“Whatever comes when we confront Harold, we shall meet it together,” he said.
Her lips curved with a softness that took his breath.
“Together,” she echoed. “As true partners.”
The word settled over him like a benediction. They stood for a long time in the quiet, the only sound the crackle of the lamp flame and the hush of the late hour.
Around them lay scattered notes and papers, the detritus of danger and discovery. But within that fragile cocoon of library lamplight, they found something far rarer than ancient artefacts or scholarly triumphs. They had found each other.
Neither spoke again. They only stood together, hands entwined, foreheads inclined, the silence between them a vow in itself. Not of grand declarations nor extravagant promises, but of constancy, of respect, and of a love that had taken root slowly—woven through shared labours, quiet understanding, and the trust that had grown between them. And it was enough.
Chapter Twenty
Catherine woke long before the bell. Morning light filtered through the drawn curtains, soft and pale, not yet strong enough to warm the chill in the room.
She lay still beneath the counterpane, her heart unquiet, her thoughts a tangle of joy and alarm. Her fingers moved to her lips of their own accord, brushing lightly where his mouth had touched hers.
The memory of his hands on her face, the reverence in his whisper, and the gentleness of that first kiss bloomed with aching clarity. The way their heads had rested together, as if no world existed outside that circle of lamplight and quiet understanding.
What have I done? She wondered, lifting a hand to her cheek. She had meant every word she had spoken to Marcus, and his own had thrilled her more than she could admit. Yet the strain of Harold Fitzwilliam’s suspected crimes and the secrecy that bound them both weighed heavily upon her. What if, in the press of such uncertainty, they had surrendered to a moment that was not yet truly theirs to claim?
She sat up slowly, pressing her palms to her eyes. She had allowed herself to feel, and now the intimacy of that moment lay heavy in her chest. Not unpleasant, not regretted, but terrifying in its vulnerability.
She had lowered every guard she had so carefully held since their wedding day. She had shown him her affection without reserve, had responded to his touch as though they were not bound by arrangement but by desire, affection, and hope.
What if he regrets it? She thought.What if he thinks less of me for being so forward? I yielded so fully—too soon, perhaps.
And yet the truth was that his kiss had left her breath unsteady, her very self undone in a way she could neither disguise nor forget.
She turned away from the bed and moved to the dressing table, folding her dressing gown more tightly about her as if that could shield her from memory.
A moment later, Rosalind entered and began laying out her day dress with the quiet competence that had become second nature. Neither of them spoke. The hush was companionable but somehow tinged with awareness.
Rosalind moved behind her, fingers lifting sections of Catherine’s hair to brush them into smooth order. Her cousin’s hands were gentle but sure, moving with practised ease. Yet Catherine caught the brief pause, the way the brush hesitated before moving again.
“I thought I heard the library door close rather late last night,” she said at last, her voice carefully even.
Catherine kept her gaze fixed on her reflection, on the pale face and too-wide eyes staring back at her.
“I could not sleep,” she said. “I thought a book might soothe my thoughts.”
Rosalind nodded.
“I see,” she said. The brush made another slow pass. “And did it?”
Catherine shrugged, staring through her reflection rather than at it in the looking glass.
“I am not sure,” she said quietly. Her hands folded in her lap, tightly clenched to hide their trembling.
Rosalind did not press her. The silence that followed held no judgment—only sympathy. And it steadied Catherine more than any spoken comfort might have done.
If I am to face this day, I must remember who I am, she told herself firmly. She was not only Catherine Pemberton, Countess of Penwood, but a woman capable of bearing whatever consequences her choices might bring.
She lifted her chin as Rosalind pinned the final strand of hair in place.
***
Marcus awoke with a start, though the room remained still.
