Because she was talking to him.
In that moment, he realized something terrifyingly foolish. He was grateful for her anger. Grateful for every word flung at his chest like arrows. Grateful that she cared enough to yell. Grateful that she hadn’t shut him out entirely. God help him, he wanted to be the kind of man she could scold like this for the rest of his life.
Valentine watched her with quiet resolve, the tail end of her scolding still hanging heavy in the air between them. Her cheeks were flushed, her lashes wet, and he suspected it wasn’t just the water or the cold.
He kept his voice low, careful not to spook what little peace had settled. “Cecilia,” he said gently. “Can we talk?”
She stiffened. “I have nothing to say to you. My carriage awaits. I shall return to my sister’s home as I came.” Her tone was clipped, firm. She turned as though to leave.
Valentine took a step forward, his eyes dropping to her lips. “Do you truly think I will let you leave this late at night?”
She made a sound of frustration under her breath, a disbelieving scoff. “You cannot stop me,” she said flatly.
But then he stepped forward, only half a pace, and he caught it. The subtle shift in her body, the instant retreat, as though even his nearness was a threat. Still, when he reached for her wrist, she didn’t flinch. Her arm was cold and damp beneath his fingers, but she did not pull away.
He took that fragile permission and said nothing more, only guided her gently, slowly, down the corridor. Step by step. At her chamber door, she hesitated. Then she stepped inside without a word.
Valentine paused, his fingers lingering on the doorframe. “I’ll wait here,” he said softly, not daring to follow. “Take your time. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
Then he shut the door and remained outside. Waiting. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing, breath slow and shallow. In the stillness, Norman’s words came back to him, and he pondered them.
He had love to give to her.
That was the thought that came, clear as spring water and just as startling. Of all the things he lacked, this one thing, this one truth remained.
He had love to give to her.
He didn’t know if it would be enough. He didn’t know if it would fix what he had broken or soften the anger in her eyes. He didn’t know if it could make her happy, or whole, or even willing to try. But it was all he had left that was real. It was the one thing that made the rest of him make sense.
He could not give her happiness, how could he, when he had not known it himself in so long? Not truly. Not until her. She was the only thing that had stirred joy in him in years, the only one who made the silence inside him feel like something warm instead of something hollow.
But love? That, he had in him in terrible, overflowing measure.
He wanted to give it to her in quiet hours and chaotic ones. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t perfect. But it was his, this love, and it belonged to her. Entirely. He could no longer imagine life without her. His heart had already chosen its ruin, and the ruin was Cecilia.
She was the one who had undone his heart. She was the one who had undone his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Cecilia stood before the door, her hand resting on the brass knob, cool and still beneath her fingertips. The soft fabric of her dry gown clung to her, freshly changed, but her skin still felt feverish with the memory of the lake. Her hair, loosely pinned, still held the scent of wild water and fear.
She had almost drowned, but for some reason, she couldn’t even dwell on that fact.
She had every mind to turn back, to not open the door, to let Valentine wait until his pride wore thin and he left on his own. But she knew he wouldn’t.
Her heart beat steadily, then faster, then faster still. It wasn’t rage that carried it forward now, it was dread. That this talk, when it finally happened, would be the end. Whatever stood trembling between them would finally break and fall into something that couldn’t be repaired. But she had to face it. Not because she wanted closure. Not because she wanted to beg.
But because of Abigail.
She could not vanish again, not when she had promised Abigail she wouldn’t. If Valentine no longer wanted her, that was his decision. She would accept it. She would not fight him. But she would fight for her place in Abigail’s life.
If he could not love her, he would at least let her love his daughter.
Her fingers tightened on the knob. Her forehead brushed the door’s edge, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and let her breath steady itself as she opened the door to him.
Once the door opened, she found him there, waiting, as though he had not moved from that spot all along. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. She saw that he, too, had changed and was no longer in the soaked shirt and breeches from the lake, but in a fresh waistcoat and a clean linen shirt, though his dark hair was still damp at the edges, curling slightly.
No words passed between them as they made their way to the bed, both sinking onto its edge. A full hand’s breadth of space separated them, like an invisible wall neither had the courage to cross. Cecilia looked down at her hands, laced tightly in her lap. She could hear his breathing. Could feel the tension in the mattress, in the air between them.
