He looked at her then, really looked. “I left that house as soon as I was able and did not look back until I became duke. I became what he feared most—a man who could not be controlled. And the more they whispered, the more I fed the rumors. The duels. The debts. The women. All of it. Better they fear me than try to own me. I lived to defy him, to make my own choices. I ran from him, not you. But at what cost?”
Frances reached for his hand again, this time gripping it tightly. She hesitated, her fingers still gripping his hand. The weight of his words pressed down on her chest, and she could feel the conflict in him, the burden of a man who had run too far for too long. “I do not see him when I look at you,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremble in her heart.
“Maybe. But I still wonder how much of him is in me.”
“You did,” she said firmly. “You are not your father, Johnathan. You never were.”
Their eyes met, and for a long moment, the fire reflected in both their gazes—flickering with pain, regret, and the beginning of healing.
“I am tired of hiding,” he murmured.
“Then do not,” she whispered. “Not from me.”
He brushed his thumb against her fingers. “I am unsure what happens next.”
Frances leaned her head against his shoulder. “As am I.”
And yet, in the quiet glow of their ruined refuge, with the night gathering around them and the truth between them laid bare, neither of them needed answers.
Only this moment. Only each other.
Night deepened around them, the darkness outside thick as ink. The forest fell quiet again, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of wind through leaves.
Frances drifted from her seat by the hearth to the nest of straw he had laid out on the dry stone floor. She curled on her side, the coat still draped around her shoulders, and watched the flames through half-lidded eyes. Johnathan remained sitting upright, legs stretched before him, gaze distant.
“I never knew,” she said quietly. “How hard it was for you. I only saw the stories—the reputation. But I did not see the man behind them.”
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “That is all I wanted you to see. The rogue. The reckless duke. The man who could not care less.”
“And yet,” she murmured, “here you are. Carrying the weight of the world and watching over me while I sleep.”
He looked at her, jaw tight. “Because I made a promise.”
“To me?”
“To myself. That if I ever had the chance to undo what I ruined between us, I would take it.”
Her breath caught. “What did you ruin?”
Johnathan rose slowly, crossing to her side. He knelt beside her but did not touch her.
“Do you remember the summer after your sixteenth birthday?” he asked. “You kissed me.”
She flushed, but held his gaze. “And you kissed me back.”
He nodded. “Then I vanished. I read every letter. I burned them—not because I did not care, but because I did.”
Frances’s throat tightened.
“I thought if I let you love me, father would use you to control me. That he would hurt you to punish me.” He shook his head. “So I ran.”
“You broke my heart,” she whispered.
His eyes flickered with pain. “I know.”
He took her hand in his, his grip gentle. “And I have regretted it every day since.”
She stared at him. “Why tell me now?”
