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"As you command, Your Grace," Miller responded.

George reached into his coat, fingers brushing against Edward's letter.

I spent years blaming Father for his cruelty, but he never forced me to ignore Edward's letters. I chose that coldness.

George stared at the roof of the carriage, vibrations flowing through his feet as the wheels bounced off the road. He had run away before, this same route, detachment and distance. And now…

"I am doing it again," George whispered.

Convincing himself that running away from his family was better than staying with them; that his presence would cause them more pain than his absence. And that the price of protection was the heavy bargain of loneliness.

What a cowardly lie. Living by fear and telling myself that I was fueled by pride and sacrifice.

Outside, Miller heard the sudden murmur echoing through the carriage. He leaned slightly, shifting the heavy leather reins in his hands as he called out over the wind. "Your Grace?"

George sat upright, reached up, grasped the leather hand-strap and slammed his fist violently against the wooden roof of the carriage.

"Turn back!" George roared at the top of his lungs.

The command echoed loudly, startling the horses. Miller pulled sharply on the leather reins. "Your Grace?"

"Turn the carriage around. Now!" George commanded as he thrust his head out of the window. "Turn us back toward London this instant!"

The carriage groaned and lurched violently as it ground to a sudden halt in the middle of the deserted road.

Miller scrambled down from the high box, his lantern swinging wildly as he pulled the door open. "Your Grace! Is something amiss? Did we lose a trunk from the boot?"

"Nothing is lost that cannot yet be saved, Miller," George said, his voice ringing. He leaned forward. "We head for Dover no longer. Hurry, we must return to Cavendish Manor."

Miller blinked. "To Cavendish Manor, my lord? But... but the post-horses are already engaged for the southern stages⁠—"

"It does not matter what was planned, nor does it matter how tired the horses are!" George interrupted. "Turn the carriage around, Miller! Use the side lane near the turnpike gate if you must but put this coach on the road back home immediately!"

"Your Grace, it will take hours to reach the manor," Miller urged respectfully. "The roads are dark, and the horses will need to be changed at the next posting inn if we are to maintain any speed."

"Then change them at the next inn, take fresh horses, pay the innkeeper double his rate if needed, and drive them as fast as safety allows!" George demanded, his voice pounding loudly like a war drum. "Drive them until they drop if you must but get me back to the manor!"

Miller bowed his head deeply, his doubts vanishing in an instant. "At once, Your Grace. We shall have you back at Cavendish Manor before first light."

With a loud shout and a sharp crack of the leather whip, Miller signaled the postilion and the team turned and charged back.

Inside the cabin, George felt the carriage sway violently, then surge forward, speeding back up the road, and racing toward London and the estate he should never have left.

Wait for me, Helena. I am coming home.

Helena lowered the paper slowly, her fingers trembling as the damning words blurred through a veil of tears. She could do nothing but stare in silence at the sharp, bold strokes of George's handwriting.

Her chest tightened, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she reread bitter sentiments woven into his farewell. He shies away from love, no matter how sincerely I offer it. Why can I not reach this man?

Her eyes dropped, tears gathering under the lashes for the foolishly guarded man who viewed affection as a dangerous affliction to be guarded against at all costs.

But Helena understood something now that George, in his self-chosen martyrdom, had completely failed to see. She did not want a lord who made sacrifices on her behalf from across the sea. She did not want distant protection or a misguided sense of duty. All she wanted was him; George by her side in all of his annoyingly dominant splendor.

Pushing past the nursery doors, her voice rang out. "Mr. Gibbs."

The butler appeared at the far end of the hallway moments later, a subtle shadow of unease in his eyes as he bowed deeply before her. "Yes, Your Grace."

Helena took a step toward him, her hands folded tightly over the letter. "My husband did not ‘step out', did he, Mr. Gibbs? Tell me, where did he go?"