It breaks my heart to hear him say it. “What do we do?”
Bram pushes himself out of bed, begins pacing the room. “I can’t let her do this. It’s my life.”
“It’s not fair,” I say.
He crosses the room and cradles my cheek in his hand. “I’m not letting her choose for me. I already chose for myself. I chose you.”
My broken heart gives a little thump. “You said yesterday you’d do anything for me.”
I can see the moment the idea comes to him. His gray eyes flash. “We could run away, marry elsewhere. Then she’d be forced to accept you.”
I pretend to hesitate. “I’m scared.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
He takes me in his arms and kisses me passionately. I feel the ghost of Emmett all over me, but I go soft and pliant against him. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.
He’s the first one to pull back. “Go, now, before the sun rises, and pack a bag. I’ll come for you at dawn.”
“I love you,” I say. It’s not quite a lie. I want to love him, I really do.
“I love you, too.” He can’t lie. For the second time tonight, my heart shatters.
In a daze, I walk to Belgrave Square in my nightdress through the sleeping streets of London. I’m paranoid the whole walk, constantly swiveling my head to make sure I’m not being followed.
I’m reminded of the night I went out to look for Lydia so many months ago.
The back door service entrance of my family home is unlocked, as always. It’s been months since I’ve set foot in this house, andwhile nothing about it has changed, I feel so different from the girl I was when I last stood in this spot.
I race up the steps to my room and throw a valise on my bed to fill with clothes for the journey.
I change into my plainest traveling dress, braid my hair, then fling my wardrobe doors open and toss my few day dresses into the case. At the bottom of the wardrobe is my trusty pair of boots, still mud-caked from the day I won May Queen. Mama made me leave them behind when I moved into Kensington Palace.
I place them by the door, ready to run when it’s time.
On my tippy-toes, I reach to the highest shelf and grab my summer straw bonnet. The ribbons are stuck under something, and I pull once, twice, then go toppling backward. All of a sudden, dozens of sheets of paper rain down on me, floating like white snowflakes as they land noiselessly on the floor.
I pick up the closest one and find Bram’s face staring back at me.
He’s been rendered in waxy pastels, but the likeness is undeniable. The square jaw, sun-streaked hair, laughing gray eyes.
I pick up another one, a charcoal sketch of Bram sitting under a tree.
Another: a pencil sketch of Bram astride a galloping horse.
Another: a study of his hands in agonizing detail.
His profile.
His eyes.
His mouth.
There must be one hundred pictures of him here.
My door swings open, revealing Lydia, her white nightdress made dark blue by the dim moonlight.
I freeze, on my knees, the sketches surrounding me.
