“You care,” he corrected. “And that changes everything.”
His thumb traced the back of her hand.
“I love your courage,” he said. “The courage that brought you to my bedside when the nightmares came.”
She gave a small shake of her head.
“That was fear,” she murmured.
“It was braverydespitefear.”
His gaze softened.
“I love your mind. Your wit. Your quiet humour that surfaces when you believe no one listens. I love the way you restore order to chaos without seeking praise. I love that you treat every soul in this household as though they matter.”
He paused.
“And I love,” he finished, voice steady now, “that you have made me believe I might matter as well.”
The room seemed very still.
“I have never courted you,” he said after a moment. “Not properly. I did not pay you the deliberate attentions a gentleman ought to bestow when he seeks a lady’s favour. Nor did I put to you the question in the manner you deserved.”
His fingers tightened around hers.
“So, I ask you now, Eleanor. Not as a legal arrangement. Not as a necessity. But as a man who knows his own heart at last.”
His voice lowered, stripped of pride.
“Will you choose me? Will you allow me to spend the rest of my life proving worthy of the love I bear you?”
The question hung between them, weighted with meaning.
Eleanor knew precisely what he was asking. This was no mere declaration—it was a proposal in truth. Not the careful practicality of Lady Rutledge’s drawing room, but a vow made with open eyes and unguarded heart.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The word trembled—but it held.
His eyes closed for the briefest instant, as though the answer had struck him with a force he had not dared anticipate. When he looked at her again, they shone.
“Yes,” she repeated, stronger now. “I will choose you; every day of our lives. And I will let you choose me in return.”
“Eleanor—”
“Allow me.” She covered his hands with her own. “You have given me the most beautiful words I have ever received. Let me answer you.”
He nodded.
“I love you,” she said.
There was no haste now. No fear.
“I have loved you since you quoted Dante back to me at Lady Rutledge’s gathering and I realised you had truly listened. I have loved you since you noticed my trembling hands and chose kindness over amusement. I have loved you since you proposed a practical arrangement—and somehow made it sound like something rare and singular.”
A broken sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob.
“I love your scars,” she continued. “Not because they make you heroic—even though you truly are—but because they are yours. They tell the story of a man who walked into fire for others and bore the marks of that choice.”
