I will always adore you, as I have done most of my life. I will love you even if you marry this woman, but know that it pains me that you wish to do this. I know it is not my place to tell you what to do, but know this—despite my harsh words, I love you, and I know you will love me always.
Yours, Rose.
Emma’s hands trembled as she lowered the letter to her lap. This had been written just before their wedding – or perhaps his wedding to Ophelia – either way, it had been written recently.
Her eyes remained fixed on the page, though its meaning continued to echo in her mind. She struggled to reconcile the sentiments written so plainly before her with what she thought she knew of her husband.
There was no mistaking the affection in those lines—affection deepened by years, even decades. The author was not a casual paramour or a passing infatuation. This was someone who had shared an enduring bond with Evan, someone he had trusted enough to keep their letters safe. And yet…Was Evan in love with someone he could not have? Another man’s wife perhaps? Or someone below his station? Was that why he’d reacted so strongly to Jonathan’s romance with Brigitte?
Setting the letter aside, Emma clasped her trembling hands together in her lap and stared out the window. Her heart waged war against itself, torn between anger, pain, and the stirrings of an unfamiliar fear.
For a long while, Emma sat in silence, the crumpled pages beside her seeming to radiate their quiet agony. She could not bring herself to read further—not yet. But the fragment she had glimpsed was enough to leave her shaken.
One thing was now abundantly clear: She could not stay here, could not look at him, could not endure his smiling face and lying words. She had to leave.
And there was but one place she could think of which might provide her with respite.
CHAPTER 39
Evan
Evan dismounted his horse in a flurry of motion, the rhythmic pounding of hooves fading behind him as he approached his estate’s grand doors. His morning had been a whirlwind. After spending much of the night debating with Jonathan what could be done about his predicament, the answer had come to him.
Truly, it had been obvious, painfully so. Thus, he’d set off early to try and set his plan into motion, and to his delight it had come about rather splendidly. He could hardly wait to tell Emma the idea he’d had – and while he was at it, he’d also tell her the whole truth about Rose. It was time. Past time, in fact.
As he entered, the steady hum of the household greeted him, but something was amiss. He saw it the moment Brigitte appeared at the top of the stairs, her countenance one of unease.
He handed his gloves and hat to a waiting footman, a growing unease coiling in his stomach. He needed answers—immediately.
“Brigitte!” he called sharply, the sound carrying through the vast entry hall.
The maid came down the stairs and as she did, he saw the worry in her eyes. Her dark hair slightly askew, as though she had been fretting or rushing about. Her expression was pinched with worry, and she clutched a shawl tightly in her hands.
“Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, dipping a brief curtsy but stepping closer than propriety might allow, her anxiousness palpable.
Evan’s brows furrowed as he looked her over. “Where is Her Grace?” he demanded. “I must speak with her.”
Brigitte hesitated, the words clearly catching in her throat. “She… she left, Your Grace. I tried to stop her, but?—”
“Left?” Evan’s voice sharpened, his composure unraveling. “What do you mean, left? Where did she go?”
“I—I do not know,” Brigitte admitted in a rush, wringing the shawl in her hands. “She returned from seeing her sisters, went straight to her chamber, and was quiet for some time. But then she emerged looking distressed—fierce, as if something was driving her, though she was also crying – it was peculiar.She said she was leaving and hurried away with a small bag with clothing. When I begged to accompany her, she insisted—insisted!—I remain here.”
His eyes narrowed. “She left alone?”
“Yes,” Brigitte replied, her voice thick with guilt. “She would not hear of anyone joining her. She said she needed to be alone, that it was something she had to do for herself.”
Evan's lips pressed into a grim line, and his tone grew icy. “When did this happen?”
“Two hours ago, perhaps less. She left through the east garden gate; I saw her myself.”
Brigitte’s hands trembled slightly, and her voice dropped to a pleading whisper. “Your Grace, she was not herself. She looked so hurt, so… betrayed. Please, what has happened? Why would she run off so suddenly?”
Evan didn’t answer. He turned sharply, heading toward the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he reached Emma’s chambers. Throwing the door open, he was met with an unsettling stillness.
The room bore no sign of disorder. Everything appeared in its place—except for the bed, where a bundle of papers lay scattered atop the coverlet. One piece had been unfolded, left open as though in deliberate display.
Crossing the room in long strides, Evan snatched up the letter, the unmistakable words in flowing script piercing him like a dagger. It was Rose’s letter—his Rose.
