Graham’s control snapped and he lunged for his cousin, not giving him a chance to finish the abhorrent accusation. His rage—at the accusations, at the gossip, at Percival’s outburst, and his attempt upon Amelia’s life—all came spiralling out of him, a storm so strong he did not even attempt to temper. Owen’s cautionary warnings flew from his mind as Graham roared his anguish and grief, exhaustion built up from staying at Amelia’s bedside, wishing for those pretty eyes to open.
His fist slammed into Percival’s jaw, sending both of them toppling over. Behind him, the table crashed from the force of his lunge, sending cards and glasses to the floor.
“I see,” Percival grunted as Graham grappled to get hold of him, only seeing through his anger, his world narrowing down to his cousin’s smug face. “You trulyarea beast.”
Graham’s frustration boiled over as he confronted Percival, their voices rising in a heated argument that echoed through the room. With each pointed accusation, years of pent-up resentment surfaced, and the tension between them became palpable. Just as the situation seemed poised to escalate further, Owen stepped in, placing a steady hand on Graham’s shoulder, urging him to take a breath and reconsider, reminding him that not all battles needed to be fought with fists.
Percival was sprawled on the floor. His eyes were narrowed and cruel, fixed on Graham. Fists clenched, Graham stood before him.
“Yes, I have been a coward,” Graham said, the fight leaving him in a drain of exhaustion that blurred his vision at the edges. “But at least I am not a scheming man like you who has simpered away, waiting for his chance at glory.”
“No, you just relinquished a perfect life,” Percival hissed. “I pity your wife.”
“She pities you,” Graham snarled. “I can change, for I am loved, but you, Percival, you are simply unredeemed for you have pushed away love and replaced it with the cold, icy embrace of a gossip-mongering ton, and you will pay for the damage you have done to Amelia.”
“Stop now,” Owen muttered at his ear. “You have done what you need to do. He stands challenged.”
Graham nodded, still not tearing his eyes off his cousin. Tension roiled through his entire body, an undercurrent that he struggled to ease.
Behind him, the doors to the smoking room burst open in a loud clash and authorities rushed in, a group of them spreading out around the room, eyeing anybody that dared to flee. In the back of Graham’s mind, he felt a beat of relief that finally the torment of the gossip being on him would end.
“Lord Percival Randall,” one man who Graham knew to be the chief constable, spoke, stepping forward as two other constables pulled Percival up from the floor. “You have been found guilty of destruction of property of His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorn, with the intent to harm—”
“No!” Percival protested. “No, you have it wrong—”
“We have multiple witness accounts, and have found the tool used to do the tampering. Furthermore, you lack an alibi for the specific time before the crash took place.”
“I was at Lady Victoria’s house!” he cried. “Speak with Lady Cassandra Kensington, for we spoke at length. Cousin, we spoke during the intermission! I was there!”
“And before the intermission, you were not,” Owen pointed out. “Placing you at the scene of the carriage damage.”
The two constables grappling with Percival hauled him forward, out of the room, as Graham’s cousin continued to protest and splutter. His face was utterly white with shock and panic, as he had truly thought he would not be caught. He fought and kicked out as the authorities struggled to restrain him but soon, he was led away, his cries still spiraling from down the hallway.
As soon as the constables cleared out with one last handshake with both Graham and Owen, and a report of sending correspondence soon, Graham finally staggered beneath the weight of everything, his vision darkening with exhausted black spots. Owen’s hand remained firmly on his shoulder, steadying him.
Graham turned, his tired gaze meeting the grim but satisfied one of Owen’s. Wordlessly, they both left the club, and the whispers of the other lords in there carried the gossip.
For once, Graham’s name was scarcely mentioned.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
The ceremony held at Lord Owen’s residence was an intimate affair. Standing next to her husband, Amelia looked around at the fine parlor, the muted decor, and the plush furniture. It was grand, far more decorated modernly than she would have thought.
Leaning into Graham, she whispered, “Eleanor will have a good life here.”
He nodded, smiling. “Although, given the time it took Owen to finally propose, I imagine they will have their first child in, oh, ten years?”
Amelia giggled, pressing close to him. His smiles were far more frequent now, and although it had been a long, and mostly hard, process, she had been able to support her husband through many rough nights. Days where he had closed up in his study became an evening where he came back to her and they shared a glass of wine in the drawing room. And mornings where the only thing he could do was sit and sip his tea became afternoons where he took her horse riding through the estate.
There were times when Amelia sought out the company of her family in order to give Graham the space he needed. She learned to wait, and he learned to speak, and together they were finding some harmony that occurred whenever they danced. They were learning the steps, finding where they moved around one another in a way that did not end up in tension.
Her body was healing well from her accident, and her recovery was being reported as strong and well. Now, dressed in a lavender gown, she no longer wore a splint to keep her arm in place. The break had done its healing, and now the rest of her arm merely needed to regain its strength.
“I still believe you should have rested,” Graham said, his voice rough.
“I would not have missed my best friend’s wedding for the world,” she whispered. “Even Lady Beatrice is here.”
