"You once swore that if I ever needed you, you would come—under the willow tree behind my family’s orchard. You held my hand and promised me no one would ever hurt me."
His brows drew together. "That was a child’s promise."
"So was your oath to duel Henry Montclaire over a stolen pastry, and yet you did."
He barked a quiet laugh. "And got my arse handed to me."
Frances crossed her arms. "This is not a jest."
"Do you think I am unaware of that?" His voice turned sharp. "Do you know what it would mean for me to take you in? What we would have to do? What your father would do?"
"I know exactly what is at stake. And I am asking anyway."
She held his gaze with unflinching defiance, and in that moment he remembered the girl who had stood beside him on the cliffs of Dover, daring the wind to sweep her away. He had loved that spark in her. It burned now, hotter than ever.
"Frances..."
"You owe me nothing," she said, softer now. "But I am asking you to be the man I once knew. The one who believed a woman had the right to choose her future."
He looked away. The fire crackled.
"You should marry," he said finally. "Find someone who will protect you."
"Like Cranford?" Her voice cracked. "Is that what you want for me? Safety in the arms of a man who might ruin me behind closed doors?"
He flinched.
"You do not understand what you are asking. Not really. Not the weight of it. Not what it would cost—for you, for me. There was a girl once, a baron’s daughter, who came to me begging for help just as you have now. I gave her shelter, thinking I could protect her. A week later, her reputation was in tatters, her father disowned her, and she was shipped off to France to live out her days with an obscure aunt. And me? I was branded a seducer, a corruptor of innocence. I did not care about the name then, but I care now. Because it will not just be you they ruin, Frances. They will come for your name, your family, everything you hold dear—and I may not be enough to shield you from it."
"Because you will not marry me?”
He turned on her then, frustration etched into every line of his face. "Because it does not matter! Because it is too late for me to play the hero, Frances. I have done things that cannot be undone. I have no reputation left to salvage—and if I take you in, you will not either."
Her chin lifted. "Perhaps I no longer care."
"You should,” he said unflinching.
"Why? Because it is easier to tell yourself that letting me walk into Cranford’s arms is for my own good?" Her voice rose. "Or because you are afraid of what it means if you help me?"
"You do not know me anymore." His voice dropped, rough with the weight of unspoken years. He turned away from her, clenching the back of a nearby chair until his knuckles whitened. The blazing logs crackled behind him, loud in the silence that followed.
"Then tell me who you are, Johnathan! Because I still see the boy who climbed trees with me. The boy who hated injustice and swore he would never become his father."
His expression flickered. "Do not," he said, warning in his voice.
She stepped closer. "I do not believe that man is gone. Not completely."
He met her eyes, and something shifted. For a heartbeat, they were children again. Before duty. Before betrayal. Before pain.
Then he stepped back. His breath caught, a strangled sound escaping before he swallowed it down. "I cannot."
The words hit her with stunning finality.
She nodded, though her throat burned. “Very well."
She turned to go.
"Frances—"
