Frances sat up carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The inn was quiet outside—no footsteps, no clattering pans, no shouted orders from the street. Just the low hum of village morning.
Her feet touched the cold floor, and she crossed to the window.
Outside, frost lingered on the grass. A cart rolled slowly down the lane. Life went on. Simple, unaffected. How strange that the world could remain unchanged when hers had shifted so profoundly.
She did not know what would happen next.
They had bought a single day of safety with their run through the hills. Perhaps two. But Cranford still hunted them. Her father would not stay silent forever. Society would not forget.
But now, she was not afraid of what came after.
Because in this room, with the man who she loved, she had remembered who she was.
Not just Lady Frances Rowley, daughter of an earl.
Not just the scandalous bride who had fled the altar.
But a woman who had chosen love over duty. Who had chosen herself.
Johnathan stirred.
She turned as he sat up, blinking into the morning light.
Their eyes met.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
He gave a slow, crooked smile. “Is it?”
“It is now.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, clearly feeling the same fatigue she wore like a second skin. “Did you sleep well?”
She nodded. “Better than I have in days.”
He reached for her. “You have something on your mind.”
“I am always thinking.”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated, then stepped closer.
“I have spent so much of my life trying to be what other people wanted,” she said. “But you… you see all of me. Even the parts I have tried to forget. And instead of turning away, you ask me to stay.”
“I do,” he said, simply. “In fact, I insist on it.”
“I want that,” she whispered. “To choose you. Not because we ran. Not because we must. But because we can.”
Johnathan rose slowly, walked to her, and took her hands in his.
“I want to marry you, Frances. Over an anvil. In truth. No disguise. No hesitation. I want the scandal. The fire. The fight. All of it. As long as it is with you.”
She smiled, tears catching at the edges of her lashes. “Then we shall.”
He blinked. “What?”
“We go back to Gretna Green,” she said. “Today. No more running. No more waiting. We write our names beside one another, and we let the world catch up if it dares.”
He pulled her into his arms.
And kissed her.
This time, there was no restraint. There was only the press of lips that promised a thousand mornings, the heat of hands that trembled not with hesitation but with awe. The taste of hope lingered between them—warm, steady, certain. It was not the urgency of fear, but the arrival of something sure, something earned. They had reached the place where desire and devotion met, where every breath between them felt like a vow unspoken, and the warmth of each touch carried the weight of all they had endured and all they dared to hope for.
This was not a kiss of apology or fear.
This was a beginning.
