CHAPTER 7
Night settled over Pembroke house, the quiet of dusk filtering through the unshuttered windows and pooling in the corners of the study. The lamps burned low, and the last orange of the sunset glared through layers of glass, casting a warm glow over every surface. It was a room designed for monologues, with shelves filled with centuries of opinions, a desk worn by the weight of correspondence, and chairs that conspired with the decanter to tempt men into idleness.
Niall was not tempted by idleness tonight. He perched on the edge of the armchair, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders hunched. In his hand, he held a crumpled letter, its pages frayed from repeat readings. The familiar script marched across the page with precision, each loop and cross deliberate.
He did not unfold it at first. The words haunted him, each one gnawing at the next.
My lord,
I write to you now because I lack the courage to speak this aloud. You must forgive me. There aremany things I cannot accept. The expectations of my family, the farce of our engagement, the way your name and mine are now bound together in every parlor from here to London. What I cannot bear, what frightens me most, is the possibility that I might come to love you. I do not know myself in your company. I cannot trust what I become.
You will say it is not your fault. You are right. But I beg you, if you have any affection for me, leave this be.
Yours in bitterness and affection,
L
He read it again, slowly this time, as if hoping to find some clause that could undo the matter. With each repetition, his grip tightened until the page nearly tore, then slackened, then tightened again.
A log shifted in the hearth. The noise brought him back to reality, and he straightened, jaw locked tight.
He unfolded the page and smoothed it over the desk with care. In the lamplight, the paper glowed pale.
“Yours in bitterness and affection,” he muttered. “Not even Ovid could do better.” The laugh that followed was sharp and silent, a contraction in his chest more than an exhalation.
The study was a confession as much as the letter. Despite its grandeur, mixed obsession with whim. Volumes of Seneca and Rousseau were wedged, against all logic, between romance novels and legal codes. A pair of crossed sabres, one rusted and the other bright, hung above a half-finished sketch of LadyLouisa rendered in fast, irreverent lines. Her eyes conveyed challenge. Her mouth was not so much a bow as a blade. The likeness was imperfect, but unmistakably hers.
He poured a measure of brandy, more than was prudent but less than was needed. The bottle caught the light, and for an instant, the whole room shimmered with amber possibility. He drank, but did not savor. Louisa’s words, and the ache beneath them, were far more intoxicating.
He ran a thumb over the edge of the letter.
He found himself wishing for her. For her voice, which could skewer or shelter in the space of a sentence. For the rhythm of her thoughts, which could leave even his in the dust. He imagined her entering the room, back straight, ready to carve his self-delusions into manageable pieces.
Instead, there was only silence. And the letter.
He stood, restless, and crossed to the window. Below, the city dissolved into mist and gaslight. Above, the sky was all velvet, no stars. His reflection hovered in the glass. A man slightly off-balance, eyes too bright, the bruising still raw along his jaw.
He considered what she had written. Her fear of loving him, her fear of losing herself in his ‘chaos,’ and saw, with hideous clarity, that she was not wrong. He was chaos. He had been since childhood, lacing his every action with an undercurrent of sabotage, as if order were a snare and obedience a sin.
He could, if he wished, go after her. A hundred times he had chased what fled from him, dared what resisted. But he had the unwelcome sense that to pursue Louisa now would pure torture.
He pressed his knuckles to the glass, hard enough to fog the pane. The logic of the world—the way things were supposed to play out—was of no help at all.
In the street below, a carriage rattled by, its lamps twin coins in the dusk. Foxmere tracked it for a block, then lost interest.
He finished his drink, set the glass on the desk, and squared the letter beside it, flattening every corner with exaggerated precision. From the drawer, he retrieved a new sheet of paper and a pen. He hesitated, pen poised, then set it aside. He was not ready to reply. Not yet.
Instead, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into the armchair once more. The room hummed with the memory of her voice, the way she said his name when she forgot to hate him.
He would wait. That was the only thing he had never tried. He would wait for her to decide if she could bear him or if she would set him aside like an old, ill-fitting glove. He would give her the space she demanded, and if it killed him, well—it would be the first time he’d ever gone quietly.
He did not sleep that night. But in the early hours of morning, with the fire burned to embers and the city silent, he found himself staring at the letter on his desk, neat and heavy as the new day.
CHAPTER 8
Tonight brought the final ball of the house party, and the Pembroke estate buzzed with energy. Guests filled the entry hall, draped in velvet and satin, each arriving more overdressed than the last. Louisa had avoided Niall and the scandal since their kiss, but she would find no reprieve tonight.
She entered on the arm of her closest friend, Lady Sophia, with Lady Alexandra just behind. The trio moved gracefully, Sophia’s laughter bright and unrestrained, while Alexandra’s eyes scanned the crowd, cataloging each guest. Louisa wore the calm expression of a lady, acutely aware that every movement would be scrutinized and relayed by gossips before the first dance concluded.
