“Bed,” Rhys said, his voice carrying the particular authority of a father who expected to be obeyed.
“Miss Grace and I have things to discuss, privately.”
The children exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them, and then, with evident reluctance, they began moving toward the stairs.
“Can Brutus stay?” Thistle asked. “He’s very good at keeping secrets.”
“Brutus may not stay.”
“But…”
“Thistle.” Mel’s voice was gentle but firm.
“Thank you for bringing my shell. Now please go back to bed.”
Thistle sighed dramatically but complied, following her sisters up the stairs. Mel watched them go, watched until they disappeared around the corner and the sound of their footsteps faded into silence.
Then she turned back to Rhys.
They stood in the entrance hall, the trunk still at her feet, the shell in her hand, the early morning light beginning to filter through the windows. The crisis had passed, the children had intervened and the departure had been prevented.
But there was still so much to say.
“I should unpack,” Mel said.
“You should.”
“And we should talk, properly, about expectations and practicalities and all the ways this could go wrong.”
“We should.”
“But first…” She hesitated, then placed the shell carefully on the entrance hall table.
“First, I think you owe me an explanation. About London. Mrs. Hartington, about everything that happened while you were away.”
“I went home alone.” The words came out quickly, as though he had been waiting to say them.
“I know what the gossip sheets implied. I know how it looked. But I escorted her to her carriage and I went home alone, and I spent the rest of the night wishing I was here instead.”
“Why did you let it happen? The drinking, the flirting, all of it?”
“Because I was scared. Because being the rake is easier than being the man I’m trying to become. Because you saw through me in the garden and I didn’t know how to face what that meant.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
“No. It’s not.” He met her eyes, unflinching.
“But it’s the honest one… I failed… I went back to old habits because they were comfortable. And I am asking you to forgive me, not because I deserve it, but because I am trying to be better.”
Mel considered this, weighing his words against his actions, his promises against his history.
“I forgive you,” she said finally.
“But I don’t trust you, not yet. Trust has to be earned through consistency, through presence, through doing the right thing even when the easy thing is more comfortable.”
“I know.”
“It will take time.”
