“No.” His voice was low, rough with feeling. “That is not what I am offering. I would never—” He raked a hand through his hair, struggling for composure. “I ask you to come so that Imay seek a path that does not wrong you—a way for this to be…honourable.”
“There is no such path.”
“You cannot be certain.”
“I know the world we inhabit.” She moved nearer despite herself. “Dukes do not marry obscure cousins without portion. Society does not forget—nor forgive—such departures from expectation. You would suffer for it. Your family would suffer. Your children would begin life beneath a shadow—”
“I do not care.”
“Youmustcare.” Her voice trembled. “You were born to responsibilities no inclination may set aside.”
He caught her hands—warm, unsteady. “There is one responsibility that weighs with me above all others—to speak the truth.” His breath shook. “I love you. However little time we have had—however absurd it may seem—I love you, and I cannot pretend otherwise.”
The words struck like lightning—terrifying, glorious.
“Sebastian—”
“I know it is too soon; I know it is madness; I know every rule stands against us,” he went on, helpless in his honesty. “But I have never before been so wholly understood—or so entirely myself—as I am with you.”
“That is not love,” she whispered. “It is—”
“Call it what you will. Only do not cast it aside.”
He lifted her hands and pressed his lips to them. She did not realise she was crying until a tear fell onto his sleeve.
“If I stay,” she said, scarcely audible, “if I allow myself to hope—it will break me when it ends.”
“What if it does not end?”
“It always does,” she said gently. “The world is seldom kind to women who forget their place.”
“Then let us challenge the world.”
“You cannot reshape it.”
He gave a faint, rueful smile. “So they tell me. Yet I would attempt it—for us.”
His hand rose to her cheek—reverent, trembling. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for one stolen heartbeat.
“I cannot answer you now,” she said at last. “Not while everything is so uncertain. I must think—must understand what I am willing to hazard. Give me time.”
“I will give you whatever I may.”
“Time, then. And your direction. So that I can write to you—when I have resolved what must be done.”
He nodded, though fear flickered in his eyes—fear that time might mean silence.
“My feelings will not alter,” he said. “Whether you write soon or late—”
She touched his lips with her fingers. “Do not say it again. Not yet. If there is a way—atrueway—I will find it.”
“And if there is none?”
“Then we will both have to learn to live with that.”
She kissed him then—a brief, desperate kiss that held both promise and farewell. His arms closed around her; for one impossible moment, she let herself imagine belonging.
Then she drew back.
