Phoebe’s heart thundered in her chest, and yet, at that moment, she knew the answer. She felt the weight of her parents’ decisions, the sting of exile, and the longing that had never dulled. But, above all, she felt the undeniable truth of her own desire.
“You asked me to marry you before, Sebastian. I accepted you then. Completely. Wholly. Without any reservation. I knew thatI wanted to be with you then, but you… you were not so sure that you would have me,” she told him, and he listened without interruption, on one knee, eyes locked on hers, every inch of him present, accountable.
“I should never have hesitated, my love,” Sebastian breathed. “I should have claimed you that night. I should have told that world that you were mine.”
“I believe,” she said softly, “that when you promised the first time, you were moved by the thrill of the moment. You got swept away in the bliss we found in that garden. How do I know that this proposal… this time… you mean to really and truly make me your wife?”
“I will never leave you again.” Sebastian said those simple words and nothing more. As he made that vow, Phoebe could feel the air around them ripple, and she knew that was all she needed to hear.
Finally, she whispered her reply, “I… I will have you. I accept you, Sebastian. I will marry you.”
Relief, warmth, and something deeper surged through her. He rose, scooped her into his arms, and kissed her with a tenderness that made her world collapse into his.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you,” she returned, clutching him tightly.
Sebastian nuzzled his lips into the side of her neck and Phoebe inhaled deeply, appreciating the chance to smell his soft, warm baked apple scent once more.
“I have not brought a ring,” he murmured against her earlobe.
Phoebe’s left hand uncurled, revealing the glinting silver pendant. “Then this will do,” she said. “This gift is more precious than any ring.”
Sebastian pulled away from her just slightly and held out his hand so she could drop the necklace into his palm. He smiled at her as he fastened it around her neck once more, and they kissed again.
Softly, fully, with a depth that spoke of shared secrets, confessions, and newly claimed freedom, two hearts unmasked at last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The carriage rolled to a halt in front of Phoebe’s family home in London, the lamps casting a golden glow across the cobblestones. Phoebe’s heart thudded against her ribs—not from fear, but from anticipation.
She glanced at Sebastian, whose dark eyes met hers with a quiet, unwavering encouragement. One look from him, and she felt her resolve solidify.
As the carriage door opened, Phoebe alighted and felt a confidence surge through her as she moved forward. Sebastian followed, his hand brushing the small of her back, guiding yet protective.
The front door swung open before they even knocked, and Phoebe’s parents appeared, their faces a mixture of shock and indignation.
“Phoebe!” her mother shrieked, clutching her husband’s arm. “What on earth?—?”
“Is that the Duke of Talwyn?” her father demanded, eyes narrowing, jaw tight.
Sebastian’s gaze swept over them, and Phoebe could see a tiny muscle in his jaw twitch. He did not answer immediately, letting the weight of his presence and the sharp cut of his glare speak for itself.
The pair stepped forward in unison so that the Countess and Earl were forced to move aside and allow them to enter Tripleton House.
Once Sebastian had shut the door firmly behind them and they were safely protected from prying eyes and eager eyes in the foyer of the townhouse, Phoebe took a steady breath, lifted her chin, and addressed her parents directly.
“Mother. Father,” she said, her voice firm, “I have returned. And I am not here to be controlled, hidden, or exiled.”
Her mother’s eyes darted to the silver pendant resting at Phoebe’s throat, shining subtly in the light.
“You… you—” she stammered. “You’ve become?—”
“The Duke’s mistress,” her father spat, stepping forward with a venomous glare. “Is that it? Is that what this means? Tell us it isn’t!”
Phoebe’s gaze flicked to Sebastian, who placed a hand on her elbow, a subtle anchor. His voice cut through her parents’ accusations, carrying the full weight of his authority.
“That is enough,” he said, stepping forward. “No more insinuation. You will speak with respect. Phoebe is not here as a mistress, nor will she ever be. She will be my Duchess. And you,” he said softly as his gaze swept over her parents, “you will pay for the cruelty you have shown this remarkable woman. The way you treated her is uncharitable, and you ought to be properly censured by Society. Every insult, every slight… you will answer for them.”
