Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

“ P lease, wake up,” Isolde whispered, her thumb tracing circles on Arthur’s palm. “I need to tell you something important.”

The guest chamber had become a makeshift sickroom, with medicines and bandages scattered across every surface. A fire burned low in the grate despite the balmy night, helping to ward off the chill that seemed to cling to Arthur’s skin.

The physician had left strict instructions to keep him warm after the long exposure to smoke.

Through the window, Isolde could see servants still working in the darkness, passing buckets of water to douse the last stubborn embers.

The east wing stood like a blackened skeleton against the night sky, but the rest of Meadowell House had been saved. Harrison had organized the tenants into a bucket line that stretched to the lake, their quick action preventing the fire from spreading beyond the family quarters.

She’d barely registered any of it at the time, too focused on Arthur’s still form as the physician examined his burns and bandaged his injured shoulder.

Now, as she watched his chest rise and fall, Isolde cataloged each wound—the angry red marks on his legs where burning debris had struck him, the bruises darkening his ribs, the singed hair at his temples.

Isolde carefully adjusted her own position, wincing at the sharp pain in her ankle. The physician had wrapped her injured leg, warning her to remain still and rest.

She studied his sleeping face, noting how young he looked without his usual masks and walls.

The stern Duke, the notorious rake—all those careful defenses stripped away, leaving just Arthur. Her Arthur, who played the piano in secret and rescued stable boys and walked through fire to save her.

“I was so angry with you,” she confessed softly, pressing her cheek to their joined hands. “When you left for London, when you couldn’t say you loved me… I thought you were like all the others—afraid of love, afraid of feeling too much.” Her breath hitched. “But you’re not afraid of anything, are you? Except perhaps being worthy of love itself.”

A log shifted in the fireplace, making shadows dance across the walls. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight.

“I know now what your father did,” she continued. “I know now why trusting and opening yourself to love is so hard for you. You see, the villagers told me about the little boy who hid in the stables, who endured his father’s cruelty in silence.” Her tears fell on their joined hands. “But you’re nothing like him, Arthur. You protect instead of harm. You teach kindness instead of fear.”

His fingers twitched slightly in her hand, but his eyes remained closed.

“When I saw you through the flames…” She had to pause, overwhelmed by the memory. “You looked like an avenging angel. So beautiful, so fierce. But it wasn’t just my life you were saving, was it? You were fighting for something more. Fighting to be the man you truly are, not the man your father tried to make you.”

She brushed her lips across his knuckles. “And I love that man, Arthur Eagleton. I love him with all his scars and walls and carefully guarded heart. I love how he plays the piano when he thinks no one’s listening, how he teaches stable boys to be gentle with horses, how he looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice.”

A soft sound from the bed made her look up. Arthur’s eyes were open, watching her with an intensity that stole her breath.

“How long have you been awake?” she whispered.

“Long enough.” His voice was hoarse from smoke, but his hand tightened around hers. “Say it again.”

“Which part?”

“You know which part.” His thumb stroked her palm, sending shivers down her spine. “The part about loving me.”

Isolde’s heart thundered in her chest. “I love you, Arthur. All of you. Not just the Duke or the rake or any of the masks you wear. I love the man beneath them all.”

He gently tugged her closer, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek despite the weariness in his bones. “Even knowing what I am? What I come from?”

“Especially knowing that.” She leaned into his touch. “Because despite everything your father tried to instill in you, you still found the strength to love. To protect. To walk through fire?—”

“I would walk through hell for you.” His voice gained strength as he spoke. “When I saw the flames, saw your chambers burning… I’ve never been more terrified. Or more certain of anything in my life.”

“Certain of what?”

“That I love you.” His voice was rough with emotion. “That I have loved you for weeks—months, perhaps—but was too much of a coward to admit it. Too afraid of becoming my father, of hurting you the way he hurt everyone who dared to love him.”

Tears spilled down Isolde’s cheeks. “Arthur…”

“No, let me finish.” He struggled to sit up, and she arranged the pillows behind him. “When Lady Trowbridge spoke to me in that gambling hell, she said something about weakness—something my father used to say. And suddenly, I saw it so clearly. I was becoming him. Not by falling in love, but by running from love. By letting fear rule me instead of trust.”

His thumb wiped away her tears, though his own eyes glistened suspiciously.

“My mother once told me that music speaks what cannot be expressed. But you, Isolde… you taught me that love does the same thing. It speaks through actions, through choices, through the courage to be vulnerable.”

“Like walking through fire?” She managed a watery smile.

“Like believing in second chances.” He drew her closer until their foreheads touched. “Like trusting someone enough to show them your scars.”

“I would never reject it.” She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady beneath her palm. “I will treasure it always.”

“Then marry me again,” he said suddenly.

She blinked in confusion. “We are already married.”

“Marry me properly this time. Not because of a scandal or duty or convenience, but because I love you. Because I want to spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of your trust. Because?—”

She silenced him with a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promise. When she pulled back, his eyes were blazing with an emotion that had nothing to do with fever.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against her lips.

“Yes. A thousand times yes.” She smiled through her tears. “Though you will have to wait until you’re stronger. Aunt Jessamine would never forgive me if I let you out of bed too soon.”

“Speaking of the bed…” His familiar rakish grin split his face, though it was softened by tenderness. “You look exhausted, my love. Have you slept at all?”

“I couldn’t leave you.” She ducked her head, suddenly shy. “I was afraid if I let go of your hand…”

“Then don’t let go.” He shifted carefully in the bed, making room beside him. “Come here.”

“Arthur, you are injured?—”

“I am healing. And I will heal faster with you beside me.” His eyes held infinite adoration. “Let me hold you, love. Let me prove that I am not running anymore.”

How could she resist such an offer?

Mindful of his injuries, Isolde climbed onto the bed, curling into his side as his arms came around her.

She fit perfectly against him, as though they’d been designed to hold each other this way.

Arthur watched emotions play across her exhausted face—hesitation, longing, and finally surrender.

His heart swelled as she carefully climbed onto the bed, fitting herself against his side as though she belonged there. Perhaps she always had.

The weight of her in his arms felt like coming home. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, her breath warming his skin through his thin nightshirt.

How many nights had he dreamed of holding her like this? How many times had he denied himself this comfort out of fear?

Never again.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair, breathing in her familiar lavender scent beneath the lingering smoke. “I should have told you weeks ago. Should have trusted what I felt instead of fighting it.”

“We have time now,” she murmured, her voice heavy with fatigue. “All the time in the world.”

“Yes.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, marveling at how natural such tenderness felt now. “And I intend to spend every moment showing you exactly how much you are loved.”

He held her as her breathing deepened into sleep, watching the candlelight play across her face. She looked so young, so trusting, and yet she had more strength than anyone he’d ever known. The strength to wait, to believe in him even when he couldn’t believe in himself.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he could almost hear the echo of his mother’s favorite melody—the one she’d played even in her darkest moments. But perhaps it wasn’t a memory at all. Perhaps it was simply his heart, finally playing the song it was meant to create all along.

He tightened his arms around his sleeping wife, silently vowing that he would spend the rest of his life cherishing her.

Their love story hadn’t started with poetry and romance, but it would end that way. Because sometimes the strongest love grows not from perfect beginnings, but from the courage to heal, to trust, and to believe in second chances.

And as sleep finally claimed him, Arthur thanked his mother for teaching him that love, in the end, was the greatest music of all.