Gratitude and joy swept through Eden like sunlight through a windowpane.
As Gabriel crossed the room to join her, Eden reached out her hand.
He took it without hesitation, their fingers entwining with the ease of two hearts that had weathered the storm together and found calm.
Eden gave Gabriel’s hand a small, reassuring squeeze, a silent vow passing between them. A breeze stirred the curtains, warm and light. It brushed over her skin like a whisper of reassurance. Fitting, she thought, for something as delicate and daring as love finding its place in the world.
Tomorrow, they would meet with the vicar. But Eden knew the world would not yield so easily. Lady Vexley would undoubtedly have already penned her condemnation by breakfast, and the Dowager Countess of Stratmoor, renowned for her icy disapproval, would likely offer a single, arched brow and a strategic silence that chilled more thoroughly than a hundred whispered insults. There would be letters sent, invitations rescinded, and sharp glances across drawing rooms. Yet in Gabriel’s hand, she found her anchor, remembering the orchard sunlight from their youth—the way his hand brushed hers as she passed him an apple, a gesture so small and yet now, impossibly significant—proof that they had always been tethered by something stronger than time. They had crossed a threshold, but the true test, the one of patience, perseverance, and the quiet strength of unity, was still to come.
The banns would be read. And soon, the world would know that theirs was not a fleeting fancy, but a bond forged in courage and devotion.
They would step forward with eyes wide and hearts steady, ready to prove that their love was not a reckless whim but a promise worthy of belief.
Together.
As they had been in the orchard, laughter between them.
As they had been at the festival, unafraid beneath the stars.
And nothing—not scandal, nor whispers, nor fear—could tear them apart.
Fifteen
The evening air was warm and heavy with the scent of honeysuckle as Eden rode out to Blackstone Manor. The sun was sinking behind the rolling hills, casting a soft amber glow across the countryside. Her heart fluttered, equal parts anticipation and joy, each beat stealing her breath in quiet wonder.
The house loomed ahead, regal and welcoming with the quiet confidence of centuries past, its honeyed stone façade softened by creeping ivy that had weathered generations of sun and storm. Carved above the archway was the family crest, an oak tree entwined with a falcon, symbolizing resilience and freedom, mottos that had guided the family line since the days of Elizabeth. Its mullioned windows glowed with warm light, and the twin columns that framed the door bore the faint marks of sword strikes, a relic from when Gabriel’s great-grandfather had defended the estate during a skirmish with Highland raiders.
As Eden stepped into the entry hall, the rich scent of aged wood and beeswax greeted her, mingled with the faintest trace of lilac from a vase positioned upon a side table. The floor beneath her slippers was a checkerboard of dark marble and worn Persian runners, and overhead, a chandelier of hand-cut crystal caught the light like a net of stars. Somewhere deeper in the manor, a clock chimed the hour, its sonorous tones adding weight to the hush of anticipation that filled the space.
Eden smoothed her gown, a simple but elegant creation of soft ivory muslin, and approached the entrance where Gabriel stood, framed in the doorway like a figure from a dream.
He wore no jacket, only a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his black hair slightly tousled. His green eyes blazed with a mix of adoration and longing.
“Eden,” he breathed as she reached him.
She smiled and took his outstretched hand.
Without a word, he led her inside, his fingers curling gently around hers. The silence between them pulsed with shared understanding, heavy with the promise of what was to come.
Gabriel guided her through the great hall and into the heart of Blackstone Manor—a private sitting room she had never seen before. Shelves of well-worn books lined the walls, a fire crackled softly in the hearth, and summer blooms perfumed the air. On the mantel sat a small, timeworn globe, and a faded sketch of a boy and a dog, long-cherished and slightly askew. A decanter of brandy stood atop a low table, its crystal stopper smudged with fingerprints.
Eden took a slow turn, letting the quiet charm of the room settle around her. It felt nothing like the grand, impersonal rooms of her childhood home, where cold marble and stiff portraits watched from high walls. Here, everything breathed warmth and personality. The scent of sandalwood mingled with old paper and polished wood. This room, with its worn books and cluttered comfort, felt like a place where laughter lingered. It was a haven where secrets could be safely whispered and love could take root without fear.
“This is my true home,” Gabriel said quietly behind her. “Not the formal rooms, not the grand halls. Here, where the world cannot touch me.”
Eden turned back to him, her heart swelling. “Then it is my home, too.”
Gabriel stepped forward slowly, his hand brushing a loose curl behind her ear before resting lightly on her cheek. His touch was tentative, reverent—more question than claim. His thumbs brushed along her cheeks with aching tenderness.
“Are you certain, Eden?” he whispered, his voice raw. “There is still time to turn back.”
She placed her hands over his, grounding him. “I have never been more certain of anything.”
A shuddering breath escaped him, and then he kissed her. Slowly, reverently, as if committing every moment to memory.
The kiss deepened, grew urgent. Gabriel swept her into his arms and carried her toward a chaise near the fire. An act that made her heart stutter with the realization that she was truly seen, wanted, and cherished. Eden gasped against his lips but clung to him, trusting him implicitly.
He set her down with infinite care, kneeling before her as though she were something precious, sacred.
