“This is your fault,” she said. He didn’t look up from his book. I wasn’t aware I controlled the weather, Miss Whitmore. You know perfectly well what I mean. She yanked her cloak tighter. If you hadn’t insisted on leaving so late. I insisted. Now he did look up. Gray blue eyes flat with irritation. Your presence on this journey was your choice.

My sister invited you to stay another day. You accepted. I was merely accommodating the inconvenience. Inconvenience. The word stung more than it should have. How gracious of you, my lord. She smiled with all her teeth. I’m sure traveling with your best friend’s sister is such a burden. It is, rather. The casual cruelty of it hit like a slap.

Rosalyn turned toward the window, blinking hard. 3 days at Ravenscraftoft Manor, and he’d barely acknowledged her existence except to make dry comments about her lack of proper decorum, when she’d laugh too loudly at dinner, or to inform her that her opinion on crop rotation was charmingly misguided. She’d known Nathaniel Merik for 6 years, ever since her brother James had befriended him at university.

She’d been 21, and he’d been 26, already serious and distant. He’d looked at her exactly twice, once to tell her she had ink on her nose, and once to inform her that her dress was unusually loud. She’d hated him immediately, and nothing in the intervening years had softened that hatred. If anything, it had sharpened because Nathaniel Merik, future Duke of Ravenscraftoft, treated her like a particularly irksome piece of furniture, something to be endured when James brought him home for Christmas, something to be politely ignored at balls. The carriage lurched violently.

Rosalind gasped, thrown sideways. Nathaniel’s book flew from his hands as he lunged forward, catching her shoulders before she slammed into the door. “Careful,” he said, voice tight. She was suddenly mortifyingly aware of how close they were. His hands were large and warm through her cloak. His face was inches from hers, and she could see the faint scar along his jaw that James had once told her came from a riding accident when Nathaniel was 15.

“I’m fine,” she said, jerking back. He released her immediately, retrieving his book from the floor. The carriage slowed, then stopped entirely. Voices shouted outside, the coachman and footmen arguing over something. Nathaniel opened the door, letting in a blast of icy wind. What’s the problem? Roads blocked ahead, my lord, the coachman called down, voice nearly lost in the howling storm. Tree down.

Can’t get through, and the snow’s only getting worse. How far to Thornwick? Another 12 mi, my lord. But we won’t make it in this. We need to stop. Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. Is there an inn nearby? The frost and thorn about a mile back. Small place, but it’ll have to do. Turn around. The door slammed shut.

Rosalind wrapped her arms around herself as the carriage began the slow, treacherous process of turning on the narrow road. Nathaniel had gone very still. That particular kind of stillness that meant he was calculating something he didn’t like. “We’re stopping for the night,” she said, just to break the silence.

“It appears we have no choice.” There it was again, that word choice, as if staying at Ravenscroft Manor for one more day at Lady Margaret’s request had been some grand imposition, as if Rosalind had wanted to be stuck in this carriage with him, watching him pretend she didn’t exist for 7 hours. “I’ll write to James,” she said coolly.

“I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to hear how carefully you’ve guarded his sister’s reputation. Your reputation will be perfectly intact. We’ll simply,” He paused, eyes narrowing. We’ll be careful. The frost and thorn was exactly what its name suggested. Small, old, and surrounded by snowladen thorn bushes that looked like skeletal hands in the storm.

Light glowed warm from the windows, and Rosalyn had never been so grateful to see civilization in her life. Nathaniel descended first, then turned to help her down. His hand was steady, and she hated that she needed it. The ground was slick with ice, and her half boots weren’t made for this weather.

Inside the inn was chaos. Travelers packed the common room, all of them clearly stranded by the same storm. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, smoke, and beef stew. The inkeeper, a harried man with thinning hair, barely glanced at them. “Need a room?” he asked, already shaking his head. “Don’t have much left. Stormcaught everyone.

Anything you have will suffice, Nathaniel said. The inkeeper consulted a ledger. Got one room, single bed. Last one available. 10 shillings for the night. Roselyn’s stomach dropped. One room? One room? The inkeeper confirmed. Take it or leave it. Got a dozen people who will snap it up if you don’t. Nathaniel pulled out his coin purse without hesitation.

We’ll take it. We’ll take it. Rosalind hissed, grabbing his arm. Are you mad? He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then back at her face. Would you prefer to sleep in the common room or perhaps the stables? I’d prefer separate rooms. There aren’t any. He turned back to the inkeeper. The room now. Nathaniel, unless you’d like to explain to everyone here why the future Duke of Ravenscraftoft is traveling alone with an unmarried woman.

His voice was low, dangerous, because I assure you that conversation will be far more damaging than sharing a room for one night. She wanted to hit him, wanted to scream, but he was right, and they both knew it. The inkeeper was watching them with increasing interest. Nathaniel seemed to realize it at the same moment she did, because his expression shifted, became something smoother, more deliberate.

“Forgive my fiance,” he said. and Rosalind nearly choked. “She’s anxious about the storm.” The inkeeper’s face cleared. “Ah, newlyweds or soon to be? Soon to be,” Nathaniel said, reaching for Rosalyn’s hand. She let him take it, numb with shock. “We’re traveling to her family’s estate to finalize the arrangements.” “Congratulations, then.

” The inkeeper pushed a key across the counter. Rooms upstairs, second door on the left. Common room serves supper until 8. Breakfast at dawn if the storm breaks. Nathaniel pocketed the key and guided Roselyn toward the stairs, his hand firm on her lower back. She waited until they were in the narrow hallway out of earshot before she exploded.

Fiance. You wanted separate rooms, he said calmly. This was the next best option. How is lying about being engaged the next best option? Would you prefer I told them the truth that I’m traveling alone with my best friend’s unmarried sister? That would protect your reputation beautifully. She hated that he was right. Hated it.

And what happens when someone recognizes you? She demanded. When someone realizes you’re the future Duke of Ravenscroft, currently courting Lady Beatatric Thornhill. Something flickered in his eyes too fast to read. For then we’ll be very lucky. I gave the inkeeper a false name. As far as anyone here is concerned, I’m Mr.

Nathan Sterling, merchant, and you’re my beloved fiance. Miss, what shall we call you? This is insane. This is practical. He stopped in front of their door, key in hand. One night, Miss Whitmore, we’ll maintain the fiction, weather the storm, and leave at first light. No one will ever know. James will kill you.

James won’t know unless you tell him. He unlocked the door, pushing it open. After you, darling. The room was small, painfully small. A single bed dominated the space, barely large enough for one person, let alone two. There was a wash stand, a wardrobe, and a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, and one bed. Rosalind stared at it.

You’re sleeping on the floor. I most certainly am not. Then you’re sleeping in the stables with the horses. He raised an eyebrow. How romantic. You She bit off the rest of the sentence, fists clenched. This is your fault. This is the weather’s fault. You should have listened to the coachman when he said the storm was coming.

The coachman said it would hold off until evening. Well, he was wrong. Clearly. Nathaniel removed his great coat, draping it over the chair. We can continue arguing or we can make the best of an unfortunate situation. I suggest the latter. The best of the situation. We’re pretending to be engaged. Yes, and you’re doing a terrible job of it.

He loosened his crevat, fingers deafed. If we’re going to maintain this fiction, you’ll need to be more convincing. I don’t want to maintain this fiction. Then, by all means, go downstairs and explain the truth. I’m sure everyone will be very understanding. His tone was mild, but his eyes were hard. Your choice, Miss Whitmore. There it was again. Choice.

Except it wasn’t a choice at all, and they both knew it. Rosalyn sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. I despise you. The feeling is mutual. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the howl of wind against the window. Nathaniel moved to the fireplace, kneeling to coax life from the meager pile of wood.

After a moment, flames flickered reluctantly to life, casting shadows across his profile. He looked tired, she realized. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there 6 years ago. His shoulders held tension like a drawn bow. “Why are you courting Lady Beatatrice?” she asked before she could stop herself, his hands stillilled on the fire poker.

That’s none of your concern. You’re right. It’s not. She pulled off her gloves, fingers numb. I’m just curious why a man would court a woman he clearly doesn’t love. Love is irrelevant to a good match. How pragmatic of you. How romantic of you, he shot back, rising. Tell me, Miss Whitmore, has your belief in true love brought you any happiness? Or are you still mooning over that neighbor of yours? What was his name? Dalton.

Her cheeks flamed. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, you’ve been infatuated with Owen Dalton since you were 19. James mentioned it once. Said you followed him around like a puppy whenever he visited. I did not, but she had. God help her, she had, and Nathaniel knew it. That was years ago, was it? He studied her with those cold assessing eyes.

Or are you still waiting for him to notice you? The cruelty of it stole her breath. Because he was right. Owen Dalton had never noticed her. Not when she was 19, not when she was 23. Not even last season when they danced once at the Bellingham ball, and he’d spent the entire dance talking about his horses.

At least I’m capable of feeling something, she said, voice shaking. Unlike you, feelings are a liability. Feelings are what make us human. Then perhaps I’m not very human, he turned away, jaw tight. The fires lit. I’ll have supper sent up. You should rest. Where will you sleep? I’ll take the floor. The floor’s freezing. Then I’ll be cold. He moved toward the door.

Lock this after I leave. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Nathaniel. But he was gone. The door clicking shut behind him. Roselyn sat in the silence, staring at the weak fire, and wondered how a single day had turned into a complete disaster. The storm did not break. Rosalind woke to the sound of wind howling like a living thing, rattling the windows so hard she thought the glass might shatter.

Gray light filtered through the frostcovered panes barely enough to see by. Nathaniel was already awake, standing by the window in his shirt sleeves. He’d clearly slept in his clothes. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair disheveled in a way she’d never seen before. “How long has it been snowing?” she asked, voice rough with sleep. “All night.” He didn’t turn.

The inkeeper says the road is impossible. We’re not leaving today. What? We’re trapped here until the storm passes. He estimates another 2 days, maybe three. 3 days. 3 days trapped in this tiny room with a man who hated her, pretending to be engaged. This can’t be happening, she breathed. And yet it is.

Finally, he looked at her. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. The coachman and footmen have found accommodations in the servants’s quarters. We’ll stay here. It’s the safest option for our reputations. You mean? Yes. She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Instead, she forced herself to stand, smoothing her wrinkled dress.

She’d slept in it. There had been no choice. Her trunk was still in the carriage, and she wasn’t about to undress in the same room as Nathaniel Merik. “I need to send word to James,” she said. “He’ll be worried.” Already done. I sent a message at dawn. Told him the storm delayed us, but you’re safe.

Did you tell him we’re sharing a room? I told him we found shelter. The details seemed unnecessary. How noble of you. Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Miss Whitmore. And cruelty doesn’t suit you, Mr. Merik. Oh, wait. It does. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The silence stretched, brittle as ice. I’m going downstairs, she said finally.

to eat something. Unless you plan to keep me locked in here like some shameful secret. Go. He turned back to the window. Just remember, you’re my fianceé. Act accordingly. Perhaps you should remember that as well. She didn’t wait for his response. The hallway was cold, the stairs creaked, and the common room was already full of stranded travelers eating breakfast and complaining about the weather.

Rosalind found a seat near the fire, grateful for the warmth. The serving girl brought porridge and tea, and she ate mechanically, not tasting anything. “Miss Witmore?” she looked up and froze. “Owen Dalton stood before her, handsome as ever, his blonde hair perfectly arranged despite the storm. He was dressed in traveling clothes, clearly another victim of the weather.” “Mr.

Dalton,” she managed. “What a surprise!” Indeed, he smiled, that charming smile that had once made her heart race. I didn’t expect to find you here. Are you traveling alone? I She glanced around panicking. Where was Nathaniel? No, I’m traveling with my fiance. Nathaniel materialized beside her, one hand coming to rest possessively on the back of her chair.

His voice was smooth, pleasant, and utterly false. Fiance. Owen’s eyes widened. I wasn’t aware you were engaged, Miss Whitmore. Recently, Nathaniel said before she could speak. Very recently. We are traveling to her family’s estate to share the news. I’m Nathan Sterling. He extended his hand. Merchant. Owen shook it, still looking stunned. Owen Dalton.

Our families are neighbors. I’ve known Miss Whitmore for years. Have you? Nathaniel’s hand moved to Rosalyn’s shoulder, fingers curling with deliberate intimacy. She’s never mentioned you. It was a lie, and a petty one, but Owen’s expression flickered with something like hurt, and Rosalind felt a savage satisfaction.

“We weren’t close,” Owen said. “But I’ve always admired Miss Whitmore from afar.” “How unfortunate that you waited so long to express that admiration,” Nathaniel said pleasantly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my fianceé and I were about to return to our room.” “Of course,” Owen bowed. “Perhaps we’ll see each other at supper.

Perhaps Nathaniel’s hand was firm on her elbow as he guided her away from the table through the crowded common room up the stairs. She let him too shocked to protest. Only when the door closed behind them did she find her voice. Why did you do that? Do what? He moved to the fireplace adding wood.

Act like like that. All possessive and I was maintaining our fiction. He didn’t look at her. You said I should act like your fianceé. I did. That wasn’t acting like a fiance. That was acting like a a jealous. Don’t be absurd. But his shoulders were rigid. Dalton was looking at you like you were unclaimed property. I simply reminded him that you weren’t.

I’m not property at all. I’m aware of that, Miss Whitmore. Finally, he turned. But he isn’t. Men like Dalton see women as acquisitions, especially women like you. Women like me, she repeated slowly. What does that mean? He opened his mouth, closed it. Nothing. Forget I said anything.

No, please explain what you meant by women like me. Women with dowies, he said flatly. Women with connections. Women whose families have recently come into money and status. The words hit like stones. You think that’s why he was looking at me? Because my family has money, I think men like Dalton are very good at noticing when a woman becomes valuable.

I’ve always been valuable, she said, voice shaking. I was valuable when I was 19, and he ignored me. I was valuable when I was 23, and he looked through me at the Bellingham ball. Then he’s a fool. The words were quiet, almost gentle. Roselyn stared at him, throat tight. “Why do you care?” she asked.

You’ve made it abundantly clear you find me irritating. I do find you irritating. But his eyes were different now, darker, more complicated. That doesn’t mean I want to see you hurt by a man who isn’t worth your time. You don’t know him. I know his type. And what type is that? The type who notices you only when you become convenient.

He moved closer and she was suddenly aware of how small the room was, how alone they were. You deserve better than that. Do I? She laughed brittle. According to you, I’m nothing but an inconvenience, a burden, your best friend’s irritating sister who talks too loud and has opinions about crop rotation.

I never said you did. You’ve said it a 100 times in a hundred different ways. So, forgive me if I don’t believe you suddenly care about my happiness. His jaw worked. Believe what you want. I will. She turned away, arms wrapped around herself. and I’ll talk to Owen if I want to. We are trapped here for days. I might as well have some pleasant conversation. Pleasant conversation.

His voice was hard. Is that what you call it? What else would I call it? A mistake. Your opinion has been noted and dismissed. Silence, then quietly. Do what you want, Miss Whitmore. You always do. The door opened and closed. She was alone. Roselyn sank onto the bed, staring at nothing. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t know if it was from anger or something else, something more dangerous, because for just a moment, when Nathaniel had said she deserved better, she’d almost believed him. Supper in the common room was a careful dance. Rosalyn sat beside Nathaniel at a long table, surrounded by other stranded travelers.

Owen was three seats down, watching them with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. Nathaniel was playing his role perfectly. He served her food, poured her wine, listened attentively when she spoke. To anyone watching, they looked exactly like what they claimed to be. A newly engaged couple, deeply in love. But his hand on hers felt like shackles.

His smile never reached his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Whitmore,” Owen said during a lulling conversation. “How did you and Mr. Sterling meet?” She opened her mouth, but Nathaniel answered first. through her brother. James and I are old friends. It was mostly true, just stripped of any identifying details. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. She had ink on her nose.

The table laughed. Rosalind wanted to kick him. “How romantic,” Owen said, but his tone was skeptical. “And your family approves of the match.” “They will,” Nathaniel said smoothly. “Once we arrive to formally ask permission. You haven’t asked permission yet? Owen leaned forward. Isn’t that rather unconventional? We’re modern people, Roslin said, finding her voice.

We believe in making our own choices. How progressive. Owen’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Though I confess I’m surprised. I never took you for the impulsive type, Miss Witmore. People change, Mr. Dalton. Indeed, they do. His gaze moved between them, assessing. You’ve certainly changed. You’re even lovelier than I remember.

Nathaniel’s hand tightened on hers so hard it almost hurt. “My fianceé has always been lovely,” he said, voice like silk over steel. “Perhaps you simply weren’t paying attention.” Owen’s smile froze. “Perhaps not a common failing,” Nathaniel continued, bringing Rosalyn’s hand to his lips. The kiss was brief, formal, but the heat of it burned through her glove.

Men often fail to see what’s right in front of them until it’s too late. The message was clear. She’s mine now, and you missed your chance. Roselyn should have been angry. Should have pulled her hand away and told both of them to stop treating her like a prize to be won. But instead, she felt a traitorous thrill because Owen Dalton was finally looking at her, really looking at her and seeing something he wanted.

and Nathaniel Merik, who had spent 6 years treating her like furniture, was acting like he’d fight for her, even if it was all a lie. Supper ended. The travelers dispersed. Owen caught her at the stairs. Miss Witmore, a word. Nathaniel stiffened beside her, but she touched his arm. I’ll be just a moment. Rosalind, please. His eyes narrowed, but he stepped back.

I’ll be upstairs. She waited until he was gone before turning to Owen. Yes, I wanted to apologize, Owen said, for not uh noticing you before. You were always charming, but I was blind, she suggested. Foolish. He stepped closer, and she could smell his cologne. Expensive clawing. But I see you now, and I find myself wishing things were different.

Different how? If you weren’t engaged, he trailed off, meaningful. Her heart should have raced. This was what she’d wanted for years. Owen Dalton, finally interested, finally seeing her as something more than the awkward girl next door. But instead, she felt nothing. I am engaged, she said quietly. Are you happy? The question caught her off guard.

I Because you don’t look happy. You look trapped. I’m not trapped, aren’t you? He glanced up the stairs toward where Nathaniel had disappeared. A merchant isn’t exactly an advantageous match for a woman of your standing. Your brother must be furious. My brother? And Sterling seems rather controlling. The way he touched you at supper, as if he owned you.

He doesn’t own me. Then why are you here with him? Why are you pretending? Her blood went cold. Pretending? I’m not a fool, Miss Witmore. Owen’s voice dropped. I know an arrangement when I see one. You’re traveling alone with a man unshaperoned and suddenly he’s your fianceé. It’s very convenient. You’re mistaken.

Am I? He moved closer and this time she stepped back. Or are you in some kind of trouble? Because if you are, I could help you. Our families are close. Your father trusts mine. One word from me and this entire fiction could be exposed or protected depending on what you tell me. It wasn’t an offer. It was a threat.

Rosalyn’s mind raced. If Owen exposed them, she’d be ruined. Her family would be humiliated. And Nathaniel, he was courting Lady Beatatrice. This scandal could destroy his future. There’s nothing to expose, she said, keeping her voice steady. Nathan and I are engaged. We’re traveling to my family’s estate. That’s the truth.

Then you won’t mind if I write to your brother to confirm. Write to whomever you like. It was a gamble, a dangerous one. But Owen’s smile faltered just slightly. I will, he said. And in the meantime, perhaps we could speak again privately. I don’t think that would be appropriate. Because of your merchant fiance, his tone was mocking. Or because you know I’m right.

She didn’t answer. couldn’t answer because part of her a small traitorous part wondered if he was right, if she was trapped, if this lie with Nathaniel was the worst mistake she’d ever made. Good night, Mr. Dalton. She climbed the stairs on shaking legs, feeling his gaze on her back the entire way.

Nathaniel was pacing when she entered their room. “What did he want?” he demanded. “To talk about what us?” he suspicious. Nathaniel went very still. How suspicious. He knows something’s wrong. He threatened to write to James. Damn it. He ran a hand through his hair. I knew he was trouble. You don’t know anything about him.

I know he cornered you the moment I left. I know he’s been watching you all evening like a hawk circling prey. Maybe he’s just interested in me. He’s interested in your dowy. Nathaniel’s voice was hard. And possibly your family’s connections. Your father’s investments have done well this year, haven’t they? She stared at him.

How do you know that? James mentioned it. Said your father made some very shrewd decisions regarding the railway. What does that have to do with Owen? Everything. He stepped closer. Dalton’s family has been struggling financially for years. Everyone knows it. His father made poor investments and Owen’s been scrambling to repair the damage.

A match with your family would solve a lot of his problems. That’s not. It’s exactly what this is. His eyes were intense, burning. Why else would he suddenly notice you now after years of indifference? Maybe he finally sees me. Or maybe he sees what you represent. Money, status, a way out of debt. The words were cruel, but something in his tone made them worse because he wasn’t being cruel. He was being honest.

And honesty in this moment felt like a knife. You can’t know that, she said, voice breaking. I do know that because I’ve seen it a hundred times. Men marry for advantage. Women are currency. Is that why you’re marrying Lady Beatatrice? Because she’s currency? His jaw worked. That’s different. How? Because I’m not pretending to feel something I don’t.

The words hung between them, sharp and cutting. And what do you feel for her? Rosalind asked quietly. Do you love her? Love is irrelevant. That’s not an answer. It’s the only answer you’ll get. He turned away, shoulders rigid. Go to bed, Miss Whitmore. We have another long day tomorrow. Don’t tell me what to do. Someone needs to.

You’re clearly not thinking straight. I’m thinking perfectly straight. You’re the one who’s who’s what? He spun back, eyes blazing. Say it. Jealous. She finished breathless. The words seemed to shock him. Shock them both. Don’t be absurd, he said finally. Then why do you care if I talk to Owen? Because he’ll hurt you. You don’t know that.

I do know that because men like him always hurt women like you. Women like me, she repeated, voice shaking. You keep saying that. What do you mean? Women who feel too much. The words came out harsh, desperate. Women who believe in love and romance and all those pretty lies. Women who can be destroyed by disappointment. She couldn’t breathe.

You think I’m weak? I think you’re human. His voice dropped. And I think Owen Daltton is very good at exploiting human weakness. Unlike you. Unlike me. They stared at each other. The fire crackled. Outside. The wind howled. I’m going to bed. Rosalyn said finally exhausted. You can sleep on the floor or in the hallway or in the stables for all I care.

She turned her back on him, climbing into the bed, still fully dressed. She could feel him watching her, could hear his careful breathing. The floor’s too cold, he said quietly. I’ll sleep in the chair. Suit yourself. Silence then. Rosalind. She stilled. He never used her first name. What? Be careful with Dalton. I can take care of myself.

I know. A pause. That doesn’t mean I don’t worry. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. because if she did, she might say something foolish, something dangerous, like, “Why do you worry if you find me so irritating?” or “Why did you kiss my hand at supper like you meant it?” Or, “Worst of all, why do I wish this lie were real?” Instead, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, listening to Nathaniel settle into the chair with a quiet exhale.

“Tomorrow,” she told herself, she’d figure out what to do. But tonight she’d let herself exist in this strange liinal space where Owen Dalton finally saw her and Nathaniel Merik acted like he cared and nothing had to be real yet. Tonight she could pretend. She woke to warmth, not the weak warmth of the struggling fire, but human warmth, solid and enveloping.

An arm around her waist, breath against her hair, a body pressed against her back. Nathaniel. Rosalind froze, mind scrambling. She was still fully dressed. So was he. But somehow during the night, he’d moved from the chair to the bed, and wrapped himself around her like she was something precious.

She should move, should wake him, should demand to know what he thought he was doing. But his breathing was deep and even, completely relaxed in a way she’d never seen him. and his arm around her felt safe, solid, real. Just a moment longer, she told herself. Then she’d move, but the moment stretched and stretched, and she was still there, wrapped in Nathaniel Merik’s arms, when the first gray light of dawn crept through the window.

He woke slowly. She felt it in the way his breathing changed, became more conscious, the way his arm tightened fractionally around her waist. Then he went very very still. “Miss Witmore,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Yes, why are we?” He trailed off. “I don’t know. You came to bed at some point.

The chair was too cold, but he didn’t move away. I should Yes. Neither of them moved. His hand was spled across her stomach, warm through her dress. She could feel his heartbeat against her back. Too fast, too hard. This is inappropriate, he said quietly. Yes, we should. We should. Still, neither moved. Rosalind.

Her name on his lips felt different. Dangerous. We can’t. I know. Finally. Finally. He pulled away. The loss of warmth was immediate and devastating. Rosalyn sat up, not looking at him, focusing very hard on smoothing her hopelessly wrinkled dress. That didn’t happen, she said. Agreed. We fell asleep separately. Yes. And woke up separately.

Of course, she risked a glance at him. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, looking as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. The storm should break today, he said abruptly. Well leave as soon as the road is clear. “Good, good,” he echoed. Silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

The door opened without warning. A serving girl entered with a breakfast tray, eyes widening as she took in the scene. The rumpled bed, their disheveled clothes, the obvious tension. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said quickly. “Thought you might want breakfast in your room, seeing as you and the misses are newly weds and all.

That’s very kind,” Nathaniel said smoothly, back in control. “Thank you.” The girl set down the tray and fled. Rosalind wanted to sink through the floor. “Newly weds,” she muttered. It’s what they assume better than the alternative, which is the truth. They ate in silence. The food was simple. Bread, cheese, cold ham. Rosalyn barely tasted it.

I’m going downstairs, she said when she couldn’t stand the quiet anymore. To see if the inkeeper has any news about the road. I’ll come with you. I can manage. You’re my fianceé, remember? His tone was dry. We should be inseparable, right? Of course. They descended together, his hand resting lightly on her lower back in a gesture that felt far too natural.

The common room was less crowded this morning. Some travelers had already left, braving the snow. Owen was there. He stood when he saw them. Smile practiced. Good morning, Mr. Dalton. Roslin said carefully. I was hoping to speak with you. Both of you, actually. Owen glanced around the room. Perhaps somewhere more private.

Nathaniel’s hand tightened on her back. Whatever you have to say, you can say here. Very well. Owen’s smile didn’t waver. I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I was too forward. Miss Whitmore is clearly happy with her choice, and I should have respected that. It was the right thing to say. Perfect even. So why did it feel wrong? Apology accepted, Rosalyn said. Wonderful.

Owen’s gaze moved to Nathaniel. I’m actually quite interested in your work, Mr. Sterling. You said you’re a merchant. That’s right. What’s your trade? Nathaniel didn’t miss a beat. Textiles? I import from India. How fascinating. I’ve been considering investing in the textile trade myself. Perhaps we could discuss it. I’d value your expertise.

It was a trap. Rosalind could feel it. Owen was testing them, looking for inconsistencies. I’d be happy to, Nathaniel said easily. Though I warn you, it’s not as profitable as one might think. The tariffs alone. He launched into a detailed explanation of import taxes that sounded completely convincing. Rosalind watched, fascinated despite herself.

He was so good at this, at lying, at becoming someone else. What else was he lying about? Owen listened, nodding occasionally, asking questions that Nathaniel answered with ease. Finally, he seemed satisfied. Well, I won’t keep you from your lovely fianceé any longer, Owen said. But perhaps I’ll see you both at supper. Perhaps, Nathaniel said.

They watched him walk away. The moment he was out of earshot, Nathaniel’s entire body relaxed. He doesn’t believe us, Rosalyn said quietly. No, but he can’t prove anything yet. Yet, Nathaniel agreed grimly. We need to be more careful, more convincing. How much more convincing can we be? We’re sharing a room. We She stopped, cheeks heating.

We woke up together this morning. That was an accident. Was it? His eyes snapped to hers. What are you implying? Nothing. I just She didn’t know what she was implying. Never mind. Rosalind, don’t. She stepped away from him. Don’t use my name like that. Like what? Like it means something. His expression shuddered. It doesn’t. Good. The word felt like glass in her throat.

Then we’re clear. Perfectly clear. They spent the rest of the morning avoiding each other. Rosyn found a quiet corner near the fire and pretended to read a book the inkeeper had lent her. Nathaniel disappeared upstairs, claiming he had correspondence to attend to. But every time the door opened, she looked up.

Every time footsteps crossed the floor, her pulse jumped. She hated it. Hated that she was so aware of him. Hated that she kept replaying the moment she’d woken in his arms, feeling safer than she had in months. Miss Whitmore. She looked up. Owen stood before her, charming smile in place. Mr. Dalton, I thought you were speaking with some of the other travelers.

I was, but I found myself thinking about our conversation last night. He sat without being invited. I wanted to ask, are you truly happy? I Yes, of course. Because if you’re not, if you’re feeling pressured in any way, I want you to know you have options. Options. Your family and mine have been neighbors for years. Our fathers are friends.

If you needed help, if you needed a way out of an unfortunate situation, I would gladly assist you. It was said with such sincerity, such concern that for a moment Rosalind almost believed him. But then she remembered Nathaniel’s words. Men like Dalton are very good at exploiting human weakness. “That’s very kind,” she said carefully.

“But I’m not in an unfortunate situation, aren’t you?” He leaned closer. A hasty engagement to a merchant you barely know, traveling unshaperoned. Something doesn’t add up, Miss Witmore. Perhaps you’re just looking for problems where there are none. Or perhaps I’m the only one willing to see the truth. His hand covered hers.

You deserve better than this, better than him. She pulled her hand away. You don’t know him. I know he’s not worthy of you. And you are. The words came out sharper than she intended. Owen’s smile froze. I could be, he said quietly. If you gave me a chance. I’m engaged. To a man you don’t love. You don’t know what I feel.

Don’t I? His gaze was intense, searching. I see the way you look at him, Miss Whitmore. There’s no warmth there. No joy. Just resignation. Was that what she felt? Resignation? No, it was worse than that. It was confusion. anger and underneath it all a terrifying awareness that she couldn’t quite name. I think you should leave, Mr. Dalton.

Not until you answer one question. He waited until she met his eyes. Are you in trouble? Has Sterling compromised you in some way? The implication made her stomach turn. No. Then why the hasty engagement? Why travel alone with him? That’s two questions, Rosalind. Miss Whitmore,” she corrected coldly.

“And my relationship with my fiance is none of your concern. It is when I care about you. You don’t care about me. You didn’t even notice me until yesterday.” The accusation hung in the air. Owen’s expression flickered, surprised, then something harder. “That’s not fair,” he said. “Isn’t it? You looked through me for years, Mr.

Dalton. Years. And now, suddenly, you care. Now suddenly I’m worth your attention. She stood. Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe. I’ve always found you lovely, but not lovely enough to actually speak to, not lovely enough to dance with more than once. Not lovely enough to remember, apparently, until my family’s wealth became more prominent.

She didn’t wait for his response. She walked away, heart pounding, and nearly collided with Nathaniel at the stairs. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly. Fine. You don’t look fine. I said I’m fine. But her voice shook. Can we go upstairs, please? He studied her face, then nodded. His hand found hers. Steady, warm, real. Come on.

They climbed the stairs in silence. Only when the door closed behind them did she let herself breathe. What did he say to you? Nathaniel demanded. He thinks you’ve compromised me. He thinks I’m in trouble. Damn it, Nathaniel paced. I knew he was fishing for something. He offered to help me. Said he’d assist me if I needed a way out.

A way out, Nathaniel repeated slowly. How noble of him. You were right, she said quietly. About him, about why he’s interested. I take no pleasure in being right, don’t you? She laughed bitter. You’ve been telling me he was unworthy since yesterday. Now I finally believe you, and you’re too noble to gloat. This isn’t a game, Rosalind.

Then what is it? She spun to face him. What are we doing here? Pretending to be engaged, sharing a bed, acting like like what? Like this means something. The words echoed in the small room. Nathaniel went very still. It doesn’t mean anything, he said finally. It’s a fiction, a temporary arrangement to protect your reputation.

My reputation? She laughed again. Is that what you’re protecting or are you protecting yourself? What’s that supposed to mean? You’re courting Lady Beatatrice. If anyone discovers you spent 3 days in a room with another woman, engaged or not, your precious alliance will be destroyed. His jaw tightened.

That’s not It’s exactly why you’re doing this. You don’t care about me. You care about protecting your future with her. You have no idea what you’re talking about, don’t I? She stepped closer. reckless. Tell me, Nathaniel, do you love her? That’s irrelevant. It’s the only relevant question. Do you love Lady Beatatric Thornhill? No. The word was quiet.

Final. Rosalind felt something crack in her chest. Then why are you marrying her? Because my father wants an alliance with the Thornhill family. Because it makes political sense. Because he stopped jaw working. Because love is a luxury I can’t afford. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s reality. He turned away.

Not all of us have the freedom to marry for affection. I don’t have that freedom either. I’m trapped here pretending to be engaged to a man who barely tolerates me, watching the only man who ever showed interest in me reveal himself to be a fortune hunter. Her voice broke. So, forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about reality right now. Silence fell.

Nathaniel stood with his back to her, shoulders rigid. I don’t barely tolerate you, he said quietly. What? You said I barely tolerate you. That’s not true. Then what is true? She was so tired. So tired of pretending, of lying, of not understanding what was real. What do you feel when you look at me? He didn’t answer for a long moment, then finally terrified. The word hung between them.

terrified, she repeated slowly, “Of me, of what you represent, which is everything I can’t have.” He turned and his eyes were dark, raw. Everything I’m not allowed to want. Her breath caught. Nathaniel, don’t. He held up a hand. Don’t say anything, please. But the storm will break tomorrow. We’ll leave. Return to our separate lives.

And this, he gestured between them, will have been a temporary madness, an aberration, nothing more. Is that what you want? It’s what has to be. That’s not what I asked. His eyes closed. Go to bed, Rosalind. Please. Where will you sleep? The chair. The chair is freezing. You’ll be miserable. I’ll survive. She wanted to argue, wanted to demand he explain what he meant, what he felt, what any of this meant.

But she was so tired, and he looked so broken. “Fine,” she said. “Sleep in the chair, freeze. See if I care.” She climbed into bed, facing the wall, listened to him settle into the chair with a quiet exhale. But sometime in the deep of night, when the fire had burned low and the cold had crept in like a living thing, she heard him move, felt the bed dip, felt his arms slide around her waist.

Careful, but deliberate. And this time she didn’t pretend to be asleep. You’ll freeze in that chair, she whispered. I know. So, you’re making the practical choice? Something like that. She turned in his arms, finding his face in the darkness. This is a very bad idea. The worst, he agreed. Well regret it in the morning.

Undoubtedly, neither of them moved away. His hand came up, cupping her face with a gentleness that made her throat tight. I should go back to the chair. You should. Rosalind, don’t talk. She didn’t know where the boldness came from. Don’t think. Don’t. He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful. It was desperate and raw and tasted like regret and want and six years of pretending not to see each other.

She kissed him back just as desperately, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He made a sound low in his throat and shifted, pressing her into the mattress, his body covering hers. “This doesn’t change anything,” he gasped against her mouth. “I know. Tomorrow I don’t care about tomorrow.” His laugh was broken.

You should. I should do a lot of things. She pulled him back down. This isn’t one of them. They fell into each other like drowning people finding air, his hands in her hair, her nails on his back, clothes loosening, barriers crumbling, until there was nothing between them but skin and heat, and the terrible wonderful knowledge that this couldn’t last.

Afterwards she lay in his arms, listening to his heartbeat slow. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin this fragile, stolen moment. We can’t tell anyone, he said finally. I know this can’t happen again. I know, Rosalind. His arms tightened around her. I’m sorry for what? For not being able to give you more than this.

She closed her eyes. Don’t apologize for something neither of us can control. I want to control it. That’s the problem. His voice was rough. I want to tell my father to damn the alliance. I want to court you properly in front of everyone without lies or pretense. I want don’t pressed her fingers to his lips.

Don’t tell me what you want if you can’t have it. It’ll only hurt more. Does it hurt? He asked quietly. This? Yes. Good. She pulled back to look at him. Good. If it hurt, that means it mattered. even if only for tonight. Tears burned behind her eyes. You’re cruel, you know that. I know. He kissed her forehead. Sleep.

We’ll face tomorrow when it comes. But tomorrow came too soon. The storm broke at dawn. Rosalind woke to sunlight streaming through the window. Weak winter sunlight, but sunlight nonetheless, and an empty bed. Nathaniel was already dressed, standing by the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape.

His back was to her, shoulders tense. The roads clear, he said without turning. We can leave within the hour. She sat up, pulling the blanket around herself. Nathaniel, don’t. His voice was flat. Please don’t. What happened last night was a mistake. Now he did turn and his face was carefully blank. A mistake we will never repeat, never speak of.

It didn’t happen. The words hit like a slap. Is that really what you think? It’s what I know. He moved to the door. Get dressed. I’ll arrange for the carriage. You’re running, she said quietly. I’m being practical. You’re being a coward. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. The serving girl will bring water for washing. I’ll be downstairs. He left.

Roselyn sat in the empty room, staring at nothing, feeling something vital shatter in her chest. This was how it ended. Then, not with a fight, not with a declaration, just silence and sunlight, and the cold reality that whatever had existed between them last night was already dead, she forced herself to rise, to wash, to dress in her wrinkled traveling clothes, and pin up her hair with shaking hands.

When she descended to the common room, Nathaniel was speaking with the inkeeper, settling accounts. Owen stood nearby, watching with sharp eyes. Miss Witmore,” Owen said as she approached. “I hope you slept well.” “Very well, thank you. Your fianceé seems eager to be on the road. Understandable, given the weather.

” His gaze moved between them, assessing. “Though I confess, I’m surprised he’s so keen to reach your family’s estate. Most men would want to delay that particular meeting as long as possible.” “Most men aren’t as honorable as Mr. Sterling,” Rosalyn said coolly. “Quite,” Owen smiled.

Well, I hope to see you again soon. Perhaps at the Bellingham ball next month. Perhaps, she murmured. Nathaniel appeared at her elbow. The carriage is ready. They made their goodbyes, polite, brief, meaningless. Owen watched them leave with that same assessing gaze, and Rosalind felt the weight of it, even as she climbed into the carriage.

The coachman and footmen were already in position. The horses stamped impatiently, eager to be moving. Nathaniel climbed in after her, closing the door with a decisive click. And then they were moving, leaving the frost and thorn behind, leaving those three stolen days behind, returning to reality. They didn’t speak.

Rosalyn stared out the window at the snow-covered countryside, watching trees and fields blur past. Nathaniel sat across from her, reading, or pretending to read. The book hadn’t moved to a new page in 20 minutes. We should discuss, she started. There’s nothing to discuss. Nathaniel, Miss Witmore. His eyes didn’t leave the page. What happened at the inn was an unfortunate lapse in judgment on both our parts.

It will not be repeated, and it will not be mentioned to anyone ever. Is that an order? It’s common sense. Common sense? She laughed bitter. Is that what we’re calling it? What would you prefer to call it? I don’t know. Maybe a mistake. Maybe something real that we’re both too afraid to acknowledge. Finally, he looked up. His eyes were hard. It wasn’t real.

It was proximity and circumstance and nothing more. You’re lying. I’m being honest. Then be honest about this. Do you regret it? His jaw worked. Yes. The word hit like a physical blow. Roselyn turned back to the window, throat tight, refusing to let him see her cry. They traveled in silence for another hour. Then the carriage slowed, stopped.

Voices outside. The coachman speaking to someone. Nathaniel opened the door, leaning out. What’s the problem? Just a traveler, my lord. Says his horse went lame. He’s asking for a ride to the next town. Tell him. It’s Mr. Dalton, my lord. Roselyn’s head snapped up. Nathaniel’s expression went carefully blank. Dalton, he said flatly.

I’m terribly sorry to impose,” Owen’s voice called from outside, but my horse threw a shoe, and the nearest stable is miles away. I saw your carriage and hoped, “Well, old neighbors and all that.” Nathaniel looked at Rosalind. She could see the calculation in his eyes. Refuse, and it would look suspicious.

Accept, and they’d have to maintain their fiction for several more hours, with Owen watching their every move. “Of course,” Nathaniel said finally. We’d be happy to assist. Owen climbed in, settling beside Rosland with a grateful smile. You’re too kind, both of you. The carriage resumed its journey. Owen immediately began chatting about the weather, the road conditions, his plans for the Bellingham Ball.

He directed most of his conversation at Rosalind, and she was intensely aware of Nathaniel’s growing tension across from them. I’ve been thinking about what you said, Miss Whitmore, Owen said after a while, about noticing you. You were right. I was foolish not to see you sooner. Mr. Dalton, please let me finish.

I want you to know that my interest is genuine, not born of convenience or other considerations. Other considerations? Nathaniel’s voice was dangerously soft. Forgive me. Owen’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. I didn’t mean to imply anything inappropriate. I simply wanted Miss Witmore to know that I value her for herself, not for her family’s recent good fortune.

How noble of you, Nathaniel said. I try. Owen turned back to Rosalind. In fact, I was hoping to call on you once we’re all back in town, with your permission, of course, and your fiances. Rosalind opened her mouth, but Nathaniel spoke first. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ll be quite busy with wedding preparations.

Wedding preparations? Owen’s eyebrows rose. How soon are you planning to marry? Very soon, Nathaniel said firmly. Within the month, if her family agrees. Roselyn stared at him. They hadn’t discussed this. Hadn’t discussed anything beyond the lie. How romantic, Owen said. Though rather quick, isn’t it? You’ve only been engaged for 3 weeks, Rosalyn said quickly. It feels longer.

I’m sure it does. Owen’s gaze moved between them sharp. Well, I won’t intrude on your happiness. Though I confess, I’m curious about your family’s reaction, Miss Whitmore. Your brother James, he’s quite protective of you, isn’t he? James will be happy for me, she said, hoping it sounded convincing.

Will he? I was under the impression he had particular ideas about who you should marry. My brother wants me to be happy. Of course, Owen smiled. And you are happy with Mr. Sterling? It was a trap. Rosalind could feel it. Whatever she said would be analyzed, dissected, used against them. Blissfully, she said, reaching across to take Nathaniel’s hand.

His fingers closed around hers, warm, steady, achingly familiar. After last night, his eyes met hers, and for a moment the lie felt like truth. I can see that, Owen said quietly. You’re very fortunate, Mr. Sterling. Not many men are lucky enough to marry a woman like Miss Whitmore. I’m aware, Nathaniel said, still holding her gaze. The carriage rolled on.

Owen continued his pleasant conversation, but Rosalind barely heard it. She was too focused on Nathaniel’s hand in hers, on the way his thumb traced absent circles on her palm, on the way he was looking at her like she was something breakable and precious. After an hour they reached a small town with a coaching inn.

Owen thanked them profusely and departed, promising to see them at the Bellingham ball. The moment he was gone, Nathaniel released her hand like it burned. That was convincing, he said flatly. It had to be. Yes, it did. He stared out the window. We’re almost to your estate. Another hour perhaps. And then we end this fiction.

I’ll speak to your brother privately. explain the situation. We’ll say the engagement was a misunderstanding, that we were caught in compromising circumstances and acted rashly. James will never believe that. He’ll believe what we tell him. You mean he’ll believe what you tell him? Because I’m just the hysterical woman who got us into this mess. That’s not what I said.

It’s what you meant. They fell into tense silence. Rosalind watched the familiar countryside roll past. They were close to home now, close to the end of this strange, painful interlude. What about Lady Beatatrice? She asked suddenly. What about her? When will you tell her you’re courting her? His jaw tightened. That’s none of your concern.

It became my concern when you kissed me. When you She stopped, cheeks heating. When you made me believe there could be something between us. There can’t be. Because your father wants an alliance. Yes. So, you’ll marry a woman you don’t love, live a life you don’t want, and pretend to be happy. How noble.

Not all of us have the luxury of marrying for love, Miss Whitmore. Then what’s the point? Her voice broke. What’s the point of any of it if we’re all just playing roles, following rules, denying what we feel? The point is duty, honor, family. The point is cowardice. She laughed bitterly. You’re afraid, Nathaniel. Afraid of disappointing your father.

afraid of wanting something you think you can’t have. Afraid of being happy. I’m being practical. You’re being dead inside. The words hung between them like a curse. This conversation is over, he said quietly. Is it? Or are you just running away again? I’m not running. You’ve been running since the moment we left that inn.

You can barely look at me. You won’t talk about what happened. You’re acting like I’m some shameful secret that needs to be hidden away and forgotten because that’s what you are. His voice was raw, desperate. Don’t you understand? You’re the one thing I want that I absolutely cannot have. And every moment in that carriage with you, every time Dalton looked at you like he wanted to steal you away, every second I had to pretend we were engaged, it was torture because part of me wanted it to be real.

She couldn’t breathe. Nathaniel, but it can’t be real. I’m courting Lady Beatatrice, your James’s sister. We have no future together, no matter what happened in that inn. Then why did you Because I’m weak, he said harshly. Because for one night I let myself pretend I could choose, and now I have to live with that mistake.

Tears burned hot down her cheeks. Is that all I am to you? A mistake? His eyes closed. No, you’re so much more than that, and that’s the problem. The carriage turned onto the long drive leading to Whitmore House. Rosalind could see the familiar shape of her family’s estate through the trees.

Home, safety, the end of this nightmare. What do we tell James? She asked, voice hollow. The truth. Most of it, anyway. that we were caught in the storm, had to share accommodations, and invented the engagement to protect your reputation. And the rest, the rest never happened. The carriage stopped. Rosalind could see James standing on the front steps, their father beside him.

They’d been worried she could see it in their faces. “Ready?” Nathaniel asked. “No, neither am I.” He opened the door and climbed out, turning to help her down. His hand was steady, impersonal, nothing like the way he touched her last night. Rosie. James rushed forward, pulling her into a fierce hug. Thank God.

We’ve been worried sick. The storm was worse than anyone expected. I’m fine, she said against his shoulder. Just tired. Merrick. James’s voice cooled as he turned to Nathaniel. I got your message. Thank you for seeing her safely through. It was my duty. Something in Nathaniel’s tone made James’s eyes narrow. Perhaps we should speak privately. I agree.

They moved off toward the study, leaving Rosalind with her father. He embraced her gently, then held her at arms length, studying her face. “Are you truly all right?” he asked quietly. “Yes, Papa. You looked troubled. It was a difficult journey.” “I’m sure it was.” His gaze was knowing. “But you’re home now, safe,” she nodded.

unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Inside, the house was warm and familiar and achingly normal. Her mother fussed over her, demanding details about the storm, about the inn, about everything except what Rosalind actually wanted to talk about. In the study, male voices rumbled, not quite arguing, but close.

Rosalind wondered what Nathaniel was saying, how he was explaining three days alone with her, what lies he was weaving to protect them both. When James emerged, his expression was carefully neutral. Rosie, a word. She followed him to the library. He closed the door, then turned to face her.

“Merrick told me everything,” he said quietly, her heart stopped. “Everything about the storm, the inn, the single room, the engagement fiction.” His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you send for a chaperone? There wasn’t time. The storm came so fast, and the inn was full. We did what we had to do. What you had to do was find separate accommodations. There weren’t any.

Then you should have slept in the common room or found another inn or he stopped running a hand through his hair. Damn it, Rosie. Do you have any idea how this looks? We protected my reputation. We told everyone we were engaged and now everyone will wonder why the engagement ended so abruptly. He paced.

Merrick is courting Lady Beatatrice. If anyone connects the two of you, if anyone realizes you spent 3 days alone together, no one will know. We were careful. Careful? He laughed harsh. There’s no such thing as careful when it comes to reputations. One whisper, one rumor, and you’ll be ruined. Then what do you suggest? He stopped pacing.

I think you should consider leaving London for the season. Visit Aunt Margaret in Bath. Let the gossip die down. You’re sending me away. I’m protecting you by hiding me, by being practical. He softened slightly. Rosie, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but sometimes we don’t get to choose our circumstances. We just have to manage them as best we can. There was that word again. Choice.

Or the lack of it. Fine, she said dullly. I’ll go to Bath. Good. He moved to embrace her, then stopped. Did something happen between you and Merrick? Something he didn’t tell me? No. The lie came easily. Nothing happened. He searched her face, then nodded. All right, but Rosie, stay away from him.

Whatever you might feel, whatever might have developed during those three days. It can’t go anywhere. He’s committed to Lady Beatatrice, and even if he weren’t, I won’t have you marrying a man who sees you as an obligation. He doesn’t. She stopped. It doesn’t matter. You’re right. I’ll stay away from him. Good. James kissed her forehead.

I’ll make the arrangements for Bath. You’ll leave next week. Next week. 7 days to figure out how to breathe again. How to stop seeing Nathaniel’s face every time she closed her eyes. How to forget the feeling of his arms around her, his lips on hers, his voice in the darkness saying, “I’m sorry.” She went to her room and finally finally let herself break. 3 days passed.

Rosalind moved through them like a ghost, packing for bath, accepting her mother’s attempts at comfort, avoiding her father’s knowing gaze. She didn’t see Nathaniel. He’d returned to his own estate the day after they arrived. James said he’d thanked them for their hospitality and left without asking to see her. Of course, he had.

On the fourth day, a letter arrived. It was addressed to her father, but James brought it to her. You should read this. She unfolded it with shaking hands. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the signature made her stomach drop. Owen Dalton. Dear Mr. Whitmore, I write to you with some concern regarding your daughter’s recent engagement to Mr.

Nathan Sterling Merchant. While traveling from the Frost and Thorn Inn, I had occasion to observe the couple closely, and I must confess to having doubts about the authenticity of their attachment. Miss Whitmore is a woman of quality and deserves better than a hasty match with a man of uncertain prospects. As your neighbor and friend to your family, I felt it my duty to express my concerns.

Perhaps the engagement was born of necessity rather than affection. If so, I would be honored to offer my assistance in untangling any complications. I remain, as always, your devoted servant. Rosalyn’s hands shook. This is blackmail. Subtle blackmail, James agreed grimly. He’s implying you were compromised and offering to save you, probably with a marriage proposal of his own.

He doesn’t know anything for certain. He’s fishing. Yes, but if anyone else heard about your shared accommodations, James trailed off. We need to contain this. How? Father is writing to Dalton now. a polite but firm reminder that your engagement to Sterling was real at the time and its dissolution was mutual and amicable, and a not so subtle warning that spreading rumors would be viewed as slander.

Will that work? It should. Dalton’s family is too dependent on father’s goodwill to risk open conflict. James studied her. But Rosie, if there’s anything else I should know, anything that actually happened between you and Merik, there’s nothing. The lie tasted like ash. That evening, another letter arrived.

This one was addressed directly to her in handwriting she recognized immediately. Miss Whitmore, I’ve heard about Dalton’s letter. James wrote to inform me, asking if there were any other complications that might emerge. I told him, “No, I’m sorry you’re being dragged into this. I’m sorry for all of it.

If I could undo those three days, I would. You should know that I’ve ended my courtship with Lady Beatatrice. I told her I couldn’t in good conscience continue when my affections were engaged elsewhere. She was gracious about it, though her father was less so. The alliance is broken. I don’t expect this to change anything between us.

I’m still not free to offer you what you deserve. My father is furious, and there will be consequences. But I couldn’t continue the lie. I hope Bath treats you well. I hope you find happiness there, far away from the mess I’ve made. N. She read it three times, hands trembling. Then she folded it carefully and placed it in her writing desk, locking the drawer.

He’d ended his courtship because of her. Because he couldn’t lie to Lady Beatatrice while thinking of someone else. It changed nothing. He’d said so himself. He was still not free, still bound by duty and family, and all those chains he’d forged for himself. But it meant something that had broken one chain, even if the others remained.

The next morning, Rosalind was in the garden when she heard raised voices from the drive. Male voices, one familiar, one not. She hurried around the corner and froze. Nathaniel stood face to face with Owen Dalton. Both men looked furious. “Your concern is noted, but unnecessary,” Nathaniel was saying coldly.

“Miss Whitmore’s welfare is Your concern,” Owen interrupted. Forgive me, but last I heard your engagement was over. You have no claim on her. I don’t need a claim to care about her reputation. Her reputation which you endangered in the first place, Owen’s voice rose. 3 days alone in an inn. A hasty engagement that conveniently disappeared.

It looks highly suspicious, Sterling. Mr. Sterling, Nathaniel corrected isoly, and what it looks like is none of your concern. It’s my concern when a woman I care about. You don’t care about her. Nathaniel’s voice was deadly quiet. You care about her dowy, about her family’s connections. I heard you, Dalton, at the inn talking to that other traveler.

You said she’d always fancied you, that the Witors had tripled their worth, that her fiance was nobody important and easy to handle. Owen went pale. I don’t know what you think you heard. I heard clearly. You saw an opportunity and you took it. You don’t care that she spent years hoping you’d notice her. You don’t care that she deserves someone who values her for more than her fortune.

You just saw a chance to solve your family’s financial problems, and you took it. That’s not true, isn’t it? Nathaniel stepped closer. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to withdraw whatever implications you’ve made about Miss Witmore’s virtue. You’re going to stop writing letters to her family, and you’re going to leave her alone completely forever.

or what? Or I’ll make certain that every family in London knows the extent of your family’s debts. I’ll make certain everyone knows that you’ve been courting aes specifically to avoid bankruptcy. I’ll ruin you the way you’re attempting to ruin her. Owen’s expression twisted. You can’t prove I can prove everything.

My family has extensive business connections, Dalton. Connections you can’t match. So I suggest you consider very carefully what you do next. Silence stretched between them. Owen’s face was mottled with rage and something else fear. This isn’t over, he said finally. Yes, it is. Nathaniel’s voice was flat. Stay away from her.

Owen cast one last venomous look at Rosalind. She hadn’t realized he knew she was there, then turned and stroed to his horse. She waited until he was gone before approaching Nathaniel. You heard him, she said quietly. At the inn. Yes. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I did tell you. You didn’t believe me. No, I mean, why didn’t you tell me what he actually said? Because I hoped I was wrong. He finally looked at her.

I hoped he was sincere. That I was just being. He stopped. It doesn’t matter now. You threatened to ruin him. I did. Why? His jaw worked. Because he was going to ruin you, and I couldn’t allow that, even though we’re nothing to each other. Don’t. His voice was rough. Don’t say that. Then what are we? I don’t know.

He ran a hand through his hair. I came here to apologize for everything. For the storm, for the inn, for He stopped. For making you believe there could be something between us when I knew there couldn’t. You ended your courtship with Lady Beatatrice. James told you. You wrote to me. His expression flickered. That letter was I shouldn’t have sent it. It was weak of me. It was honest.

Honesty is a luxury I can’t afford. Then what can you afford? She stepped closer. What are you allowed to have, Nathaniel? Your father’s approval, a loveless marriage, a life of duty and obligation. Yes, he said simply, “That’s the life I was born into. So, you’re just going to accept it? Never fight for what you want. What I want is irrelevant.

What do you want?” He stared at her jaw tight. You know what I want? Say it, Rosalind. Say it, she demanded. Just once. Be honest with me. I want you. The words exploded out of him. I want you in ways I have no right to want you. I want to court you properly in daylight in front of everyone.

I want to tell your brother that his best friend has fallen completely and irrevocably in love with his sister. I want to marry you and wake up beside you every morning and never have to pretend again. Is that what you wanted to hear? She couldn’t breathe. Do you love me? Of course I love you. I’ve loved you for He stopped, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter.

How long? Too long. Longer than I should have. Longer than was wise. How long? He looked away. Do you remember the Bellingham ball 3 years ago? She frowned, thinking back. The one where Owen danced with me? Yes. You wore a green dress? You laughed at something your friend said, and the whole room seemed brighter. And I thought, he stopped.

I thought I’d never seen anyone so alive, so real. 3 years, she breathed. Three years of telling myself you were James’s sister, that you were too young, too vibrant, too everything. Three years of watching you dance with other men and pretending I didn’t care. Three years of visiting your family and forcing myself not to look at you too long, not to stand too close, not to not to what? Not to fall further. He met her eyes.

But I did anyway, and then we were trapped in that carriage, and I told myself it was fine. I could handle three days. And then there was only one room and one bed, and you were right there. And I He broke off. I stopped fighting for one night. I let myself have what I wanted, and now I have to live with knowing what it felt like to hold you, to kiss you, to He stopped again, and knowing I can never have it again.

Tears streamed down her face. Why not? Because my father, Damn your father. Her voice shook. What about what you want? What about what I want? What do you want? You, she said simply. I want you. I want this to be real. It can’t be. Why not? Because I’m the heir to a dukedom. Because my father has spent years cultivating alliances, making plans, building the family’s influence.

Breaking the arrangement with the Thornhills has already damaged those plans. If I openly caught you, James’s sister, a woman with no title, no alliance to offer, so I’m not good enough. You’re too good. He gripped her shoulders. You’re too good for this life, for these games, for a man who comes with so many obligations and restrictions.

And I don’t care about any of that. You should, his voice was desperate. You should care because it means I can’t give you the life you deserve. I can’t let you choose me, knowing what it would cost you. Then let me choose anyway, she said quietly. Let me decide what I’m willing to lose. I can’t because you’re afraid. Yes, he said harshly. I’m terrified.

Terrified of disappointing my father. Terrified of failing my family. Terrified of dragging you into a life you’ll come to resent. And what about me? Her voice broke. Are you terrified of losing me? He closed his eyes more than anything. Then fight for me. She gripped his coat. Please fight for me the way you fought Owen.

Fight your father. Fight the rules. Fight for what you want. I don’t know if I’m strong enough. You are. I know you are. He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. If I do this, if I choose you, there will be consequences. My father might disown me. Society might shun us.

The family’s alliances will suffer. I don’t care. I do. But his arms tightened around her. I care about you, about your happiness, about giving you the life you deserve. The life I deserve is the one I choose with you. Rosalind, do you love me? Yes. Then that’s all that matters. It’s not that simple. It is, she insisted. It’s exactly that simple.

Everything else is just fear. He pulled back to look at her, and his eyes were filled with something raw and desperate. What if I’m not enough? What if I choose you and you realize stop? She pressed her fingers to his lips. Stop talking yourself out of this. Stop listing reasons why we can’t. Just she took a shaky breath.

Do you want to be with me more than I’ve ever wanted anything? Then be with me publicly, properly caught me. Fight for me. Her voice strengthened. Choose me. He stared at her for a long moment, then quietly. I already have. Then prove it. James was in his study when they entered. He looked up, saw their clasped hands, and went very still.

“Merrick, Rosie, what’s going on? I need to speak with you,” Nathaniel said. “About your sister,” James stood slowly. “I’m listening. I ended my courtship with Lady Beatatrice because I’m in love with Rosalind. I have been for 3 years, and I’m here to formally ask permission to court her.” Silence. James looked between them, expression unreadable.

Then you’re in love with my sister? Yes. For 3 years? Yes. And you’re only telling me this now? I was trying to do the right thing, the honorable thing. But it turns out the honorable thing is being honest, even when it’s terrifying. James’ jaw worked. You spent 3 days alone with her? Yes, and nothing happened.

Roslin’s cheeks flamed, but Nathaniel’s expression didn’t change. I’m asking permission to court her properly. Whatever happened before. I’m not asking what happened before. James cut in. I’m asking if you’re serious. If this is real, because if you’re going to break her heart, I’d rather know now. I won’t break her heart.

You can’t promise that. I can promise to try. To spend every day trying to deserve her, to fight for her when things get difficult, to choose her publicly and irrevocably for as long as she’ll have me. Another long silence. Then James looked at Rosalind. Is this what you want? Yes, she said simply. Even knowing the cost, the scandal when people realize you were together at that inn, the whispers about your reputation.

I don’t care about whispers. You should. She doesn’t have to, Nathaniel said quietly. because I’m going to make it very clear to everyone that I chose her, that she’s mine, that anyone who questions her virtue is questioning my honor. Your honor, James’s eyebrows rose. You spent three unshapered days with her, and I’m going to marry her if she’ll have me, if you’ll allow it. Marry, James stopped.

You’re not even officially courting yet. Then give me permission to start, and when the time is right, when I’ve proven myself worthy, I’ll ask her properly.” James stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly, a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re serious. Completely. You know, I could refuse.

I could send Rosie to bath tomorrow and forbid you from seeing her.” You could, but you won’t. Why not? Because you want her to be happy. And despite everything, despite the scandal, despite my family’s disapproval, despite all the reasons this is a terrible idea, she’s happy with me,” James looked at his sister.

“Are you happy?” “Yes,” Rosalyn said, tears in her eyes. “More than I’ve ever been.” “God help me,” James muttered. “Fine, you have my permission to court her properly. in full view of society with chaperones and calling hours and all the ridiculous rituals our world demands. Thank you. But Merrick, if you hurt her, if you make her cry for any reason other than happiness, I will end you.

Best friend or not. Understood. Understood. Good. James moved around the desk, clapping Nathaniel on the shoulder. Now get out of my study so I can process the fact that my best friend is in love with my sister. They left him there and Rosalind was laughing and crying at the same time.

Nathaniel pulled her into an empty corridor, cupping her face with both hands. “Are you sure about this?” he asked quietly. “It’s not too late to change your mind.” “I’m not changing my mind. My father is going to fight this. He’ll try to convince me you’re a mistake, that I’m throwing away my duty. Then we’ll fight him together. Society will talk. Let them.

You might hate me for dragging you into this mess. Never. He smiled, a real smile, warm and bright and completely transformative. I love you. I know. She pulled him down for a kiss. I love you, too. When did you know that I loved you? She thought about it. I’m not sure. Maybe when you defended me to Owen.

Maybe when you held me in that freezing room and made me feel safe. Maybe. Maybe when I told you that you had ink on your nose. She laughed. That was 6 years ago. I know. I was trying very hard not to notice how beautiful you looked when you blushed. You’re impossible. I’m yours. He kissed her again, soft and sweet. Completely, irrevocably yours.

The scandal, when it broke, was everything they’d feared and more. Within a week, everyone in London knew that Lord Nathaniel Merik, future Duke of Ravenscraftoft, had spent three days alone with Miss Rosalind Whitmore at an inn during a snowstorm, that they’d pretended to be engaged. That he’d ended his courtship with Lady Beatric Thornnehill immediately after.

The whispers were vicious. Rosalind was called everything from fortune hunter to compromised goods. Nathaniel was accused of being led around by his baser instincts and throwing away his family’s future for a meaningless affair. His father summoned him to the London townhouse for what Nathaniel later described as the worst conversation of my life.

The Duke had threatened disinheritance, social ruin, complete exile from the family. Nathaniel had listened quietly. Then he’d said, “I understand your disappointment, father, but I’m going to marry Rosalind Witmore with or without your approval.” The Duke had sputtered, raged, threatened, and Nathaniel had walked out. Through it all, he was unfailingly present.

He called on Rosalind every day during approved hours with her mother as chaperon. He escorted her to every social event, standing beside her when other women whispered and men leared. He made it abundantly clear that anyone who questioned her virtue would answer to him personally. And slowly, so slowly, the scandal began to lose its teeth.

Because Nathaniel Merik was respected, powerful, the heir to a dukedom, and when he treated Rosalind Whitmore with such obvious devotion, such public respect, society had to follow. 3 months after that day in the garden, Nathaniel proposed properly. He did it in the Witmore drawing room with both her parents present in the traditional way.

He got on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. She said yes before he’d finished the question. The wedding was small, immediate family only. The Duke of Ravenscraftoft was notably absent, but Nathaniel’s mother attended, weeping happily throughout the ceremony. Lady Margaret stood as Rosalyn’s bridesmaid, beaming with satisfaction at her brother’s choice.

James gave her away with the stern warning to Nathaniel. I meant what I said. If you hurt her, I won’t. Nathaniel had promised. I’ll spend every day of my life making sure she’s happy. And he did. Epilogue. Two years later, Rosalind stood in the entrance hall of Ravenscroft Manor, watching snow fall gently outside the windows.

It was nearly Christmas, and the house was warm with fire light and evergreen garlands, and the sound of laughter from the drawing room where their families gathered. “Wool gathering.” Nathaniel’s voice came from behind her, warm with amusement. She turned, smiling. Remembering the storm, the inn, the room, the bed. She moved into his arms.

The way you said, “One room, one bed, like it was a prison sentence.” He laughed, low and rich. And now, now we have all the rooms and all the beds we want, but I still prefer when you’re in mine. Scandalous wife. You love it. I love you. He kissed her softly, though I have to confess.

I’m grateful for that storm, for being forced to spend 3 days alone with the woman I loved, but refused to admit I loved. Even though you had no choice. I always had a choice, he said quietly. I could have stayed in the chair that first night. Could have kept my distance. Could have fought what I felt. But you didn’t. No, I chose you even before I was brave enough to admit it.

He pulled back to look at her, eyes warm. I’ll always choose you, Rosalind. In every storm, in every impossible situation, in every moment when the world says I should choose duty over love, and your father,” the Duke had eventually reconciled with them, reluctantly, and with many stipulations about proper behavior and family responsibility, but he’d attended their first Christmas dinner together, had even complimented Rosalind on her management of the estate.

“It wasn’t much, but it was something. My father is learning, Nathaniel said carefully, that some alliances are worth more than social advantage. Am I an alliance now? You’re everything. He kissed her forehead. You’re my choice, my partner, my love, the person I want beside me in every storm, literal and figurative, for the rest of my life.

She traced the scar along his jaw, the riding accident from when he was 15. Do you remember what you said to me that first night in the inn? That you could sleep with the stable hands if you preferred. She swatted his arm. After that, when you said I had no choice, I remember you were wrong. I had a choice.

I could have insisted on separate accommodations no matter how uncomfortable. I could have refused to play along with the engagement fiction. I could have walked away when things got complicated. Why didn’t you? Because even then, some part of me knew that you were the one I’d been waiting for. That all those years watching you treat me like furniture.

All those times you criticized my opinions and called me irritating, it was because you were fighting what you felt just as hard as I was fighting what I felt. I was an idiot. You were afraid. I was both. He pulled her closer. But I’m not afraid anymore because I have you. and as long as I have you, I can face anything.” From the drawing room, laughter rang out.

James telling some story, their mother gasping in mock horror, Lady Margaret’s delighted voice joining in. “We should go back,” Roslin said. “They’ll wonder where we are.” “Let them wonder.” He kissed her again deeper this time. “I want one more moment here in this hallway.” remembering that inn, that storm, that impossible choice that turned out to be the best decision I ever made.

One room, one bed, she murmured against his lips. And the storm left us no choice, he finished. Except it did, and I chose you. I chose you, too. They stood there in the warm hallway, snow falling gently outside, two years of marriage behind them, and a lifetime ahead. two people who’d been forced together by circumstance and stayed together by choice.

And when they finally joined their family in the drawing room, when James raised his glass and toasted to impossible choices and stubborn love, Nathaniel caught Rosalyn’s eye and smiled. Because some storms, it turned out, were worth weathering. Some choices were worth fighting for. And some loves, the real ones, the impossible ones, the ones that required courage and sacrifice and choosing each other every day, those were worth everything.

Thank you for staying with Rosalind and Nathaniel until the very end. Their story began with a storm that left them no choice. But in truth, they always had a choice. They chose to see each other, to fight for each other, to believe that love was worth more than duty, reputation, or fear.

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