Thursday morning brought rain, violent and cold. Margaret woke from restless sleep feeling hollowed out, her dreams a confused tangle of Edward's face and Caroline's poisonous smile.
She took breakfast in her sitting room, unable to face the empty dining room. The letter sat on her desk where she'd left it after reading it for the dozenth time last night. Every word memorized, every phrase analyzed until meaning dissolved into nothing.
I don't belong here anymore, Margaret. I belong with you.
Pretty words. But words were cheap.
She was staring at nothing when Beatrice knocked, hesitant.
"My lady? Mr. Henderson is here. From the tenant cottages. He says he needs to speak with you urgently."
Margaret frowned. "Send him to the study. I'll be down momentarily."
John Henderson stood in the study twisting his cap between work-roughened hands, his face lined with worry. His son Michael, the boy Edward had carried from the fire, stood beside him.
"Mr. Henderson." Margaret gestured for them to sit, but Henderson remained standing. "What's wrong? Is your family well?"
"Well enough, my lady, thanks to his lordship. That's... that's why we're here." He cleared his throat. "Young Michael has something to tell you. Something he heard. We thought you should know."
The boy, no more than ten, looked terrified. His hands were still bandaged from the burns, smaller versions of Edward's wrappings.
"It's all right, Michael," Margaret said gently. "Whatever it is, you're not in trouble."
"There was a lady here yesterday, ma'am. A fancy lady in a carriage." Michael's voice was barely above a whisper. "I was in the garden with my da, helping plant the winter vegetables, and we heard her talking to her coachman."
Margaret's stomach tightened. "What did you hear?"
"She was laughing, ma'am. Saying how she'd told you that his lordship was with her in London, and how you believed every word. How stupid you were." Michael glanced at his father, who nodded encouragingly. "She said his lordship would never have her now, that he'd made it clear he was done with her, but at least she could poison things between you and him. Make you doubt him."
The room tilted. Margaret gripped the edge of the desk.
"She said that? Exactly that?"
"Yes, ma'am. Well, she used worse words than 'stupid,' but Da said I shouldn't repeat those." Michael's expression was earnest. "His lordship saved my life, Lady Blackwood. He carried me through the smoke even though the roof was falling. I couldn't let that lady hurt him with lies."
John Henderson placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We wouldn't normally repeat gossip, my lady. But after what Lord Blackwood did for us, for the whole family... we owe him. And Michael wanted you to know the truth."
Margaret's throat was tight. "Thank you, Michael. You're very brave." She managed a smile for the boy. "How are your hands healing?"
"Good, ma'am. The doctor says I'll have scars, but Da says scars are just proof you survived something."
"Your father is a wise man."
After they left, Margaret sank into Edward's desk chair and put her face in her hands.
Caroline had lied. Deliberately, maliciously lied. Not twisted the truth or embellished details, but fabricated the entire encounter. And Margaret had believed her. Or at least doubted enough to torture herself over it.
What did that say about her? About her marriage?
She'd claimed to want to trust Edward, but at the first test, she'd crumbled. One poisonous woman's words, and Margaret had been ready to believe the worst of her husband.
The husband who had run into a burning building to save tenant children. Who had studied ledgers until midnight to prove himself a worthy steward. Who had touched her face with bandaged hands and asked for a chance to discover who she was.
Shame burned through her, hot and uncomfortable.
She pulled out Edward's letter again, reading it with new eyes. The vulnerability in every line. The careful honesty. The admission of fear and hope and wanting.
He'd laid himself bare for her, and she'd responded with suspicion.
Margaret stood abruptly, pacing the study. Two more days until Edward returned. Two more days of this purgatory, this terrible waiting.
She couldn't do it. Couldn't sit here for two more days drowning in doubt and self-recrimination.
She needed to do something.
"Beatrice!" she called.
Her maid appeared almost instantly. "Yes, my lady?"
"Pack a bag. Enough for two days. We're going to London."
Beatrice's eyes widened. "London, my lady? But Lord Blackwood—"
"Is in London closing up the townhouse. I know." Margaret's jaw set with determination. "Which is precisely why we're going. I need to see him. Now. Not in two days, not when he returns. Now."
"But my lady, is that proper? To chase after—"
"I don't care about proper." Margaret was already moving toward the door. "Tell Williams to ready the carriage. We leave within the hour."
"My lady, perhaps you should wait. Send a letter, let his lordship know you're coming—"
"No." Margaret stopped, turned. "If I wait, I'll talk myself out of it. I'll build walls and convince myself it's safer to stay here, to let fear win. I'm done with that, Beatrice. I'm done choosing safety over truth."
The maid studied her mistress's face, then smiled. "Very good, my lady. I'll have your bags packed in thirty minutes."
The journey to London took six miserable hours through rain that refused to abate. Margaret spent the time staring out the window, rehearsing and discarding a dozen different speeches.
What would she say to Edward? I received your letter and decided to chase after you like some desperate heroine in a novel? I doubted you, believed the worst of you, and now I'm here to beg forgiveness?
The truth was simpler and more terrifying: she couldn't wait two more days to see him. Couldn't spend two more days suffocating under the weight of her own fear.
She needed to look him in the eyes. Needed to tell him that despite the doubt, despite Caroline's poison, despite three years of walls and distance, she wanted to try.
They arrived in London at dusk, the city gray and rain-soaked. Margaret gave the coachman the address of Edward's townhouse, her heart hammering.
What if he wasn't there? What if he'd already left for Blackwood Manor? What if—
The carriage stopped.
Margaret stepped out onto the wet pavement, staring up at the elegant townhouse. Lights blazed in the windows. Someone was home.
She climbed the steps, Beatrice trailing behind her, and knocked.
A butler she didn't recognize answered, his expression professionally neutral. "May I help you?"
"I'm Lady Blackwood. I'm here to see my husband."
The butler's eyebrows rose slightly. "Lord Blackwood is not receiving visitors this evening, my lady. If you'd like to leave a card—"
"I'm not a visitor. I'm his wife." Margaret pushed past the butler into the entrance hall. "Where is he?"
"My lady, I really must insist—"
A door opened on the upper floor. Footsteps on the stairs. And then Edward appeared, descending toward her, his expression transforming from irritation to shock.
"Margaret?"
He'd removed his jacket and cravat, his shirt open at the throat. His bandages were gone, revealing healing skin, pink and new. He looked exhausted and disheveled and utterly, devastatingly real.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
Margaret opened her mouth. Closed it. Every carefully rehearsed speech evaporated.
"I came to see you," she said finally.
"I can see that. But why? Did something happen? Is the estate—"
"The estate is fine. I'm not." She was aware of the butler hovering, of Beatrice standing uncertainly by the door. "I received your letter."
"And you came all the way to London to respond?" Something shifted in his expression. "Margaret, if you've come to tell me you've decided against this, that you want to maintain our arrangement as it was, you could have written. You didn't need to—"
"That's not why I'm here."
"Then why?"
She looked at him standing there in his half-undressed state, confusion and wariness written across his face. She thought about Caroline's lies and her own doubt. About three years of hurt and three days of hope. About her mother's words: listen to your heart, not your fear.
"Because I couldn't wait two more days," she said. "Because Caroline Ashford came to Blackwood Manor and told me you'd dined with her, that you'd spent the evening at her townhouse, that nothing had changed. And for a moment, I believed her. Or wanted to believe her, because believing her meant I could protect myself. Build my walls again. Stop hoping."
Edward's expression darkened. "Caroline came to you?"
"She lied. I know that now. Young Michael Henderson overheard her bragging about it to her coachman. But for several hours, Edward, I believed the worst of you. Even after your letter. Even after everything you said. And I hated myself for it."
"Margaret—"
"Let me finish. Please." She took a breath. "I've spent three years protecting myself from you. Building walls, sharpening my tongue, convincing myself that contempt was easier than vulnerability. And you're right, it was easier. It was so much easier than this." She gestured between them. "Than hoping and fearing and not knowing if what I'm feeling is real or just desperation."
"What are you feeling?" His voice was quiet, intense.
"Terrified," she admitted. "Absolutely terrified. Because somewhere in the past week, I realized I don't want walls between us anymore. I don't want distance and separate lives and careful performances. I want the man who studies ledgers until midnight and learns tenant names and runs into burning buildings because children matter more than safety." Her voice cracked. "I want you, Edward. The real you. And that scares me more than anything I've ever wanted."
The silence that followed felt endless.
Then Edward crossed to her in three long strides, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her.
Not the chaste press of lips from their wedding. Not the careful brush against her forehead. But a real kiss, deep and desperate and three years in the making. His mouth moved against hers with barely controlled intensity, one hand tangling in her hair, the other at her waist, pulling her closer.
Margaret gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until her knees went weak. She gripped his shoulders for balance, feeling the solid warmth of him, the realness of him.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Edward rested his forehead against hers.
"You came to London," he said, his voice rough. "You actually came."
"I had to see you."
"I would have been home in two days."
"I know. But I couldn't wait." She looked up at him. "I couldn't spend two more days afraid. Not when I'd already decided."
"Decided what?"
"That you're worth the risk. That we're worth the risk." She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "I want to try, Edward. Really try. And I'm sorry I doubted you, even for a moment. I'm sorry Caroline's poison found fertile ground in my fear."
"Caroline is nothing," Edward said fiercely. "She's bitter and vindictive, and she lashed out because I told her definitively that there would never be anything between us. That my wife was the only woman I wanted." His thumb brushed away a tear Margaret hadn't realized she'd shed. "My wife who drives me mad with her sharp wit and sharper tongue. Who reorganizes household accounts and faces down duchesses and chases me to London when she could have waited safely at home."
"I'm done with safe."
"Thank God." He kissed her again, softer this time but no less intense. "Stay with me tonight. Here. Let me show you that this is real."
Margaret glanced around, suddenly remembering their audience. The butler had disappeared, diplomatically. But Beatrice still stood by the door, trying to appear invisible.
"I don't have rooms here," Margaret said. "This is your townhouse."
"It's our townhouse. Or it was. I've sold it, Margaret. The papers are already signed. This is my last night here." He smiled against her lips. "Spend it with me. Let us start our marriage properly, just once, before I close this chapter forever."
Margaret's heart hammered. This was it. The moment where she either chose fear or courage.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."
Edward's smile was brilliant and genuine and full of promise.
But as he led her up the stairs, Margaret couldn't shake the small voice in her mind whispering that surrendering to hope made her vulnerable in ways she'd never been before.
That voice sounded suspiciously like fear.
She told it to be silent.
Tonight, she would be brave.