She looked up at Henry. “Why did my father write to you?”
“I wrote to him first.” He looked self-conscious; his left hand played with the brass buttons on his coat. “Because of the letter you sent me, explaining everything. I could tell it pained you to lose everything you’d grown up with. I wish your father had never forced you to choose between love and family.”
She started to lift a hand to his face, but her father’s letter crackled in her grip and she abandoned the gesture. “I forced the choice more than he.”
He acknowledged her words with an if-you-say-so lift of his brows. “I wanted to let him know you were well. Caro told me your maiden name and even recalled your father’s direction. He lives in Ward Manor, just as he always did.”
“After all this time,” she said. “It seems impossible that nothing has changed.”
“I wouldn’t say that. He feels regret, as you can see. I believe he wishes to have his daughter back in his life.”
He watched her with raised eyebrows, his expression a patient cipher. “Are you glad for this letter, Frances?”
She looked at the letter again. She felt as though her eyes could not truly be open, seeing what was before them. This letter itself. Henry, uncovering her deepest hurt. Seeing how thin her skin was.
But it was real; here was the quaver and shake of her father’s pen over the lines. It offered forgiveness and the chance to forgive. To stitch closed a wound that was almost ten years old.
It would always leave a scar. The wound was too old, too ragged, for anything less. Yet it was a healing, even if an imperfect one.
“You wrote to my father,” she repeated. The paper fell from her hand to the floor, and she wrapped her arms tight around him in a quick, crushing embrace. “Yes, I’m glad. I’m very, very glad. I can scarcely believe you did that for me.”
“I wanted to give you more than myself.” His lips moved in her hair, tickling her scalp. “I wanted to help you regain some of the things you lost over the years.”
“Is this why you made me wait day after day? For this letter?”
“Partly. I wanted you to get the other letters first too. I wanted you to have the attention you missed as a younger woman. It’s your due by worth as well as birth.”
Her head reared back. “All those letters I’ve been pestered with. You sent them?”
“No, not at all. I merely mentioned to a few influential people how enjoyable your company was. The rest was simply the ton doing what it loves best: following a good story to ground as surely as a hound scents a fox.”
“That is a terrible analogy if I’m meant to be the fox.” She rested in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, liking the scratch of her jaw against the fine woven wool of his coat. “You are fortunate that I am stupid with surprise right now. I’m not even going to chastise you for not sending me the one letter I truly wanted.”
He rested his hand on her back, and she breathed into its comforting weight. “What will you do, Henry? Now that you’ve conquered the polite world?”
“That depends on you. I have a small estate not far outside of London, but I’m willing to stay at Tallant House so I might see you every day if you’ll allow that honorable courtship you once agreed to. I’ll understand if you won’t, after my dueling and my taking offense at the letters you wrote. I’ve had enough pride for seven men.”
“I’ve always thought you extraordinary,” Frances murmured. “The pride of seven men, though—I hadn’t expected that much good fortune.”
His hand played up her spine, and she couldn’t remember how to tease him anymore.
His eyes were lapis lazuli, deep and clear. Even Frances knew how precious that color was, and she was no artist. “You’ve told my father I already accepted you.”
“And so you did, once. You agreed to my suit just before we had our exceedingly memorable encounter with Lord Wadsworth. But if you wish to part from me, I’ll still do what I can to make things right between you and your father. I’ll blame everything on myself. Former soldiers can be unpredictable bastards.”
“So can artists.”
His mouth twitched, and he released her and took a step back. “There’s no hope for me, then. But I’ll tell you this. Your letter gave me much to think about, Frances. I believe honor is not an act of a day, and it is not destroyed by one failure. It is a matter of intent as much as success. As is trust.”
“So the means to the end do matter, even if the end is what you wish.” She swallowed, but there was a lump in her throat that would not dislodge.
“The means always matter because they tell the world what type of person you are.”
His eyes fixed hers, deep and true. “As I said, it’s a matter of intent. I was too hasty before when I criticized yours—too hurt, really. But I know you acted out of great kindness. I understand you, past and present, and I trust you for the future. You loved me enough for two women—in person and in letters. If you’ll only let me, I’ll love you enough for two. It’s no more than you deserve.”
“It is more,” she said. Her throat caught. “Damn. I’m not going to cry. That would completely undermine my dignity.”
“We can’t have that.” He patted his chest. “But if you decide to toss dignity aside, I have a handkerchief.”
“Because a soldier is always prepared?”
“That, and an artist always has paint on his hands.” He cleared his throat. “So. Whether we’re artists or soldiers or… I don’t know… pig farmers, I believe we’ll make excellent allies. If you agree to my proposal, that is. You haven’t actually said the words. I may have the vapors if you prolong the suspense any longer.”
She smiled. “I almost feel I ought to write it down, given our history. ‘HENRY IS TOO DEMANDING.’ Though I am too.”
They had overcome the weight of loss, the depth of need, the high wall of pride. Compared to those obstacles, love seemed fragile in its beauty.
But when shared by two, it was not fragile at all.
She wrapped her arms around him again, breathing in his clean heat, drawing his solid body as close as her strength could manage. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes to it all.”
***
Relief flooded Henry’s body. He’d not known how their treacherous reunion would go, whether Frances would want to reconcile with her father. Or with Henry himself.
Now she was nestled under his chin, right as right could be. If he focused, he could feel the shuddery beat of her heart against his own ribs. It was as if they were one body. Thank God, she was willing to forgive.
Although… this didn’t quite feel like forgiveness anymore. Forgiveness didn’t rub itself against his body with a low, throaty sigh. Forgiveness didn’t toy with the buttons on his dove-gray waistcoat. Forgiveness didn’t slip them free from their holes.
This was far better than forgiveness. It was love. With a fair smattering of passion to brighten the tone.
Frances slid her hand beneath one layer of fabric, then another. “Madam,” Henry said in a mock-surprised voice. “Are your intentions entirely honorable?”
She laughed. “Not at the moment.”
“Perfect.” When she tugged at his coat sleeves, he flexed his shoulders forward to allow the snug garment to slip free.
With sharp, hungry tugs at his clothing, she undressed him. He helped when he could, twisting his way out of layer after layer, even as his own hand fumbled with the buttons of her bodice. He touched the laces of her stays, and she shook her head.
“Better leave them on. I can’t imagine asking Lady Tallant’s maid to come help me dress, can you?”
“She’s Emily to you now, since you’ll be sisters.” He tilted his head. “But perhaps you’re right about the stays. I’ll have to be creative.”