Not to a place.
To a person.
To himself.
Later that evening, the fire in the drawing room crackled low, casting golden light across the walls. Glasses clinked, laughter spilled into the air, and the scent of plum brandy and roses mingled in the air.
Johnathan leaned against the hearth, a contented smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he took in the scene—the low murmur of voices, the flicker of firelight, and the woman who had anchored him in something real.
Frances, radiant in a soft lavender gown embroidered with tiny silver leaves, sat beside Catherine on the settee, their heads bowed together in deep conversation. Maximilian lounged nearby with a brandy in hand, tossing dry commentary toward William, who—of course—was arguing with the dog about the merits of grooming.
Johnathan lifted his glass and turned toward the room.
“I have made quite a few mistakes,” he began. “Far too many to list. I have run from expectations, from legacy, from myself. I have earned a reputation I no longer care to defend, and I have broken rules just for the satisfaction of it.”
He paused, his gaze landing on Frances.
“But somewhere along the way, I found her. Or she found me.”
Frances smiled, eyes shining.
“And in choosing her, I stopped running. I stopped pretending to be someone I was not. And I remembered the man I had buried.”
He raised his glass.
“So here is to the people who remind us who we are. To the friends who never let us drown in our own foolishness. And to the bold, unrepentant women who pull us forward into the light.”
Laughter bubbled around the room. Glasses were raised.
“To the wives,” Maximilian said. “May I never be so blessed.”
“To the duchesses who made us rogues respectable,” Charles added, his gaze locking with Catherine’s.
Frances stood, lifting her own glass. “To the duke of no return… who finally returned to the only place that ever mattered.”
Johnathan laughed. “I am retiring that title.”
“Good,” Maximilian muttered. “It was terribly melodramatic.”
They drank, and the fire popped merrily as the night wound on.
Later, after the last guests had gone and the servants had dimmed the lamps, Johnathan stood alone on the terrace. The stars were bright above the dark silhouette of London. The wind was cool but kind.
Frances joined him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.
“You are thinking again,” she said.
“I am.”
“Do not.”
He looked at her, smiling. “Why not?”
“Because you have already done the hard part.” She reached for his hand. “You came home.”
He exhaled slowly, the truth of it filling him like fire kindling after a long frost.
“I did.”
