* * *
The Earl of Whitby did not offer a warm welcome.
He was pacing. Again.
Alexandra, summoned to the drawing room before breakfast had fully settled in her stomach, stood near the fireplace, arms crossed and expression unrepentant.
Magnus entered with a calm that belied the churning storm within. His palms were damp, jaw tight, and every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to flee the judgment waiting in Lord Whitby’s eyes. But he kept walking—because she was worth it.
“Lord Whitby,” he began with a respectful nod. “Lady Alexandra.”
“You have some nerve,” the earl said without preamble.
“That has been said before.”
“You compromised my daughter.”
“Your daughter kissed me back.”
Alexandra stiffened, her shoulders tensing at the bluntness of the statement. Lord Whitby’s jaw twitched, a deep flush creeping up his neck as if struggling to contain a fresh outburst.
Alexandra smothered a laugh, a flicker of guilt and admiration sparking in her chest. Magnus, infuriating as he was, had a talent for turning confrontation into theatre. And somehow, that was part of what she found so maddeningly appealing. His boldness, his refusal to retreat in the face of disapproval—it both irritated and intrigued her. In a world where most men bowed or blustered, Magnus performed.
“You will marry her.”
“Not unless she asks nicely.”
“Langley!” He boomed.
Magnus turned to Alexandra. His voice softened. “I did not chase you into that storm expecting anything. I kissed you because I could not do otherwise. But I will not marry you because society demands it.”
“Then why would you?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. A dozen wild hopes fluttered inside her, chased by fear—fear that he’d name duty, fear that he would not say what she longed to hear.
“Because I want to. Because you have ruined me in the best possible way. I used to move through life untouched, unbothered—always in control. And now, I find myself hoping, aching, feeling more than I ever thought I could. You’ve made me vulnerable, and I would not trade that for all the certainty in the world. Because I don’t think I could walk through another storm without you.”
Silence stretched.
Alexandra stared.
Whitby spluttered.
Then, in true Peregrine fashion, Alexandra said, “I’m going for a walk.”
And left the room.
* * *
Alexandra did not walk far. The air in the parlor smelled faintly of lavender and lemon polish, comforting and familiar, yet her footsteps felt too loud in the silence that met her. She ended up in the parlor, where her friends and sister had gathered with alarming synchronicity.
Louisa looked up from her embroidery. “Well?”
“He said he’d marry me.”
Genny clapped. “Marvelous!”
“Because he wants to,” Alexandra said, crossing her arms over her midsection. She blinked, the words settling in slowly. A quiet ache unfurled within her—soft, terrifying, and wholly unfamiliar.
Louisa frowned. “Is that not what you wanted?”
