And something inside him, something that had been locked and bolted and reinforced with fifteen years of practiced indifference, released.
Not broke.Released.The way a fist unclenches. The way a held breath finally escapes.
He straightened his coat. He adjusted his crooked cravat. He ran his hand through his unshaved jaw and did not care.
He looked at Edward one last time. “Thank you.”
“Go, my friend. Go to her.”
Hugo walked out of White’s without looking back. The doorman held the entrance, and the afternoon air hit his face. London stretched before him, noisy and full of carriages that could take him anywhere.
He hailed the first one he saw.
“Thornwaite House,” he told the driver. “Quickly.”
The carriage lurched forward. Hugo sat in the cab and pressed his palms against his knees. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, and the fear was still there, coiled in his chest, ancient and familiar and whispering every reason he should turn back.
He did not turn back.
He thought about Lily. Not the version of her he had constructed in his mind. The real Lily. The one who had jumped naked into his lake on their wedding day. The one who had pressed her hand against Dorado’s neck and let a broken horse lean into her. The one who had looked at him across a hundred crowded rooms and seen, every single time, the man behind the mask, and wanted him anyway.
She had never asked him to be perfect. She had never asked him to be whole. She had asked him to be honest, and he had refused, and she had stayed anyway, and stayed, and stayed, until the stagnancy became unbearable because he would not meet her halfway.
The carriage rounded the corner onto his street. Hugo leaned forward and looked through the window.
The townhouse stood quiet. The front door was closed. No trunks on the steps. No carriage waiting.
She had already left.
Hugo threw open the carriage door before it had fully stopped. He strode to the entrance and pushed through the door.
Marsden stood in the hallway.
“Where is she?”
“Her Grace departed forty minutes ago, Your Grace. The Dover road.”
“Forty minutes.” Hugo ran his hand through his hair. “Was she… did she say anything before she left?”
Marsden hesitated. The hesitation itself was unusual. Marsden did not hesitate.
“Her Grace visited the stables last night, Your Grace. She spent some time with Dorado.”
“She visited Dorado?”
“Yes, Your Grace. And this morning, before she departed, she left something on the hall table. She asked that it remain there.”
Hugo turned. On the hall table, beside the silver tray where visiting cards were placed, sat a single folded piece of paper. He crossed to it and opened it.
It was the note he had written to her months ago, the one instructing her to wear her hair loose and let a few locks fall free. The one that ended withP.S. You have lovely collarbones. It would be a crime to keep hiding them.
She had kept it. All this time, through everything, she had kept it.
His hand closed around the paper. He pressed it against his chest and felt the edges dig into his palm.
“Have my horse saddled. Now.”
Marsden’s composure cracked by a fraction. “Your Grace?”
