I never thought I'd see that again."
Jasper looked up.
"For her sake—not yours—I'll speak plainly." Philip's voice dropped. "If you ever hurt her again, I will destroy you. There will be no second chance."
Philip gave a sharp nod, then crossed to the door.
"Come. Your daughter, your wife, and your nephew are waiting."
Jasper rose.
And for the first time in over a year, the space between them wasn't warm—but it was no longer filled with bitterness. It was something else. Something that, perhaps, with time, could become peace.
Chapter 49
The drawing room quieted the moment the door closed behind Philip, sealing her in with soft sunlight, the scent of lavender, and the gentle rustle of Emmeline turning pages in a children's book—one of Jasper's old nursery volumes, well-worn at the edges.
Sophia had settled beside her on the fainting couch, careful of the sling and bandages. Between them, Frederick lay on a cushion, swaddled in soft white linen, his tiny face serene in sleep. He looked impossibly small, a delicate, flawless creation. A sigh fluttered from his chest, and his little lips moved in a dreamer's twitch.
Abigail watched him, heart aching—but not in the way she'd expected.
She waited for the bitterness to strike. For the familiar knot of envy and grief to twist its way beneath her ribs.
But it didn't come.
Instead, there was only warmth. A quiet marveling at the delicate miracle of him.
"He's perfect," she whispered.
Sophia smiled, brushing a gentle fingertip over the crown of her son's head. "He is. Though he wasn't terribly punctual. He kept us waiting."
Abigail laughed softly. "So he has his father's stubbornness, then."
Sophia's eyes glinted. "And his mother's lungs. Philip was beside himself the entire
time I was in labor. I think he aged five years in one night. When Frederick finally
arrived, I wept with relief—and Philip cried harder than I did."
The image caught something in Abigail's throat. Her brother—the same boy who once put frogs in her bed and dared her to climb trees in her best gown—was now a father. A tender one, if the pride in Sophia's voice meant anything at all.
"I'm glad he found someone who loves him so completely," Abigail said. "And that he's someone who deserves it."
