She had not dared to hope. But here he was, wild and furious and gloriously out of place—and he had come for her.
His coat flared open, the lapels flapping slightly, as if he had ridden hard and fast. His dark hair was tousled from wind and exertion, a lock falling across his brow. His face, set in determined lines, held no apology—only fury, controlled and blazing like tempered steel. Beautiful, unrepentant fury.
“Frances.”
The whisper rippled down the aisle, first in disbelief, then scandal.
“Frances!” he repeated, louder now, stalking forward, every stride thunder.
Cranford stepped from the altar.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed.
Frances’s legs refused to carry her forward. Her knees locked, and her lungs clutched at the air as if it had turned to smoke. The chapel around her spun ever so slightly, the bright morning light at her back now feeling like a spotlight, harsh and exposing. Her breath hitched—a shallow, stuttering sound—and for a moment, it felt as though the entire world had paused with her.
Johnathan’s gaze locked with hers. He did not look away. Not once.
“You do not have to do this,” he said.
“This is outrageous,” Lord Morton shouted, shoving his way to the front. “Remove him at once!”
Johnathan stopped halfway to Frances. He turned, slowly, toward her father. “You would force her to marry a man with a history of cruelty and control? A man whose reputation whispers of bruises and broken spirits?” Johnathan’s voice cracked through the sanctity of the chapel like a whip, and Lord Morton’s face reddened, his mouth tightening into a sneer.
The older man took a step forward, fists clenched. “You overstep,” he growled, voice low and quivering with fury. “This is my daughter. My decision. You know nothing of what is required to protect a family’s name.”
Gasps again. Murmurs rose like thunderclouds.
Cranford’s face twisted. “You have no right?—”
“I have every right,” Johnathan said, his voice cutting like a blade. “She came to me. She begged me for help. I turned her away once. I will not make that mistake again.”
Frances took a step toward him.
The chapel blurred.
Not from tears.
From clarity.
She did not care what society said. What her father shouted. What Cranford growled through clenched teeth. She would not live her life in fear.
“Johnathan,” she said, her voice steady. “Please… take me away.”
An uproar rose behind her.
But she was already running.
Toward the one man who truly saw her. Who heard her when no one else would.
And when she reached him, his hand caught hers, strong and certain, and they fled through the open church doors into the chaos of London. Behind them, the church erupted in a cacophony of scandalized shouts and gasps. Someone shouted Frances’s name—was it her father? A clergyman called out, voice lost in the swell of confusion. One of Cranford’s men surged forward, only to be halted by the wave of shocked guests parting in stunned disbelief. The rustle of skirts, the scrape of boots against polished floors, the rising storm of murmured outrage—all of it blurred into a single, pulsing beat of adrenaline as Frances ran, breath hitching, heart hammering, hand clutched tight in Johnathan’s.
They did not stop running until they reached the corner of the square, breathless and flushed, a chaos of carriage wheels and scandalized whispers echoing in their wake. Frances’s skirts tangled around her legs as she glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed. Not yet.
Johnathan pulled her into an alleyway between two buildings, pressing her gently against the brick wall as he peered around the corner. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and though his grip on her hand was firm, it trembled.
She looked up at him, heart thudding. “What now?”
He did not answer right away. Instead, he studied her as if trying to memorize every line of her face. “Are you certain, Frances?”
