Her voice softened, but did not tremble. “And hundreds of families lose their livelihood. Yours included.”
He shut his eyes for a moment—because his vision burned, and he could not let her see. When he opened them, she was watching him with the kindest, fiercest stubbornness he had ever seen.
“So,” she said, drawing a breath she did not quite hide, “there is only one logical arrangement.”
His heart seized, and something like a bolt of lightning shot down his spine until his limbs ached.
Still, she waited.
“Miss Hale,” he whispered hoarsely, “you cannot mean—youcannotbe suggesting—”
“A marriage,” she said simply. “A business partnership.” Her voice trembled faintly, but she braced herself and lifted her chin. “I ask nothing more. It is the most rational solution. It is what Bell designed for the estate to survive.”
He stared at her.
Unable to move.
Unable to breathe.
She continued, as though unaware that she was breaking his world open. “I ask no sentiment. No promise you do not already live by. Only a willingness to combine what we each hold—for the sake of the mill. For the hands. For those who would be turned out without our… sacrifice, if one wanted to call it that.”
He pressed a fist to his mouth, a raw sound escaping him before he could stop it. A tear—he felt it, impossible, humiliating—burned its way down his cheek.
She startled. “Mr. Thornton—”
“Why?” His voice broke, low and ragged. “Why would you offer this? Why would you—” He swallowed hard. “You would marry me for the sake of business?”
Her lips parted.
But he wasn’t finished.
“Or is it,” he whispered, trembling, “because you pity me? Because you would spare me the shame of failure? Because you believe I cannot bear to lose the mill?”
She put out a hand. “Mr. Thornton, I—”
He shook his head, chest heaving. “Miss Hale… I beg you—tell me you do not mean this out of mercy.”
Her silence cut through him.
For a moment, she only stood there—breath ragged, color rising high along her throat, her lashes trembling as she dropped her gaze. He had seen her composed under grief, under accusation, under social censure.
He had never seen her like this.
“Miss Hale,” he said again, softer, throat raw, “Imustknow. Tell me you do not offer yourself out of mercy!”
She opened her mouth—closed it—opened it again, no sound emerging. Her cheeks darkened almost painfully. She looked at the papers instead, her hands curling as though she wished she could hide behind them.
This could not be pity! Not duty. Itmustbe something far more glorious.
When she still would not answer, when she would not even look at him, something inside him steeled with a kind of terrible clarity. Without another word, he turned from her.
He crossed the study—slow, deliberate—to the stool where he had set his satchel. His hands shook once as he unbuckled the leather strap. Inside lay the book. Hale’s book. The one Margaret had returned to him with that impossible, unforgettable ribbon inside.
He slid the ribbon free. It gleamed faintly in the morning light.
He shut the satchel and carried the ribbon back to her—each step heavier, more certain, more unbearably exposed. She lifted her eyes only when his shadow fell across her.
“Miss Hale,” he said quietly, “did you leave this for me on purpose?”
