"You do not understand what you are saying," Arabella protested. "The mark of shame would follow you wherever you went. No respectable gentleman would ever consider you as a bride."
"Then I shall marry someone unrespectable," Livia interrupted with the sort of reckless courage that reminded Devon forcibly of their mother. "Or I shall remain unmarried and become a scandalous spinster who travels the world and writes shocking novels. Either fate sounds infinitely preferable to watching the two people I love most destroy themselves for the sake of propriety."
The passionate declaration from his typically retiring sister struck Devon with the force of revelation. Here was the woman Livia was becoming. Not the fragile, traumatized girl he had been protecting all these years, but a strong, independent creature capable of making her own choices and facing their consequences.
"You would truly come with us?" he asked with obvious amazement.
"Try to leave me behind," Livia challenged with a smile that transformed her delicate features entirely. "I have spent three years hiding from life in drawing rooms and country houses. The time has come to live authentically, whatever the cost."
Devon looked between the two remarkable women who had become the center of his universe, seeing in their faces a reflection of his own desperate hope. Perhaps love could indeed triumph over duty, perhaps happiness was worth any sacrifice society might demand.
"Then we are agreed," he said with growing excitement. "We leave tonight, as soon as arrangements can be made."
"Wait," Arabella interrupted, though her voice held regret rather than rejection. "There is one consideration we have not discussed. What of Mr. Whitmore? When he discovers that I have fled rather than honouring our betrothal, his rage will be considerable. He will not simply accept defeat gracefully."
"Let him rage," Devon said with cold satisfaction. "Once we are gone, his threats will hold no power over us."
"But what if he chooses to publish his accusations anyway?" Arabella persisted. "What if he spreads rumours about my conduct here, your treatment of your sister's companion, the exact nature of our relationship? The scandal would follow us even to the Continent."
Devon's expression grew grim as he considered this possibility. Whitmore was indeed vindictive enough to pursue such a campaign of character assassination, and the resulting gossip would make their exile considerably more difficult to bear.
"Then we must ensure he has no opportunity to spread such poison," he said with quiet determination. "I believe it is time Mr. Whitmore learned that there are consequences for threatening those under my protection."
"Devon, no," Arabella said with sudden alarm, recognizing the dangerous glitter in his dark eyes. "You cannot challenge him now, not when we are so close to freedom. If something should happen to you..."
"Nothing will happen to me," Devon assured her with gentle confidence. "I have no intention of fighting him honourably. A man who would prey upon vulnerable women forfeits all claim to gentlemanly consideration."
Chapter 15
"I believe that we must accept the inevitable with whatever grace we can muster."
Devon's voice carried across the morning room with such studied resignation that Arabella felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces. He stood before the tall windows, his back rigid with the sort of formal composure she had not seen from him since her earliest days in his household. The morning light cast his aristocratic profile in sharp relief, emphasizing the harsh lines of duty that had settled over his features like a funeral shroud.
"But….?" she managed, though her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"Tomorrow you shall be wed," Devon continued with the same terrible calm, never turning to face her. "It would be... inappropriate for me to interfere further with arrangements that have been so publicly announced. Your reputation, your family's standing, even Livia's prospects—all depend upon this union proceeding without further scandal."
Arabella gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of his betrayal. After everything they had shared, after his passionate declarations of love and desperate plans for escape, he was abandoning her to face a fate worse than death with nothing more than polite resignation.
"But yesterday you spoke of leaving," she whispered. "Of taking ship to the Continent, of building a life together away from society's cruel judgments. Was that all mere... fantasy?"
Devon's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, the only sign that her words had found their mark. "Yesterday I allowed emotion to override rational consideration. Upon reflection, I find that such schemes are the stuff of Gothic novels, not practical solutions for people of sense and breeding."
The casual dismissal of their shared dreams struck her like a physical blow, and Arabella felt tears prick her eyes despite her determination to maintain what remained of her dignity.
"I see," she said quietly. "And what of your feelings? What of mine? Are we to pretend that what passed between us was merely... a temporary madness?"
Finally, Devon turned to face her, and the cold indifference in his dark eyes was more devastating than any anger could have been. "What passed between us was a mistake, Miss Greystone. One that I deeply regret if it has given you false hope regarding our future. You would do well to focus your thoughts upon the marriage that awaits you rather than dwell upon... impossible dreams."
Each word was delivered with surgical precision, designed to cut away any lingering attachment between them with clinical efficiency. Yet something in his eyes, a flash of pain quickly suppressed, suggested that this cruel dismissal was costing him dearly.
"You cannot mean this," Arabella said with growingdesperation. "Not after everything we have shared, everything we have confessed to one another. Tell me this is some elaborate scheme, some plan to protect us both until..."
"There is no scheme," Devon interrupted with sharp finality. "There is merely a recognition that I have allowed my baser instincts to compromise a lady under my protection. Tomorrow's ceremony will remedy that error and restore you to your proper place in society."
The formal language, so at odds with the passionate intimacy they had shared, made Arabella's stomach churn with nausea. How could he stand there speaking of her as though she were merely a problem to be solved rather than the woman he had claimed to love above all else?
"My proper place," she repeated with bitter irony. "As the wife of a man whose very touch makes my skin crawl, whose character you yourself have proven to be thoroughly corrupt."
