Margaret woke to pale sunlight filtering through her curtains and the immediate, visceral memory of Edward's hand on her cheek. She pressed her fingers to the spot, as though she could still feel the warmth of his touch, then felt foolish for the gesture.
She dressed with more care than usual, choosing a deep green day dress that Beatrice had always said brought out her eyes. Then she felt foolish for that too. This wasn't a courtship. This was a marriage three years in the making, built on a foundation of mutual resentment and financial necessity. One conversation, one moment of vulnerability, didn't erase all that history.
And yet.
She found her parents at breakfast, but Edward's place remained conspicuously empty.
"Lord Blackwood is taking breakfast in his rooms," her mother said, reading Margaret's expression with uncomfortable accuracy. "The doctor's orders were for rest."
"Of course." Margaret focused on her plate with more attention than cold toast warranted.
"He saved three children last night," her father said, lowering his newspaper. "The Hendersons are beside themselves with gratitude. Young Michael will have scars on his hands, but he's alive because Edward carried him through the smoke." William's expression was approving in a way Margaret had rarely seen directed at Edward. "That's the mark of a good man, Margaret. Not the title or the estate, but what he does when no one's watching."
"People were watching, Papa. Half the village, probably."
"He didn't know that when he ran in." Her father returned to his paper. "I misjudged him. I thought him a spoiled aristocrat marrying for money. But a man who risks his life for tenant children is something else entirely."
Margaret thought about Edward studying ledgers until midnight, learning tenant names, designing renovations. She thought about his admission that he'd ended things with Caroline Ashford. About the exhaustion in his eyes when his mask slipped.
She thought about how little she actually knew about the man she'd married.
After breakfast, she found herself climbing the stairs to the family wing, telling herself she was simply checking on his condition as any wife would. The lie tasted bitter even as she formed it.
She knocked softly on his door.
"Come in."
Edward was seated by the window, still in shirtsleeves, his hands freshly bandaged. He'd clearly attempted to shave himself and done a poor job of it, missing a spot along his jaw. The sight of him looking rumpled and imperfect did something strange to her chest.
"You should have rung for your valet," she said.
"I sent him away. I don't need coddling." He studied her face. "You came."
"I wanted to see how you were recovering."
"Liar."
The word was soft, almost affectionate. It caught her off guard.
"Excuse me?"
"You came because you wanted to see me. Just admit it, Margaret. We're past pretending, aren't we?"
She should have bristled at his presumption. Instead, she found herself moving further into the room, drawn by something she couldn't quite name. "Perhaps I came to ensure you weren't dead. That would be inconvenient for everyone."
"Ah, there she is. My sharp-tongued wife." But he was smiling. "Sit, please. You're making me nervous hovering in the doorway like an uncertain ghost."
Margaret perched on the edge of the chair opposite him, acutely aware of the intimacy of being alone with him in his chambers. "The doctor said you need rest."
"The doctor says many things. Most of them tedious." Edward shifted in his seat, wincing. "The burns hurt less than my pride. I've been sitting here for three hours thinking about what I said to you last night."
Her heart jumped. "And?"
"And I'm wondering if I overstepped. If I said too much, too soon. If this morning you woke up and regretted not slamming the door in my face."
"I considered it," Margaret admitted. "But only briefly."
"What stopped you?"
She looked down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. "I've spent three years slamming doors. Literal and metaphorical. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being angry all the time, tired of performing contempt when what I really feel is—" She stopped, uncertain how to finish.
"What?" Edward leaned forward. "What do you really feel?"
"Lost," she said finally. "I feel lost. I don't know who I am in this marriage, Edward. I'm not the devoted wife. I'm not the society hostess. I'm just this angry, bitter woman living in a beautiful house with a husband who can't stand her."
"I can stand you."
"That's not what you said three days ago."
"Three days ago I was lying." He ran his good hand through his hair, frustrated. "I've been lying for three years, Margaret. To you, to myself, to everyone. Pretending I didn't care made everything easier. Safer."
"Safer from what?"
"From this. From feeling something real and having it thrown back in my face." His eyes met hers, raw and honest. "From wanting something I convinced myself I couldn't have."
The air between them felt charged, dangerous. Margaret stood abruptly, moving to the window. Outside, groundskeepers were working in the garden, their movements steady and purposeful. She envied them their simple tasks.
"What do you want, Edward?"
"I want to start over. I want to court my own wife, properly this time. I want to learn what makes you laugh, what you think about when you're staring out windows, whether you prefer sunrise or sunset." His voice was closer now. He'd stood and crossed to her, though he kept a careful distance. "I want to know if you hum when you're concentrating, if you're afraid of thunderstorms, what book you keep hidden in your bedside table that you think no one knows about."
Margaret spun to face him. "How do you know about that?"
"I don't. I'm guessing. But the fact that you're blushing suggests I'm right." A smile tugged at his mouth. "See? I want to know things like that. I want to discover you, Margaret."
"Why now? Why not three years ago?"
"Because three years ago I was a different person. An arrogant fool who thought he was owed something by the world, who saw you as the symbol of his failure rather than a person worth knowing." He took a half-step closer. "Because three years ago I wasn't brave enough to risk actually caring about you."
"And you are now?"
"I ran into a burning building last night. I think I can manage my own feelings."
Despite herself, Margaret laughed. The sound surprised them both.
"There it is," Edward said softly. "That's what I want. That sound."
The moment stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Margaret could feel her heart hammering, could feel the pull toward him like gravity. It would be so easy to close the distance, to let herself fall into this dangerous hope he was offering.
But three years of hurt couldn't be erased by a few pretty words and a near-death experience.
"I need time," she said. "Not because I don't want this. Because I do, and that terrifies me. But I need to know this is real, Edward. That you won't wake up next week and decide you've made a terrible mistake."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because I've built my entire life around not needing you. Around not wanting you. And now you're asking me to dismantle all of that, to make myself vulnerable to you. That's not easy."
"I know." He reached out as though to touch her face, then seemed to remember his bandaged hands and dropped them. "Take all the time you need. I'll wait."
"Even if I decide it's too late? That we've done too much damage?"
Something flickered in his expression. Pain, perhaps. Or fear. "Even then. Though I hope you won't."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Edward's valet, apologetic but insistent.
"Lord Blackwood, the doctor is here for your examination. And Mr. Thornton has requested your presence in the study when you're able, sir."
"Tell him I'll be down shortly." Edward glanced at Margaret. "Duty calls."
"Yes." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Edward? You missed a spot. When you were shaving. Right along your jaw."
His hand went to the place, fingers finding the patch of stubble. "So I did. Thank you for noticing."
"I notice more than you think."
She left before he could respond, but she felt his eyes on her back all the way to the door.
In the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall and took a steadying breath. Her hands were trembling. Her heart was racing. She felt as though she'd just stepped onto a tightrope stretched across a chasm, with no net below to catch her if she fell.
But the terrifying part wasn't the height or the danger
It was how much she wanted to make it to the other side.