His hands reached out for her, settling at her elbows but lifting her gently to her feet. Christina, wooden but willing, released her hands from her waist and gripped his hands, the warmth of him spreading into her chilled fingertips.
“Whoever this is, they will not succeed.” His head lowered a fraction, searching her face earnestly. “I will not allow them any success, either in separating us or ruining your standing.”
She sniffed, struggling to hold his gaze as hopelessness pressed into her heart, leaving her feeling as if sand had filled her legs and feet. “We do not even know who this is. We have a footman who is afraid of this gentleman, whoever he is, and a letter now demanding that I step back from you. Nothing more.” Her chest ached – sharp and tight with every breath as heat pricked behind her eyes.
“My darling Christina.”
Her hand was lifted to his lips, and a tender kiss pressed to her knuckles. Tears fell to her cheeks as she closed her eyes, certain that this was the last moment they would spend together.
Lord Coventry said nothing more, drawing her closer as his arms slid around her waist. Christina went willingly, her head to his shoulder as she too wrapped her arms around him as best she could, his solid frame steadying her. She did not know how long they stood there for, but slowly, her heartbeat began to quieten from its frantic pace, his reassurance settling her.
“I will not allow this fiend to separate us, Christina,” he breathed into her hair, his words a promise that she could cling to. “I was already set back from you once, and the agony of that was a daily torment. To have you in my arms again is not a pleasure I intend to give up.”
Lifting her head, she looked up into his eyes as a trembling release of breath broke from her lips. Fear was still clinging to her, but one by one, it was releasing its cruel fingers. Lord Coventry brushed a tear from her cheek and smiled gently.
“I still love you, Christina. I think that I have always loved you, even when the shadows washed over me, and my anger was a fury in the pit of my stomach. This is not what our intention was, I know. We thought to stay back from one another, to give the appearance of an interest in a connection for fear of what might come upon us – but now that it has come, I cannot and will not allow it to push itself between us. My heart is still yours. It shall never belong to any other.” His hand returned to her cheek, cupping it lightly as his eyes searched hers, an intensity there that stole away her breath. “Say that you will fight this, Christina. Say that you have strength enough to battle against this unseen enemy, for the sake of our love.”
Her eyes closed. She knew what he was asking of her, asking her to set aside her fear and dread and to take hold of what her heart longed for. Could she deny it? Could she truly deny thather heart loved him in return? The fear of what might happen to her reputation – to her family’s standing – nipped at her as she opened her eyes to see him waiting there, saying nothing but his eyes yearning for her to answer.
“I trust you, Coventry.”
Something inside her cracked open as she spoke those words and, rather than pushing weakness into her, sent heat into her frame. She was caught up with a fierce, desperate need to be close with him, to show him – and show herself – that this letter was not about to rip them apart again. Pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, she put her hands about his neck and drew her lips to his.
The moment their lips touched, a rush of trembling relief swept through her. Lord Coventry responded in an instant, his arms tightening around her waist as he held her close. Christina leaned into it, her fingers threading through his hair as she poured all of her longing and fear and hope into the press of her lips against his.
Drawing back, her breathing unsteady, she held his gaze with a steadiness that had been absent from her before. His eyes were wide, the curve of his lips lifting in gentle hope.
“My love for you will remain steadfast,” she said, her voice shaking but her words determined. “I will not allow this letter to rip you from me.”
Lord Coventry let out a slow breath, his eyes closing briefly as he smiled. “The joy your words bring me is inexpressible, Christina.”
The sound of footsteps had them springing apart, with Christina hurriedly returning to her seat. Lord Coventry put his hands behind his back and shot Christina a twinkling smile which made her blush furiously, just as her sister came back into the room.
“I have spoken to the maid.” Sophie shook her head. “It seems as if a street child handed in the note to the butler, who then gave it to the maid. So we do not know who it is that has written it.”
“No, we do not.” Lord Coventry frowned as he glanced from Christina to Sophie. “But we need not wonder at who wrote this, Lady Wickton. It bears the same mark as the letters two years ago — and we know, now, whose hand shaped them.”
Sophie drew in a sharp breath. “You mean that he has — ”
“Dared to do it again. Yes.” Isaac’s jaw tightened. “Lord Pennington was not content with separating us then. He is not content now. Only he has less patience this time, and less cover. George’s confession has cost him his eyes and ears in this household, and the shape of his desperation is beginning to show.”
Christina watched her sister take this in. She had told Sophie everything that morning, over the first pot of tea — George’s testimony, the forged letters, the bribe of thirty pounds, Pennington’s two years of patient calculation. Sophie had wept with the anger of a sister who had believed the man a mere irritant and now knew him for what he was. But reading the new letter aloud had set the knowledge alight again. They were no longer speaking of past injury. They were looking at the present.
“He is bolder than I thought him,” Sophie said at last. Her fingers had gone to the fabric of her skirt, pleating it in a quiet, distracted rhythm. “To write this, to deliver it to your door — he must feel that his time is running short.”
“It is.” Isaac’s voice was low. “Lord Granton told me, some weeks ago, that Pennington is four thousand pounds in debt. His father left him with the title and a ruin beneath it. A man in his circumstance has only so many roads to solvency.”
“Marriage to an heiress,” Sophie said, quietly.
“Yes.” Isaac’s gaze shifted to Christina. “And that is why one thing yet confounds me. George could tell us the what and the how, but he did not know the why. If Pennington has fixed himself upon you, Christina, there must be a reason beyond mere ill feeling toward me. What draws him to your hand specifically?”
Christina felt the question land. It was a thing she had not thought to tell him — it had seemed irrelevant, a private arrangement of no interest to the man she loved. She had told her brother, only that morning in the carriage a week ago, that Lord Coventry was unaware of it, and she had felt nothing wrong in saying so. Now, with the letter lying between them and Isaac’s eyes steady on her face, the withholding felt like a small omission that had grown into something larger.
“There is an inheritance,” she said. “From my mother’s father. It was his wish that his estate be divided between his granddaughters upon their marriages. Sophie received her portion when she wed Lord Wickton. Mine waits for the day of my own wedding.” She paused, watching him. “I did not think to mention it. It is not a great fortune by the standards of the ton — some twelve thousand pounds — but it is a sum.”
Isaac’s face went very still. He did not speak for a long moment. Then he ran one hand over his jaw, exhaled, and looked away toward the window, where the afternoon light was slanting low across the garden.
“Twelve thousand pounds,” he said. “Three times the sum that would clear his debts and leave him a respectable income beside.”
