Margaret woke to unfamiliar light filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
For a disorienting moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then the previous night came flooding back in a rush of sensation and memory that made her breath catch.
Edward's hands on her skin. His mouth tracing the curve of her neck. The desperate intensity of finally, finally being close to him without walls or performance or three years of resentment between them.
The way he'd whispered her name like a prayer.
She turned her head on the pillow. Edward lay beside her, still asleep, his face relaxed in a way she'd never seen. He looked younger like this, unguarded. Vulnerable in a way he never allowed during waking hours.
Margaret watched him sleep and felt something terrifying bloom in her chest. Something that felt dangerously like tenderness.
She needed to leave the bed before he woke. Needed to gather herself, rebuild some measure of composure. Last night she'd been raw and open, giving him everything without reservation. In the cold light of morning, that openness felt exposing.
She slipped out carefully, retrieving her scattered clothing. Her dress was hopelessly wrinkled, her hair a disaster. She looked thoroughly debauched.
The realization should have mortified her. Instead, she felt a flutter of something that might have been satisfaction.
She was nearly dressed when Edward stirred.
"Margaret?" His voice was rough with sleep. He sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, and she had to look away from the sight of him. "What are you doing?"
"Getting dressed. I thought I should return to my rooms before the servants—"
"What rooms? You said you don't have rooms here." He was fully awake now, watching her with an intensity that made her fingers fumble with her buttons. "Come back to bed."
"Edward, it's morning. We can't simply—"
"Why not?"
The question hung in the air. Why not, indeed? They were married. They'd finally consummated that marriage properly. There was no scandal in her being in his bed.
Except that in the light of day, Margaret felt stripped bare in more ways than physical. Last night, fueled by desperation and need and the courage of finally choosing hope, she'd given him everything. Now, in the cold rationality of morning, she felt the terror of what she'd done settling over her like frost.
She'd made herself vulnerable. Completely, utterly vulnerable.
And vulnerability meant he could hurt her.
"I need coffee," she said, finishing with her buttons. "And to check on Beatrice. She was probably scandalized that I—" Margaret gestured vaguely at the bed, unable to finish the sentence.
Edward threw back the covers and stood, unconcerned with his nakedness as he crossed to her. Margaret kept her eyes resolutely on his face, which took more effort than she cared to admit.
"Look at me." He caught her chin gently, tipping her face up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"You're running. I can see you running even though you're standing still." His thumb brushed her cheek. "Talk to me, Margaret. Please. Don't retreat now, not after last night."
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to claim everything was fine, that she was simply being practical. But they'd promised honesty, hadn't they? Real honesty, not the careful half-truths they'd traded for three years.
"I'm frightened," she admitted. "Last night I was brave, but this morning I'm terrified. Because I gave you everything, Edward. Everything. And now I don't know how to protect myself if—"
"If I hurt you." He finished the thought quietly.
"Yes."
He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he released her and moved to pull on his trousers, his back to her.
"You think I'll hurt you."
"I think you could hurt me. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He turned back to face her, and something in his expression made her chest ache. "You gave yourself to me last night, and now you're regretting it. Wondering if you made a mistake. Building your walls again before breakfast."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His voice was carefully controlled, but she heard the hurt beneath it. "I told you I was coming home to you. I sold this house, Margaret. I ended things with Caroline. I've done everything I can think of to prove I'm committed to this marriage, to you. And still you're looking for the exit."
"Because I don't know how to do this!" The words burst out of her. "I don't know how to be vulnerable without being terrified. I don't know how to trust that you won't wake up one morning and realize you've made a terrible mistake. That the merchant's daughter isn't worth the trouble. That your old life was better."
"Margaret—"
"I gave you everything last night. My body, yes, but more than that. I let you see me. Really see me. Without armor or walls or clever words to hide behind. And now I'm standing here in wrinkled clothes in the morning light, and I feel like I'm made of glass. Like one wrong word from you could shatter me completely."
The confession left her breathless, exposed. She waited for him to dismiss her fears, to tell her she was being irrational.
Instead, Edward crossed back to her and gathered her into his arms.
"I'm terrified too," he said quietly against her hair. "I've wanted you for days now, weeks maybe, and I kept telling myself it was just proximity. Just performance bleeding into reality. But last night proved me wrong. It wasn't performance, Margaret. What I feel for you is real and complicated and terrifying."
"What do you feel?"
"I don't know yet. I don't know if it's love or the potential for love or something else entirely. But it's real. And it's worth protecting." He pulled back to look at her. "You're not glass. You're steel wrapped in silk. You've survived three years of our disaster of a marriage. You can survive this too."
"What if I can't? What if I let myself hope and you—"
"Then you'll survive that too. But Margaret, I'm asking you not to run before you have to. Stay. Have coffee with me. Let me take you to breakfast somewhere scandalous where married couples absolutely should not be seen looking at each other the way I intend to look at you."
Despite herself, Margaret felt a smile tug at her lips. "That sounds thoroughly improper."
"Good. I'm tired of proper." He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. "Stay with me today. Let me court you in London before we go home. Give me this one day where we're not Lord and Lady Blackwood of Blackwood Manor, but just Edward and Margaret, learning how to be together."
She wanted to say yes. Wanted to surrender to the promise in his voice, the warmth in his eyes.
But the fear wouldn't quite release its grip.
"What if we're making a mistake? What if this is just the novelty of finally being intimate, and once we go home it fades?"
"Then we'll know. But Margaret, every marriage is a risk. Every time you let someone close, you risk being hurt. The question isn't whether there's risk. It's whether the potential reward is worth it."
"And is it? For you?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Absolutely yes."
Margaret studied his face, searching for doubt, for the careful mask he wore so well. But all she saw was raw honesty.
"One day," she said finally. "Give me one perfect day in London. No talk of estates or obligations or what comes after. Just us."
"Just us," Edward agreed. "I can do that."
They dressed together, a strange intimacy in the simple act of helping each other with buttons and pins. Edward called for breakfast to be brought up, dismissing propriety entirely. They ate in his chambers, sitting together on the settee by the window, watching London wake up below them.
"I used to hate this view," Edward said, spreading jam on toast. "Everything about this house felt like a prison. A monument to my failures."
"And now?"
"Now it's just a house. One I'm glad to leave behind." He glanced at her. "Though I'll miss this morning. This breakfast. The way the light catches in your hair."
Margaret flushed. She wasn't accustomed to compliments from him. Barbs and sarcasm, yes. Tenderness was new territory.
"You're staring at me," she said.
"I'm memorizing you. Every detail. In case this is a dream and I wake up to find myself back in the nightmare of our mutual hatred."
"It wasn't hatred. Not really."
"Wasn't it?"
Margaret considered. "No. Hatred is simpler than what we had. We were two people forced together, both resentful, both hurting, lashing out because it felt safer than admitting we were trapped." She set down her teacup. "I told you once that I hated you. I think I was lying to both of us."
"What were you feeling, if not hatred?"
"Lost. Angry. Grieving the life I thought I'd have." She met his eyes. "My mother told me I could have what she and Papa built. A practical marriage that grew into love. But I didn't know how to build that with you. Every time I tried to reach out, you pulled away. Or I pulled away first, anticipating your rejection."
"We were both cowards."
"Yes. But maybe we can be brave now."
Edward took her hand, threading their fingers together. His hands were fully healed now, the pink scars the only reminder of the fire. "I want to show you something. Will you come with me?"
"Where?"
"Trust me. Just for today, Margaret. Trust me."
She looked at their joined hands, at his face open and hopeful. This was the moment. The choice between fear and faith.
"All right," she said. "I trust you."
The smile he gave her was worth every moment of terror.