“What happened?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She could imagine too easily, Damian’s smooth voice spreading lies, painting her as the desperate pursuer. Had he finally destroyed whatever growing regard Rees might have been developing? Had her husband come to tell her that he had heard new stories, worse stories, that whatever tentative bond they had been forming was severed?
Rees stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his gaze fixed on her, and Victoria felt the careful stitches of her hope beginning to unravel.
She sat frozen in her chair, watching a storm of emotions cross Rees’s face, confusion giving way to something fiercer, almost savage in its intensity. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, as if he had run miles rather than just from his club, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, charging the air in the drawing room.
Her mind raced through terrible possibilities. Had Damian told him something worse? Some new lie crafted to destroy whatever fragile understanding she and Rees had begun to build? The thought made her stomach lurch. She had seen how society chose to believe Damian’s version of events, how even decent people preferred the scandal of a desperate woman to the horror of acknowledging what men like Sterling were capable of. If he had convinced Rees that she had been his willing accomplice…
Rees crossed the room in three swift strides and, to her shock, dropped to his knees beside her chair. The gesture was unexpected, so contrary to his usual formality, that she could only stare as he reached for her hands, his fingers closing around hers with surprising gentleness despite their tremor.
“I told everyone at White’s that you are innocent of Damian’s accusations.” The words tumbled out, urgent and raw. His remarkable gold-flecked eyes, once cold, blazed with conviction as they held hers. “I told them he is a liar, a predator. That he forced himself on you and then destroyed your reputation when you fought him off.”
The world tilted. Victoria heard the words but could not quite process them, could not reconcile them with the weeks of cold silence, the careful distance, the way he had looked through her as if she were a painting—present but not truly seen. “You... you defended me?”
“Publicly. In front of half of London’sgentlemen’ssociety.” His jaw twitched. “I told them about the other women he has hurt and made it clear that anyone who speaks against your honor will answer to me.”
Tears came suddenly, weeks of strain, fear, and desperate hope breaking free all at once. They streamed down her cheeks while her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs finally given release. No one had defended her. Not since that awful night. Her father had tried but was laughed off. Her mother had wrung her hands. Society had turned its back. But Rees—Rees, who had every reason to despise her—had stood up in that bastion of masculine privilege and proclaimed her innocence.
His grip on her hands tightened, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across her skin, the touch so tender it made her cry harder. She watched through blurred vision as his expression shifted, the fierce protectiveness softening into something else, something that looked almost like regret.
“Victoria.” Her name on his lips sounded different than before, weighted with emotion. “I owe you an apology. A thousand apologies.” He paused, seeming to gather himself, his thumb still moving in those circles against her wrist. “I was angry about being trapped. Furious, actually. And I took that anger out on you when you were as much a victim as I was. More so, actually.”
She tried to speak, to protest, but he shook his head, silencing her gently.
“You were trapped by Sterling, by society, by desperation to save your family. You did not scheme to catch me in some calculated web. You were drowning and reached for the only lifeline available, even though it might pull someone else under with you.” His voice roughened. “I should have seen that sooner. Should have recognized the courage it took to make that choice. Instead, I added to your suffering with my coldness, my accusations.”
“I never wanted to trap you,” Victoria choked between sobs, the words she had held inside finally given voice. “Every night, I lie awake thinking about how I stole your freedom, your choice. You deserved to marry for love, for happiness, not because Mrs. Dove-Lyon rigged a game and I was desperate enough to let her.”
“I know.” The simple acknowledgment made her heart stutter. Rees shifted closer, still on his knees before her, their joined hands resting on the arm of the chair. “And perhaps it is madness, but I find I am no longer angry about it. This marriage, this life we have been forced into does not have to be a prison for either of us.”
She searched his face, hardly daring to hope. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying I want to start again. Not as two people forced together by circumstance, but as husband and wife truly trying to build something real.” His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Will you let me try? Will you give us a chance to make this marriage more than just a solution to scandal?”
The question hung between them, weighted with possibility. Victoria thought of the past weeks—the gradual thawing of his manner, the way he had begun coming home for dinner, their careful conversations that had started to feel genuine. She thought of his laughter two nights ago, unexpected and warm. The way he had steadied her on the stairs. How he had asked her opinion on his investments and actually listened.
“Yes,” she whispered, then added in a stronger voice, “Yes, I want that too.”
Something shifted in his expression, relief mixed with an emotion she could not quite name. He rose from his knees in one fluid movement and, before she could process what was happening, pulled her up from the chair and into his arms.
The embrace was nothing like their careful, distant interactions of the past weeks. His arms wrapped around her with gentle strength, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other pressed against her spine, holding her close but not constraining. She collapsed against him, her tears soaking into his waistcoat while her hands fisted in the fabric of his coat. He smelled of brandy and tobacco from the club, but underneath was something uniquely him—warm and solid.
“We will figure this out,” he murmured against her hair, his arms tightening as if he could hold her together through sheer will. “Together.”
The air in the drawing room shimmered with change, with the first stirrings of something that might grow into the marriage neither of them had expected but both were beginning to hope for. Victoria felt it in the way his heartbeat gradually slowed against her cheek, in the careful tenderness of his touch, in the way he showed no inclination to release her even as her tears finally began to subside.
They stood there in the lamplight, surrounded by familiar furnishings that had witnessed so much coldness between them, and for the first time since that terrible night at the Lyon’s Den, Victoria dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, something beautiful might grow from the ashes of their disastrous beginning.
Chapter 9
The formal dining room glowed with warmth that evening, dozens of candles reflecting off the polished mahogany table where Victoria sat across from Rees. The space between them felt less like an ocean and more like a bridge waiting to be crossed. Light flickered across the silver and crystal, casting shadows alive with the same energy that hummed between them. For the first time since their wedding, Victoria had dressed with care for dinner, not to please an indifferent husband, but with the anticipation of spending time with someone who might actually see her.
Rees had transformed from his earlier disheveled state into fresh evening wear, his cravat tied with less-than-perfect precision, as if he too had been somewhat distracted. When their eyes met across the table, he offered her a small smile, still uncertain but genuine, quickening her pulse.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he said as the footman served the soup course, his tone conversational rather than dutiful. “Your family’s estate is in Sussex, is it not?”
Victoria set down her spoon, surprised by the question and even more by the genuine interest in his voice. “Yes, near Brighton. It is not grand, nothing like your family’s holdings, but the grounds are lovely. There is a stream running through the eastern border where my sisters and I used to catch minnows in summer.” A smile tugged at her lips at the memory. “Margaret would shriek every time one brushed her fingers, but she insisted on trying anyway.”
“Margaret is the middle sister?”
