“You are lying,” Rees repeated, louder this time, ensuring every man in earshot could hear. “Victoria rejected you. You lured her to that garden with a forged note, forced yourself on her, and when she pushed you away—when she had the courage to fight back—you arranged for witnesses to find you at the right moment to ensure her ruin.”
Damian’s face flushed. “That is a serious accusation, Harcourt.”
“It is not an accusation. It is a statement of fact.” Rees stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in Sterling’s eyes. “You are a coward who preys on innocent women, who destroys reputations for your own pleasure. You could not bear that Victoria rejected you, so you made certain no one else would have her. Except you miscalculated, did you not? Because I did marry her. And now I am going to ensure everyone knows exactly what you are.”
The whispers started immediately, rippling outward from their confrontation. Rees caught fragments— “always wondered about that night”— “Sterling does have a reputation”— “the Richmond girl was known for her virtue before—”
“Challenge me and the whole story comes out,” Damian hissed, his polished veneer cracking. “Every sordid detail of how she—”
“Let it,” Rees interrupted, his voice carrying an authority that made lesser men step back. “Bring it all into the light. I will stand before any assembly you choose and tell them how Lord Sterling assaults innocent women and then destroys their reputations to hide his crimes. I will tell them about Catherine Winters, about the merchant’s daughter, about every woman you have hurt. My wife is innocent, and I will defend her honor against anyone who says otherwise. Including you.”
The challenge rang through the silent club. Damian looked around for support but found only speculative gazes, reassessment in the faces of men remembering other rumors, other women who had been ruined after catching Lord Sterling’s attention. The narrative was shifting beneath his feet, and he knew it.
“This is not over,” he snarled, but the threat lacked conviction.
“Yes, it is.” Rees’s voice held the finality of a door closing. “If you speak my wife’s name again, if you so much as look in her direction, I will destroy you. Not with violence—that would be too easy. I will destroy you with the truth. Every crime, every cruelty, every woman you have hurt. London society loves a scandal, Sterling. Shall we give them one?”
Damian’s jaw worked as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. He turned on his heel and strode from the club, his exit lacking the dramatic flair he likely intended. The silence held for a heartbeat longer, then conversation resumed with the force of a dam breaking.
Rafe clapped a hand on Rees’s shoulder. “Well done.”
But Rees barely heard him. His pulse hammered in his ears, his hands shook with the aftermath of confrontation, and all he could think was that he needed to get home. Needed to tell Victoria what had happened, needed to see her face when she realized she had been defended.
He grabbed his coat and ignored Alistair’s questions and Rafe’s offer to accompany him. The street outside blurred as he walked, then ran, his shoes slipping on wet cobblestones. Three weeks he had spent learning to see Victoria for who she truly was—brave enough to save her family at the cost of her own happiness, strong enough to endure society’s censure with grace, generous enough to try building something from the wreckage of their forced union.
She deserved to know that someone had finally stood up for her, had finally called Lord Sterling what he was—a predator, a liar, a coward. She deserved to know that her husband believed her, would defend her, would protect her from anyone who tried to harm her again.
The townhouse loomed before him, and Rees took the steps two at a time, bursting through the door with enough force to alarm the butler. He followed the thread of lamplight to the drawing room where he knew she would be, working at her embroidery.
When he entered and saw her there—wide-eyed, frightened, beautiful in her surprise—the words tumbled out before he could organize them.
“I encountered Sterling.”
***
The needle pierced the linen, drawing scarlet thread through the taut fabric. Each stitch became a small act of creation in the lamplight pooling across the drawing room. Outside, London’sevening sounds drifted through the windows: carriage wheels clattering on cobblestones, distant laughter from a gathering she would never attend, the city continuing itsroutine while she sat in solitude. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, forming the outline of a rose that would never wilt or disappoint.
Three weeks had passed since that evening at the pianoforte when Rees had uttered three words that still echoed in her quiet moments:I believe you.Such simple words had shifted something between them, like a key turning in a lock she had thought forever sealed. He came home for dinner now, most evenings at least, no longer fleeing to his club the moment propriety allowed. They spoke of books, music, and the weather; careful conversations skirting anything too personal or painful, but conversations nonetheless.
She paused, needle suspended above the fabric, recalling dinner just two nights before. Rees had actually laughed at something she said about Mrs. Pembridge’s ongoing battle with the new scullery maid, who insisted on rearranging the china cupboard according to her own mysterious system. The sound startled them both, genuine mirth breaking through his usual reserve. He quickly covered it with a cough, returning to his roasted fowl, but she had noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.
There were other moments, fleeting but precious. The way he steadied her elbow when she stumbled on the stairs yesterday, his touch lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. How he had asked her opinion on an investment opportunity in shipping, genuinely listening to her response rather than simply going through the motions. Small things, perhaps, but to Victoria, they felt momentous; green shoots pushing through frozen earth, suggesting that spring might yet come to this winter marriage.
Sometimes she caught him watching her with an expression she could not quite decipher. Not the cold assessment of their early days, nor the barely concealed disgust that had marked those first terrible weeks. This was something else, a kind of puzzled wonder, as if she were a book written in a language he was only beginning to understand. Those moments made her pulse quicken and hope flutter in her chest.
The needle resumed its rhythm, building something beautiful from thread and patience. She tried not to think about tomorrow evening’s soirée at the Ashfords’, another gauntlet of whispers and turned backs to endure. She tried not to wonder if Damian would be there, spreading his poison with that easy smile that had once fooled even her. He moved through society untouched while she remained marked by his cruelty.
Her fingers tightened on the embroidery hoop until her knuckles showed white against her skin. Three weeks ago, a lady at tea had mentioned seeing Lord Sterling at the opera, how charming he had been, how attentive to young Miss Fairworth. Victoria had smiled, nodded, and said nothing while bile rose in her throat. What could she say? That beneath that polished exterior lurked a predator? Who would believe her now, the desperate girl who had trapped poor Mr. Harcourt into marriage through trickery?
She forced her grip to loosen, focusing on the emerging rose beneath her needle. One petal complete, then another, each one perfect in its own way. This she could control; this she could make right. The past remained unchanged, but perhaps the future—
The front door opened with such force that it struck the wall, the sound echoing through the townhouse. Footsteps followed, not Rees’s usual measured tread but something urgent. Victoria’s needle froze mid-stitch, her heart seizing with sudden fear. Had something happened? Was he injured?
He burst through the drawing room door, and the embroidery hoop tumbled from her fingers. His appearance struck her, hair wild as if he had been running his hands through it, cravat hanging loose, evening coat askew. But it was his eyes that held her transfixed, burning with an intensity she had never seen before.
“I encountered Sterling,” he said without preamble, his words rough and breathless.
The name hit her like ice water, draining warmth from the room. Her hands began to tremble, and she clasped them together in her lap to hide it, though she suspected he saw anyway. The careful peace they had been building suddenly seemed vulnerable, as if Damian’s shadow could wither them with a touch.
