And love. Holy, defiant, and eternal.
∞∞∞
April 1791 — Matlock Estate
Lady Catherine pressed one hand to her aching abdomen and resumed her pacing.
The candle on the escritoire had long since burned to a stub, but she dared not ring for another. Her limbs ached, her corset pinched cruelly against her still-tender ribs, and all she wanted was to lie down and sleep—but sleep was impossible.
He was late.
The house was silent. Her maid had been dismissed hours ago, and even her formidable father had retired. Yet every creak in the hall or gust at the shutter made her stiffen with dread.Had they found him? Had her brother’s men caught up to him again? She had begged him not to try—told him it was too dangerous—but Frederick Bennet had never been one to turn away from risk.
Especially not for her.
The soft tap came just after the clock struck three. Not the sound of a servant or a guard, but gentle and deliberate—three quick knocks, then silence.
She flew to the window, fingers trembling as she unlatched the pane. Cold night air rushed in as the sash lifted, and there he was: tall and broad-shouldered in the moonlight, his once-fine coat torn and dust-covered, one eye already darkening beneath a fresh bruise.
“Freddie,” she breathed, clutching the sill. “What happened?”
He gave her a tight smile, reaching up to steady her wrist. “Your brother’s men were at the garden’s gate,” he said softly. “They were not inclined to let me pass. I pretended to lose consciousness after a few blows, then slipped in another way.”
A choked sound escaped her lips. She reached out to brush the swelling at his temple with a reverent touch, her fingers cold against his skin. “They struck you.”
“I have had worse. Catherine, we must go. Now.”
She turned from the window.
He did not see at first the hesitation in her face, the way her shoulders drew tight beneath her dressing gown. He reached one foot onto the sill, preparing to hoist himself inside, but she took a quick step backward, her arms clutching a small bundle wrapped in white muslin.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
Frederick froze. His gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “Catherine…”
She stepped closer, heart pounding, and loosened the edge of the cloth.
A small face emerged in the moonlight, pale and peaceful, fast asleep.
“It is a girl,” Catherine said hoarsely. “She came too soon. I—I did not know if she would survive, but she did. I named her Elizabeth, for your mother.”
Frederick swallowed hard. “You should have sent word.”
“I could not risk it. And now…” She shook her head. “I cannot go with you, Freddie. My father wishes to marry me off to make a political alliance. He is already infuriated that his plans were delayed due to the babe. If I go with you, he will never stop looking until I am found. Then he will hang you and send her to a foundling home. My father would see it done.”
“I would face the gallows before I left you behind,” he said fiercely. “You know that.”
But she was already moving forward, holding out the child. “Take her. Take her and keep her safe. Let her grow up free. She cannot live her life as her mother did, hidden and silent and shamed.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “You cannot ask me to leave you.”
“I am not asking.” Her eyes, though shining with tears, were resolute. “I am commanding you. As the daughter of an earl, I am giving you charge of our daughter’s safety. Take her and go, Frederick.”
He hesitated.
“Please, Freddy.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, then reached out, arms sure and steady as he accepted the warm, squirming weight of the infant. The child let out a soft sigh and nestled against his chest.
