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“I had nothing to do with any plot,” said the marquess, his eyes wide. “Stand away from me, sir, or I’ll call out the magistrate to haul you to Bedlam. You’ve clearly lost your wits.”
The idea of Marlow being hauled away made her move toward him. Her mother held her gently. “Wait,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Yes, let’s fetch the magistrate,” said Lord Warren, gesturing to a servant. “Send for him at once.”
“You will not,” blustered Brittingham, fixing his disordered cravat. “I will not be slandered here before all these people. You ran to India and abandoned your family like a coward. Now you wish to return and accuse me of kidnapping to save face.”
“My only cowardice is not killing you on the spot,” Marlow said with such venom that Brittingham took a step back.
“Well, I can see you will not be assuaged from your ravings. I shall take my leave—” He bumped into the towering Duke of Arlington behind him. He and his son Wescott shoved Brittingham back into the circle of accusation.
“I believe we must hear the gentlemen’s testimony under oath,” said Lord Warren ominously. “Once the magistrate arrives.”
“Indeed,” said Marlow. “I’ve got your name from the man on the ship, who was happy enough to betray you even though you paid him a pretty amount to pull off the scheme. I’ll learn the names of all your cronies and I’ll tell you this—you shall not know a moment of peace from now until the day you pass from this earth. You’ll rot in jail or be hanged, you bloody mongrel. This is the end for you, Brittingham.”
“Let me go. Release me.”
The men had no intention of releasing him. In fact, all the men present at the ball had given off dancing for the night and devoted themselves to guarding the dishonored marquess, lest he try to make a run for France before the law arrived. They believed her husband. She believed her husband. He would not have left her, and Brittingham was never a good man. She had always known that deep in her heart, that Marlow was the better choice.
“Go to your wife,” said his father. “We’ll keep Brittingham here until the magistrate arrives.”
Now that his story was told, now that Brittingham was contained, Marlow seemed to have shed the fury that animated him. He walked toward her, then stopped and looked down at his clothing, as if remembering how scruffy and wild he looked.
She went to him instead, meeting him in the center of the ballroom floor, where couples had been blissfully waltzing mere minutes before. He took her hand, gazing into her eyes. He had aged a little. God knew what he’d been through.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve just arrived from the harbor. The servants told me you were here, but I didn’t know about this… The ball… I’ve made a scene.”
“It doesn’t matter. Oh, my love.” She threw herself into his arms. “None of it matters but that you’re home.” She grasped him, holding him tight. “I’ve missed you so much. Oh, how I’ve missed you. What misfortune have you had to survive?”
“That doesn’t matter now. I only had to survive it to come home to you. Tell me Brittingham didn’t propose to you, that you haven’t fallen under his spell in my absence—”
“No. Of course not. My heart never let go of you.” She would not, could not, let go of him now that she held him. His hair, once shorn, had grown all the way back. It tickled her cheeks as she clutched at him. He felt the same, just thinner. He was still strong, still true. He’d been strong enough to find a way back to her.
“Did you truly have to jump off another ship?”
“Darling, I had to escape to return to you. I raved all the way across the ocean that I was a viscount, that I’d been kidnapped, so they thought I was a madman. They had doctors come for me, to lock me in a sanitorium for the rest of my days, so it was up and over. The water was colder there than the Mediterranean.” He touched her face, her hair, as if he couldn’t believe he was really there with her. “Oh, Rosalind, how I longed to come back to you every moment of every day. I’ve missed you so.”
She could hear her mother and Lady Warren urging the ball guests to proceed to the dining room for refreshments, since, clearly, none of them would go home until the magistrate arrived to deliver justice for what Brittingham had done. Many continued to stand around her and Marlow, watching the emotional reunion that probably ought to have taken place in private.
“I suppose we have had our come-out at your parents’ ball after all,” said Rosalind, feeling a bit hysterical. “Come out as a proper husband and wife in love.”
“God, how I love you. I’m sick with it.” Marlow could not seem to release her. “I love you. I never left you. I never could. By God, I never could.”
*
Marlow clung to her, saying words that felt like prayers, words he’d repeated to himself a thousand times in fear and darkness, suffering deep emotional pain. He’d hoped if he said them enough times, somehow she’d feel them across the distance.
“Do you believe me?” He pulled back to gaze into her tear-filled eyes. She looked in shock. “Rosalind, you must believe I wouldn’t have left.”
“I do believe you. It’s only… I ought to have known. We gave up on you. I’m so sorry we didn’t realize what had happened to you.”
“How could you have known? Who would have believed Brittingham could be so dastardly?”
“All that time, you were in such desperate straits. I’m sorry for believing otherwise.” She sobbed and touched his shirt, his plain, rough cotton shirt he’d bought with his laborer’s wages. He could have changed into better clothes at home, before he confronted Brittingham, but he couldn’t spare even a moment to make himself presentable. He’d come straight here for her touch, her angelic, healing presence.
And to accuse Brittingham, who’d robbed him of an entire year.
“How were you to know?” he said, trying to comfort her. “I hadn’t the best reputation as a steady gentleman, and I’d already run off to India once.” His attempt at lightheartedness failed in a cracking voice. “Don’t cry, please.”
