Camelia managed a nod. “I’ll… I’ll join you in a moment,” she said, her voice thin.
Iris squeezed her hand once, and then harder the second time. “Breathe, Camelia. We’re still here.”
“Write the instant you hear anything. Anything. Even if it’s one line. We’ll ride back through the night if we have to,” Iris whispered urgently so only Camelia could hear.
Her sisters folded her into a crushing embrace.
“You are not alone. You are never alone. Promise you’ll send for us the moment he walks through that door, dead or alive.”
Camelia could only nod against her sister’s shoulder.
When they left, the front door shut behind them with a hollow thud that echoed through the house like the closing of a tomb. But Camelia remained in the entrance hall, with a single candle flickering in her cold fingers, staring at nothing.
The silence pressed in from every side. Somewhere upstairs, Pamela slept, mercifully unaware that her real father or uncle might be dead.
Camelia headed to Raph’s chambers, unsure about her next step.
“Your Grace.” Andrew’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Yes, Andrew? Have you come with news?” she asked eagerly.
“His Grace is in the study.”
A high, thin ringing filled Camelia’s ears the instant the candleholder slipped from her numb fingers. Silver struck marble with a sharpclang. Hot wax splashed across the floor, and the flame guttered out in a curl of smoke.
She never noticed; her heart thundered louder than any sound in the house.
Camelia ran.
Skirts bunched in frantic fists, slippers skidding on the polished floor, she tore down the corridor. Andrew hurried after her, calling something she did not hear. All that existed was the study door at the end of the corridor and the man in it.
She seized the handle and flung the door open with all her weight. It slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed like a gunshot, and plaster dust drifted down in the sudden draught. Firelight spilled across the threshold, and there he was.
“Raph,” she called out, afraid that she was just dreaming of his return.
Raph stood by the fire, his coat still dusted with frost from the road, his hair wild, and his eyes bloodshot but unmistakably alive.
Camelia stopped dead in her tracks. “Does this mean that Montague is dead?” The words came out in a cracked whisper.
He shook his head once. “There was no duel, Camelia.”
The room tilted, and her knees buckled. In three strides, she crossed the carpet and crashed into him. Raph’s arms caught her instantly, crushing her to his chest. She felt as though he might dissolve into nothing if she didn’t feel him.
For three long heartbeats, they simply held each other, breathing the same air and feeling the same impossible relief.
Camelia pulled back just enough to pound her fists against his chest repeatedly.
“How could you do this to me?” she sobbed. “How could you leave me waiting all day, not knowing if you were alive or dead? Do you have any idea what today is?”
“I know,” he rasped, but allowed her to continue hitting him. He held onto her as she raged at him. “I know, Camelia. Hit me again if you need to. I deserve it.”
“You—you,” she choked, her fists weakening into desperate clutching. “You foolish man.”
Raph walked her backward until her legs hit the sofa. He sat her down, then dropped beside her and pulled her into his lap as though she weighed nothing. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and cried until her throat ached and her eyes burned.
He held her through every sob, one hand stroking her hair, and the other locked around her waist as though anchoring her to the earth.
When her tears finally ebbed into shudders, he slid down from the sofa and knelt in front of her, taking her trembling hands in his.
