CHAPTER11
Johnathan had never known peace to be so loud.
The hamlet was small, yes. Quiet in the way only country establishments could be. But the stillness left too much space for thought, and now that his body was not racing across England, the noise in his mind had returned.
He sat in the back garden behind the inn, sharpening his dagger with methodical strokes of the whetstone. His coat hung from a nearby post, and the sun had begun to warm the stone bench beneath him. Frances was in the green, purchasing supplies. He should have gone with her.
But something had been clawing at him since dawn—a gnawing discomfort not born of pain, but quiet.
It was letting himself want.
He had never believed himself capable of peace—not in the true sense. The kind that meant looking a woman in the eye and saying, Yes, I will be here tomorrow. And the day after. And always.
But Frances had upended that belief.
He could still feel the warmth of her beside him, the softness in her eyes when she smiled, the way she had danced barefoot with him beneath the stars as though they were not broken, were not pretending. As though they belonged to no one but each other.
And perhaps they did.
He did not deserve her. But he wanted her nonetheless.
He was still weighing how to tell her that—how to ask her, truly ask her, to marry him—when a shadow passed across the garden gate.
Johnathan looked up.
And froze.
“William?” he said, rising slowly to his feet.
The Duke of Powis stepped through the gate, immaculate in his riding coat, his dark chestnut hair windswept but perfectly groomed.
“Hello, Hargate,” he said, his voice smooth.
Johnathan narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” William’s tone was calm. But too calm. Cold. “Though I suspect the answer involves a young lady with a sharp tongue and a powerful father.”
Johnathan stepped forward, jaw tightening. “You were at White’s a week ago. The day I left London.”
“I was,” William said. “And shortly after, your name started echoing through every drawing room between Mayfair and Grosvenor Square. ‘Did you hear? Hargate stole a lady from the altar.’ ‘Did you hear? Hargate’s gone mad.’ I had to see it for myself.”
Johnathan’s fists clenched. “You followed me?”
“No,” William said, arching a brow. “I was invited.”
That word—invited—landed like a blade.
Johnathan’s breath stilled. “You did not.”
“I did,” said William. “Cranford’s man found me. Said you had gone rogue. Said Frances Rowley was in danger. And I…” He shrugged. “I thought, perhaps this time Hargate truly has ruined himself.”
Johnathan advanced. “You gave him our location?”
“I told him where you might be headed,” William replied. “The rest, he seemed quite capable of determining.”
“You betrayed me.”
William’s expression flickered—just for a second. Regret? No. Worse. Justification.
