Page 14

T he bruising had settled into an impressive half-moon beneath Nomansland’s eye—a trophy, in its way, of the previous night’s negotiations with Abingdon.

He inspected it in the murky reflection of the carriage window as he rattled through the morning streets, contemplating whether the purple would clash with the lapis of his best coat.

He’d chosen the coat on purpose, the fabric was imported, the cut was severe, and the lapels, though a little foppish, announced to the world that he was a man who intended to be seen.

If ever there was a day for being seen, it was today.

He arrived at the Westfall address at a quarter past eight—indecent, but he figured that indecency was already his trademark. The house sat silent, and he feared he should have waited a few more hours. Although he hadn’t slept, there was a chance Chrissy had and was still in bed.

He rapped twice. The door was answered by a housekeeper, a fortress of pale linen with a glare that dared even the Duke of Nomansland to argue.

She took in his person—coat, cravat, the shiner—then pursed her lips. “His Grace,” she said, without the faintest upward inflection.

“Good morning. I’m here for Mrs. Westfall. Is she awake?”

The housekeeper tilted her head, evaluating. “She is at her charities, as always. Do you wish to leave a message?”

Nomansland blinked in surprise. What charity did she provide at this hour? “What about Miss Westfall?”

A beat of silence, then he said, “Not at home.”

He resisted the urge to seize the woman by her starched apron. “Not at home? Is she with Mrs. Westfall?”

“No, sir.” The housekeeper’s tone, while respectful, left no doubt that she was not impressed with dukes who pounded on doors before the decent hour. “Miss Westfall never came home last night.”

The words caught Nomansland off guard. “Where is she, then?”

“Abingdon House, with her sister.”

Nomansland ground his teeth, feeling the old, familiar spike of irritation. Of course Abingdon had swept in with the ruthless efficiency of a bailiff collecting rent, staking his claim on every possible avenue of controlling the scandal.

The housekeeper was still watching him, her hands folded neatly at her waist. “If there is nothing else, sir?”

He tipped his hat, the gesture perfunctory. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

She didn’t smile. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Nomansland turned on his heel and stomped back to his waiting carriage. He yanked open the door and flung himself inside, calling out to the coachman, “Abingdon House. Take the long way round. I need to think.”

He spent the first three blocks staring at his reflection in the window, watching the swelling grow more lurid with every jostle. He was sure it was his imagination, but by the time they reached Oxford Street, the bruise had gone from a mere ornament to a full-fledged sideshow.

He tried to imagine how Chrissy would react—would she laugh? Would she pity him? Would she make a joke about his lack of defensive technique?

He imagined her doing all three at once. The thought made his chest ache.

He fidgeted with his cravat, certain his valet had tied it too tightly.

He cursed Abingdon with a litany of insults, then cursed himself for being so easily goaded.

By the time the carriage turned onto the desired street, he’d rehearsed his proposal a dozen times, each version more abysmal than the last.

He was not good at this. He’d spent a lifetime conquering, never courting, had never needed to ask for anything, much less plead for forgiveness or beg for a second chance.

He wondered, not for the first time, why fate had chosen this moment—this girl—to test the limits of his capacity for humility.

He pressed a hand to his eye, felt the throb of the bruise radiate outward, a perfect metaphor for his state of mind.

The coachman brought the carriage to a halt in front of Abingdon House. Nomansland stared up at the facade, grim and forbidding as ever, and drew a breath deep enough to set his ribs creaking.

He reached for the door handle, then paused. “Here goes nothing.”

And, with all the confidence he could muster, Nomansland stepped out to do battle for the only thing in the world he was not sure he could win.

Chrissy’s heart.

When the door opened, he asked, “Is Miss Westfall at home?”

Thomson pulled the door wider and allowed him inside.

The entrance hall of Abingdon House was designed to humble, and it performed its task admirably. Nomansland smothered a laugh as the butler received him with the kind of chill reserved for debtors and fornicators.

“If you’ll follow me, Your Grace,” the man intoned, then led Nomansland past the library and billiard room, to the drawing room at the back of the house.

The room itself was oddly intimate, something he hadn’t felt there before. Early light softened the outlines of everything, throwing gentle shadows over the Chippendale chairs and the silk-covered settee. And there sat Chrissy.

She wore a simple morning dress, pale blue, cinched at the waist with a ribbon the same shade as her eyes.

Her hair, usually a riot of curls, was subdued today—a neat braid pinned at the nape, a few wisps escaping to catch the light.

She looked younger than he remembered, and infinitely more breakable.

For one paralyzing second, Nomansland stayed just inside the doorway, pinned to the spot by the weight of what he’d come to do.

Chrissy looked up at him, her hands folded tight in front of her, the knuckles white. She stared at him, and the silence stretched, awkward and absolute.

He coughed into his fist. “Miss Westfall,” he managed, the words absurdly formal given the parts of her body he was familiar with.

She didn’t smile. “Your Grace.”

He crossed to the center of the room, each step measured and slow. He had rehearsed a speech—several, in fact—but the moment he met her eyes, every version vanished. He was left with nothing but the truth, and the truth was a knife.

He bowed, which felt silly but necessary. “I owe you an apology. For last night. For everything. I behaved disgracefully.” He hated the weakness in his voice.

Chrissy blinked. “I was there too.”

He pressed on, determined to confess every sin. “I’ve made a mess of things, and I’m sorry for it. If I could undo the damage?—”

She cut him off, voice steady. “You can’t. No one can.”

He nodded, once. “Then I suppose all that remains is for me to do my duty and ask you—” He stopped, the words tangling. “You know why I’m here.”

A faint flush crept up her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “I do.”

He hated how clinical it sounded, how much it resembled a business transaction instead of a proposal of marriage. He forced his words through a throat gone tight. “I want you to know that you have a choice. I will do whatever you ask. Even if it means stepping aside.”

Her eyes widened, incredulous. “Is that what you want?”

He was silent. Then, finally, “I don’t know what I want. That is—I do know. But I have no right to want it.” He laughed, short and bitter. “God, this is not how I imagined this.”

Chrissy shifted her weight, the skirt of her gown whispering against the settee. “How did you imagine it?”

He looked at her, really looked, and the rest of the world collapsed. There was only the girl in blue, and the gulf between what he deserved and what he hoped for.

He inhaled, slow and deliberate, then started again.

“Forget all that for a moment,” he said, and crossed the last few steps to stand in front of her. He reached for her hands, hesitated, then took them gently in his. Her fingers were cold, but the contact steadied him.

“I was wrong. I’ve always thought of you as—” He searched for the word.

“Dazzling. Unreachable. But the other night when I came to supper, something changed. You smiled at me, and it felt like the first real thing I’d seen in years.

I’ve spent so much of my life pretending not to need anything, and then you—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You make it impossible not to need.”

Chrissy’s breath caught, just audible.

“I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like,” Nomansland admitted, voice low.

“But I know I will never be happy again unless I can spend the rest of my life seeing you laugh. I want to learn all of it—what makes you angry, what makes you happy, what makes you blush. I want to be the man who deserves you, even if it takes me the rest of my days.”

The silence was thick and holy.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

Chrissy’s eyes filled, and the tears trembled there, bright as gems. She nodded, then found her voice. “Yes,” she whispered, then louder. “Yes. Of course I will. I love you, Nomansland.”

He pulled her in, and the first kiss was careful, cautious, a benediction. But she reached up, pressed her palm to his cheek, and the caution vanished. The second kiss was full and hungry and, finally, perfect.

He didn’t care about the bruise or the servants or the fact that, at that moment, Abingdon was probably listening from behind a hidden door with a loaded pistol in his coat. All he cared about was the girl in his arms and the certainty, at last, that he would never let her go.

They broke apart only when the clock on the mantel struck the half hour, the sound impossibly loud in the small room.

Chrissy smiled, and the world righted itself. “We’ll have to tell the others.”

Nomansland grinned, reckless. “Let them wonder a but longer.”

He kissed her again, just to be sure.

They found the settee by instinct, not design—two bodies drawn together by the magnetism of relief and hard-won happiness.

It was big enough for two, but neither Nomansland nor Chrissy seemed inclined to observe the conventional boundaries of personal space.

She perched at the very edge, hands fidgeting in her lap, while he sat close enough that the heat of her was its own private sun.

She couldn’t stop grinning. It was a ridiculous, ear-to-ear thing, and Nomansland found himself mirroring it without effort. He watched her, drinking in every flush and dimple, wondering if it was possible to become drunk on the sight of a person.

Chrissy spoke first, voice low and conspiratorial. “If you’re going to be my husband, you’ll have to teach me all the scandalous things in those letters.”

Nomansland laughed, the sound erupting unguarded. “I intend to. Every single day, if you’ll let me.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. Her skin was still cold, but the grip was strong, confident. She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder, and let out a contented sigh.

He turned to face her, unable to resist. “Are you sure?” he asked, and for a moment his vulnerability was naked. “I am—well, you know what I am.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, a whisper of contact. “You’re mine,” she said, with a certainty that startled him.

The room was soft and safe, the world outside temporarily irrelevant. Nomansland let himself relax, truly relax, for the first time in years. He slid his arm around her waist, drew her gently closer, and kissed her again—slow, careful, and increasingly improper for a house where walls had ears.

This time, when he pulled back, her eyes were bright and shining.

“Will you do that every morning?” she asked.

He pretended to consider. “I’m told breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

She giggled, and the sound was so pure that Nomansland wondered how he’d ever survived without it.

He was about to reply—something clever, or maybe something profoundly stupid—when the drawing room door swung open.

Dinah entered first, hair in a riot from a hasty pinning, her gown a simple morning dress. She was followed by Abingdon, whose expression could have cowed an entire regiment.

Nomansland and Chrissy sprang apart, but not quickly enough to hide the evidence of their affection, the proximity, the intertwined hands, the flush on both faces.

Nomansland, ever the tactician, didn’t release Chrissy’s hand.

Instead, he squared his shoulders, as if daring anyone to try to separate them.

Dinah froze mid-step, eyes darting between the two, her mouth an O of shock and—Nomansland thought—delight.

Abingdon was slower, more deliberate. He took in the scene, the closed space between betrothed, the shared gaze, the fact that his sister-in-law had just been thoroughly kissed.

No one spoke.

Chrissy broke the silence, her voice half-laugh, half plea. “Oh, Dinah—please be happy for me. I think I might burst.”

Dinah looked at Abingdon, then back at her sister. She tried for stern, but her face crumpled, and she let out a wild, scandalous giggle.

“Of course I am,” Dinah said, and in a blink she was at Chrissy’s side, wrapping her in a breathless embrace. She squeezed Chrissy, then turned and did the same to Nomansland, who tolerated it with dignity.

When she stepped back, her cheeks were wet with happy tears. “You are a menace, Nomansland. But I suppose we can tolerate you, now and then.”

Nomansland inclined his head. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

Abingdon, meanwhile, hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, face unmoved. He regarded Nomansland with all the severity of a magistrate sentencing a criminal.

After a pause that threatened to tip the moment into farce, Abingdon uncrossed his arms, walked over, and, to everyone’s shock, pulled Chrissy into a one-armed hug. Then he offered his hand to Nomansland.

Nomansland took it, the shake firm and final.

Abingdon’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Welcome to the family,” he said, and it was clear to all present that no further words would be required on the subject.

They lingered together, the four of them, in a rare peace, as sunlight edged across the drawing room floor and the world outside began to wake.

It was not the ending Nomansland had expected. It was better.

He looked at Chrissy, and in her eyes he saw every day that would follow: laughter, yes, and sometimes pain, but always together. Always hers.

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

Outside, somewhere, the city teemed with rumors and judgments and the endless machinery of society.

But here, in this small, sunlit room, nothing could touch them.