I Was Hired To Be A Silent Governess — But I Refused To Let My Broken Boss Hide In The Dark
Part 2
I stepped away from the mahogany desk, straightening my spine until it physically hurt.
I refused to cry or give him the satisfaction of my tears.
I am poor, your grace, and I am entirely alone in the world.
But I am not a coward, and I will never accept a half measure.
I walked toward the heavy library doors, my heart violently tearing itself to pieces inside my chest.
Where are you going?
Panic spiked in his voice, and he took a desperate step toward me.
I am going to pack my trunk.
I kept my voice completely flat and entirely dry.
I left a carefully worded letter for Tyler, explaining that I was called away urgently and that I was fiercely proud of him.
Craig stood in the entrance hall, looking genuinely distressed as he held my pathetic trunk by its fraying leather strap.
The carriage is ready, Megan.
His voice was surprisingly gentle.
I stepped out into the biting winter air and climbed into the hired carriage.
The carriage lurched forward, the iron-rimmed wheels crunching loudly on the snow-packed gravel.
Kensley Park began to recede through the frosted glass of the window, fading like a dark memory.
I finally let the tears fall, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks and freezing against my skin.
I had demanded all or nothing, and he had chosen nothing.
The carriage passed through the towering iron gates and turned onto the open moorland road.
Suddenly, a sound cut fiercely through the howling winter wind.
Thud, thud, thud.
It was the heavy, frantic drumbeat of galloping hooves moving completely recklessly on the treacherous icy road.
The driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins as the coach skidded and tilted dangerously before slamming to a halt.
Through the frosty glass, I saw a massive slate-grey hunter block the road, steam pouring from its nostrils.
Dan sat on its back without a coat, his white shirt plastered to his chest with sweat and melting snow.
He slid off the horse and walked straight to the carriage, wrenching the door open.
In his place stood a man stripped raw, panting, desperate, and entirely terrifying.
Get out!
He rasped, his breath pluming in the freezing air.
Move your horse, your grace, because I am leaving.
I will shoot the horse.
He snarled, a wild, frantic light burning in his eyes.
I will burn the carriage and tear up the road with my bare hands.
You made your choice back in the library!
I yelled back, my composure finally shattering into pieces.
You chose your ghosts, so let me go!
He grabbed my gloved hand, hauling me down from the carriage so hard I stumbled into the freezing snow.
Before I could find my balance, he dropped to his knees right there in the freezing mud.
Would I let the carriage drive on and leave him to his ghosts, or would I risk my heart on a man who had been hiding in the dark?
Part 3
Rain lashed against the carriage glass, smelling intensely of crushed iron and wet earth.
Nobody had warned Megan about the crushing isolation of Kensley Park, nor the sheer ruin of its master.
Dan, a duke notorious for his vicious temper and ironclad vow against matrimony, kept his estate like a lightless fortress.
He demanded silent compliance, but Megan brought loud, messy defiance.
Gravel crunched under the heavy iron-rimmed wheels, the sound abrasive against the heavy quiet of the moor.
Megan’s fingers were numb, so she rubbed them together, the coarse friction of her damp wool gloves offering no real warmth.
The carriage smelled of wet horsehair and stale straw.
Her trunk, sitting opposite her, was held together by a fraying leather strap that seemed to mock her own tenuous grip on respectability.
Kensley Park did not emerge from the fog so much as it loomed, a sprawling mass of darkened limestone and narrow windows.
It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum waiting for its next occupant.
Megan swallowed the sour taste of anxiety at the back of her throat.
She was twenty-four, entirely alone in the world, and acutely aware that she had exactly three shillings to her name.
This position was not a grand opportunity.
It was a desperate lifeline.
The front door groaned inward before she even reached the top of the stone steps.
A severe-looking butler with hollow cheeks and a coat that smelled faintly of mothballs looked down at her.
Craig did not offer a greeting, but rather an inventory.
Yes, she said, her voice raspy from the biting cold.
She didn’t wait for an invitation, pushing past him into the cavernous entrance hall.
The air inside was ten degrees colder than the damp autumn evening outside.
It smelled of beeswax, cold ash, and an underlying, pervasive scent of complete neglect.
His grace is in his study, Craig muttered, closing the heavy door with a booming thud that echoed into the vaulted ceilings.
He expects you immediately.
Before I remove my coat? Megan asked.
Immediately, Megan.
She followed him down a long corridor, the runner beneath her muddy boots a faded, threadbare crimson.
She could hear the faint, erratic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the shadows.
When Craig opened the heavy oak door to the study, a waft of stale cigar smoke and spilled whiskey rolled out to greet her.
Dan, the Duke of Kensley, did not even look up.
He was seated behind a massive mahogany desk cluttered with disorganized ledgers and half-empty inkwells.
He wasn’t the brooding, tragic figure of penny dreadfuls.
He looked utterly exhausted, his dark hair carelessly pushed back.
His cravat was untied and hanging loosely around a collar that had seen better days.
The scraping of his quill against the parchment was manic and punishing.
Megan stood there dripping.
A drop of muddy water slid from the brim of her bonnet, landing with a soft splat on the polished floorboards.
Dan stopped writing.
He stared at the drop of water, then slowly his gaze dragged up her wet skirt past the fraying hem of her sensible coat.
He lingered on her blue, shivering lips before finally meeting her eyes.
His own were a pale, washed-out grey, like dirty ice.
You are late.
His voice was a low rasp, rough like sandpaper against wood.
The bridge at Oak Haven was washed out, your grace, Megan replied, keeping her chin level.
She tasted the metallic tang of blood, realizing she had been biting her lip.
We had to take the northern road.
I do not care about the route.
He dropped the quill, leaving a dark splatter of ink on the ledger.
I care about punctuality.
You are the fourth governess this year.
The last one left crying because my son put a toad in her tea.
The one before her could not handle the isolation.
What makes you think you will survive a single month here?
Megan felt the damp seep completely through her stockings, her toes entirely numb.
A spike of pure, unadulterated irritation pierced right through her exhaustion.
Perhaps, Megan said, her voice devoid of the deferential tremble he was clearly waiting for.
Because I have lived through far worse than a toad in my tea, your grace.
And as for the isolation, I find I prefer the company of children to the company of most adults.
Dan narrowed his eyes.
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
He leaned back in his leather chair, the old wood groaning in protest.
He studied her, really studied her.
He took in the sharp angle of her jaw, the defensive crossing of her arms, and the total lack of awe in her expression.
They are feral, he said bluntly.
Tyler is angry.
Heather doesn’t speak.
They are kept to the West Wing.
You will keep them there.
You will take your meals in the nursery.
You will not bother me with petty grievances, requests for new toys, or emotional coddling.
Do we understand each other?
Megan looked around the room, taking in the opulent but dust-covered bookshelves, the empty glass decanters, and the dying embers in the grate.
She looked back at the Duke.
I understand that you wish them to be invisible, she said quietly.
I will supervise their lessons, but I refuse to act as their warden.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
The ticking clock in the hall seemed to grow deafeningly loud.
Dan’s hands gripped the armrests of his chair.
No one spoke to him like that.
His staff cowered, and his peers avoided him.
This drenched, shivering woman in a cheap coat was looking at him as if he were a particularly stubborn stain on a rug.
Go to the nursery, Megan, he whispered dangerously, before I put you back out in the rain.
Megan offered a stiff, barely-there curtsy.
Good evening, your grace.
She turned on her heel and walked out.
She didn’t look back, but as the door clicked shut behind her, Dan stared at the muddy footprint she had left on his pristine floor.
He felt a strange, uncomfortable tightening in his chest.
He hated it.
The nursery smelled of boiled cabbage, lye soap, and old copper.
It had been three weeks since Megan arrived at Kensley Park.
The children, Tyler and Heather, were exactly as the Duke had described: feral.
Tyler, at nine, had eyes full of defensive malice and a habit of throwing heavy wooden blocks when he felt cornered.
Heather, seven, was a ghost.
She communicated only through aggressive tugs on Megan’s skirts and wide, terrified stares.
Megan didn’t try to coddle them.
She didn’t offer false, sugary smiles.
She simply existed in their space, an immovable object of routine and boundary.
On a Tuesday morning, the rain had finally stopped, replaced by a biting pale frost that coated the windowpanes.
Megan was on her knees, scrubbing a massive ink stain off the floorboards that Tyler had deliberately caused.
Her hands were raw, the skin cracking painfully at the knuckles.
She smelled heavily of the harsh lye soap.
If you throw the inkwell again, Tyler, Megan said calmly, not looking up from the scrub brush.
You will clean it up yourself, and you will miss supper.
Hunger is an excellent teacher.
Tyler sat on the window seat, swinging his legs, trying to look defiant but failing to mask his surprise.
The previous governesses had screamed or wept.
Megan just scrubbed.
A heavy footfall sounded in the corridor, the kind of deliberate, heavy tread that made the floorboards vibrate.
The nursery door swung open.
Dan stood in the threshold.
He was dressed for riding in tall black boots and a heavy wool coat, smelling intensely of leather, horse sweat, and the sharp bite of winter air.
He looked too large for the room, his presence immediately sucking all the oxygen from the space.
Tyler stiffened, pressing his back against the glass.
Heather scrambled under a low table.
Megan didn’t gasp.
She didn’t scramble to her feet.
She finished her scrubbing stroke, wrung the brush out in the tin pail, wiped her stinging hands on her rough apron, and slowly stood up.
Her knees ached.
Your grace, she said, her tone perfectly flat.
Dan’s eyes flicked from the pail of dirty water to Tyler frozen on the window seat, to the hem of Heather’s dress visible under the table.
Finally, his gaze settled on Megan.
He took in her disheveled hair, the smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the red, cracked skin of her hands.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Disgust.
He walked out, slamming the door.
Megan closed her eyes.
She let out a long, shaky breath.
The anger in her chest was hot and dense, a physical weight.
She looked over at Tyler.
The boy’s shoulders had slumped.
The defiance was gone, replaced by a hollow, familiar devastation.
Right, Megan said briskly, clapping her raw hands together.
The sound was loud in the quiet room.
Mathematics, get your slates.
If your father doesn’t care to hear your tables, you will recite them to me, and you will be brilliant at them.
That night, after the children were asleep, Megan sat by the tiny, miserable fire in her adjoining room.
She was mending a tear in her only good wool skirt.
Her fingers were cramped.
She thought of the Duke.
She thought of his broad shoulders under the riding coat, the dark circles under his cold eyes, and the sheer obstinate cruelty of his neglect.
He was a broken man.
She had seen broken men before.
Her father had been one, drinking himself into the grave after her mother died.
But her father’s grief had been sloppy and loud.
Dan’s grief was a weapon.
He wielded it to keep everyone at a distance.
She pulled the needle through the heavy fabric, biting off the thread with a sharp snap of her teeth.
He thought she would quit.
He thought she would break under the cold and the silence.
Watch me, she thought, tossing the skirt onto the bed.
Just watch me.
The storm hit Kensley Park two nights later.
It wasn’t a gentle autumn rain, but a violent, thrashing gale that rattled the ancient window frames and sent drafts howling down the chimneys.
Megan couldn’t sleep.
The cold had settled deep into her bones, and her mind was racing.
She needed the second volume of a history of the Roman Republic to prepare for Tyler’s lessons the next day.
The nursery shelves were barren.
She knew where the book was.
She had seen it in the main library on the ground floor, the library she was technically forbidden to enter outside of sanctioned hours.
She didn’t care.
Wrapping a heavy, faded shawl over her simple cotton nightdress, she picked up her candlestick.
The floorboards were freezing against her bare feet.
The house was entirely pitch black, save for the pathetic halo of yellow light she carried.
She crept down the grand staircase, flinching at every creak.
The air grew colder as she descended, smelling heavily of damp stone and lingering woodsmoke.
The library doors were closed.
She pushed one open, its hinges groaning in protest.
The room was vast, lined floor to ceiling with thousands of volumes.
It smelled intoxicatingly of dry paper, aged leather, and something richer: sandalwood and expensive whiskey.
Megan moved toward the history section, her candle casting long, dancing shadows against the spines of the books.
She found the Roman history shelf.
She stood on her tiptoes, reaching for the heavy leather-bound volume.
Her fingers just brushed the spine.
She stretched higher, her shawl slipping off one shoulder.
You are trespassing.
Megan gasped, spinning around so fast she nearly dropped the candle.
Hot wax splashed onto the back of her hand.
She winced, biting her lip to suppress a cry.
Dan was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the darkest corner of the room.
He was entirely swallowed by the shadows, save for the dull orange glow of a cheroot clamped between his teeth.
He stood up slowly.
He wasn’t wearing a jacket.
His linen shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the tanned, shadowed hollow of his collarbone.
He looked rough, uncivilized, and dangerous.
He smelled of alcohol and stale tobacco.
I needed a book for the boys’ lessons, Megan said, her voice shaking just a fraction.
She hated herself for it.
Dan stepped out of the shadows.
He moved silently for a large man.
He stopped just a foot away from her.
The proximity was jarring.
She had to tilt her head up to look at him.
She could see the dark stubble on his jaw, the heavy exhaustion weighing down his eyelids.
I gave you explicit instructions regarding your boundaries within this house, he murmured.
His voice was a low rumble that competed with the thunder outside.
The nursery lacks adequate materials, Megan shot back, recovering her footing.
She didn’t step away.
If you intend for your son to learn more than fables and silence, I must use this library.
My heir, he repeated softly, mockingly.
He looked down at her.
His gaze drifted from her flushed cheeks to the exposed skin of her shoulder where the shawl had slipped, to the thin cotton of her nightdress.
He didn’t look away quickly.
He let his eyes linger in an insolent, deliberate visual sweep.
Megan felt a sudden, heavy heat flood her chest.
It wasn’t embarrassment.
It was something much sharper.
She pulled the shawl tightly around herself.
Are you attempting to intimidate me, your grace? she asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Because it will not work.
I am not one of your terrified maids.
No, Dan said, stepping closer.
The scent of whiskey and cedar enveloped her.
You are not.
You are a nuisance.
You are loud.
You disrupt the quiet.
The quiet is killing your children, she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
And it is killing you.
Dan’s eyes flared.
In a flash, his hand shot out.
He didn’t grab her, but he planted his palm flat against the bookshelf, directly beside her head, trapping her.
The candle flickered violently in the draft of his movement.
Do not, he breathed, his face inches from hers.
Presume to know anything about me, or what is killing me, Megan.
Megan’s breath caught.
She could feel the heat radiating off his body.
She could see the tiny flecks of silver in his grey eyes, the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat.
He was furious, but beneath the fury, she felt the raw, jagged edge of a man holding himself together by a single fraying thread.
She didn’t cower.
She looked right into those storm-colored eyes.
Then prove me wrong, she whispered back.
Stop hiding in the dark.
Stop punishing a nine-year-old boy for existing.
Stop pretending you are a monster when you are simply a coward.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the violent crash of thunder outside.
Dan stared at her, his chest rising and falling heavily, his jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might crack.
She waited for him to shout, to fire her, to throw her out into the storm.
Instead, his gaze dropped to her mouth.
The tension in the air snapped, changing instantly from pure hostility to a dense, suffocating physical awareness.
Megan’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She felt a magnetic, horrifying pull toward him.
He leaned in just a fraction of an inch.
His breath brushed her cheek, and then abruptly, he pulled away.
He turned his back on her, running a hand aggressively through his hair.
Take the damn book, he rasped, his voice sounding completely wrecked.
And get out.
Megan’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely pull the heavy volume from the shelf.
She clutched it to her chest, her candle trembling.
She walked backward toward the door, unable to take her eyes off his rigid, broad back.
When she finally slipped out into the freezing hallway, closing the heavy doors behind her, she leaned against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes.
She had pushed him.
She had seen the crack in the armor, and God help her, she wanted to break the whole thing wide open.
Morning broke over Kensley Park with a brutal, blinding clarity.
The storm had stripped the last of the dead leaves from the oaks, leaving the branches looking like black skeletal fingers against a painfully blue sky.
Megan woke with a stiff neck and the distinct, lingering memory of sandalwood and whiskey.
She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the tiny, cold bone buttons of her collar.
Her reflection in the warped washstand mirror looked pale and bruised around the eyes.
She splashed freezing water on her face, and the shock of it grounded her.
She was a governess, heavily reliant on her wages, and she had practically dared a duke to kiss her or strike her.
When she reached the nursery, the smell of burnt porridge hung heavy in the air.
Tyler was poking the grey lump with a spoon, his expression thunderous.
Heather sat in the corner, rhythmically peeling a piece of loose wallpaper.
Leave the wallpaper, Heather, Megan said, her voice raspy as she dragged a chair to the table.
And Tyler, eat it or be hungry.
The fragile peace lasted exactly four days before the damp cold of the manor finally claimed its toll.
Tyler’s face flushed a brilliant, unhealthy scarlet, his small body radiating heat like a furnace.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Megan’s chest.
She sent a terrified maid for the village doctor, only to learn he would not return until morning.
She spent the next two hours in a grueling physical battle against the fever, pressing freezing vinegar cloths to the boy’s forehead and wrists.
At midnight, the nursery door slammed open, and Dan froze in the threshold.
He took one look at the thrashing boy on the bed, the basin of bloody-looking vinegar water, and Megan’s frantic movements.
All the color drained from his face.
He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white, his eyes wide and unblinking.
He wasn’t seeing his son; he was seeing the wife he couldn’t save.
No, he whispered, backing away slowly.
No, I can’t.
Look at me! Megan shouted, dropping the cloth and crossing the room in three strides.
She grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown with her wet, vinegar-soaked hands and yanked him forward hard.
She is dead, she said brutally, locking her eyes onto his frantic, trapped gaze.
She is gone, and you could not save her.
But your son is right here, and he is alive, and he is terrified.
Should you abandon him in this moment, neither of us will ever forgive you.
She held him there for five agonizing seconds, feeling the heavy, erratic thud of his heart against her knuckles.
The tension broke as Dan let out a harsh sob, a sound of pure agony.
He tore out of her grip, fell to his knees beside the low cot, and gathered his thrashing son into his arms.
I’ve got you, Dan choked out, rocking the boy back and forth.
Papa’s here.
By four in the morning, the fever finally broke, leaving Tyler fast asleep, his small hand securely gripping the fabric of Dan’s shirt.
Dan slumped back against the wall, looking entirely hollowed out.
Thank you, he whispered into the dim, grey light.
For not letting me run.
I will never let you run, she said softly.
A few days later, the fever had snapped, leaving Tyler weak but fiercely demanding of toasted bread and butter.
Dan entered the nursery wearing a crisp white shirt, the wild, hunted look completely gone.
He placed his warm, calloused hand flat against the boy’s forehead, making Tyler’s eyes widen in surprise.
Good, Dan murmured, turning to look at Megan.
Walk with me, Megan.
He led her down the grand staircase and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the overgrown conservatory.
I have sent for a tutor from Cambridge, he said abruptly, the words feeling like a physical blow.
Megan’s breath vanished as she realized he was retreating into his fortress and throwing her out.
When shall I pack my trunk? she managed to say, her voice sounding thin and reedy.
Dan spun around, his brow furrowing deeply in pure, uncomfortable frustration.
Pack?
I am not sending you away.
The tutor will handle the boy’s academics, but Heather needs you, and Kensley Park needs you.
I will not be relegated to a silent nursemaid, she warned him, fighting the treacherous hope blooming in her ribs.
If I stay, I maintain authority over their schedules, and they are not to be locked in the West Wing any longer.
Dan exhaled heavily, staring at her mouth for a second too long.
Fine.
Then I am agreeable.
He walked out, leaving her standing among the dead vines, her heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against her ribs.
Four weeks passed, and winter sank its teeth into the land, blanketing Kensley Park in three feet of brilliant, blinding snow.
Every time Megan was in a room with Dan, the air turned dense and abrasive.
They were circling each other, two feral creatures waiting to see who would bare their throat first.
It happened on a Tuesday, while the snow was falling heavily outside the library windows, muffling the world.
Dan walked in smelling of scotch, cold air, and an intense radiating heat.
He stopped right in front of her, his eyes dark, stormy, and focused entirely on her.
Today is her birthday, he said, his voice completely hollow.
Elizabeth, my wife.
Megan placed her book carefully on the side table, offering him a steady, grounding anchor without saying a word.
I spent the morning trying to remember the exact sound of her laugh, he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of Megan’s jaw.
I swore on her grave I would never marry again, he said to the flames.
I swore I would never put another woman in that bed, never demand an heir, never risk being the cause of that kind of agony.
He turned back to look at Megan, his eyes completely wrecked and stripped of all pride.
And then you kicked the door in.
You came in here with your frayed coats and your bloody defiance, and you dragged me out of the dirt.
You dragged yourself out, Dan, she said, forcing herself to stand tall.
I chose you, he said violently, slamming his glass down on the mantle so hard the crystal shattered.
He crossed the distance between them in two massive strides, grabbed her face in both hands, and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle; it was a crushing collision that tasted of scotch, salt, and desperation.
Megan gasped against his mouth, tangling her hands in the heavy dark hair at the nape of his neck.
She kissed him back with every ounce of frustration and longing she had bottled up for two months.
Dan let out a low, ragged groan, hauling her hard against his chest and walking her backward until her spine hit the edge of the mahogany desk.
He kissed her jaw, his hands mapping the curve of her waist, erasing every inch of space between them.
She arched into him, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her throat.
He froze.
Dan’s hands tightened on her hips, and then abruptly, he pushed himself away.
He stumbled back a step, looking at her bruised, swollen lips with absolute horror washing over his face.
No, he whispered, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth.
I cannot marry you.
The words were a barricade slamming down between us.
I made a vow, and I cannot do it again.
The risk, the blood… I won’t.
Megan’s lungs squeezed tight as the haze of lust evaporated, leaving behind a stark, brutal clarity.
I didn’t ask you to marry me, she said, her voice shaking, but her chin rising.
But I want you, he ground out, pacing like a caged animal.
I want you in my bed, and I will provide for you.
I will buy you a house in London or a cottage on the estate, but I cannot make you my duchess.
Silence descended on the library, heavier than the snow falling outside.
Megan felt a cold, hard knot form in her stomach.
You want me to be your mistress, she stated flatly.
I want to keep you safe!
By ruining me.
A bitter, humillating laugh escaped her throat.
I am poor, your grace, and I am entirely alone in the world, but I am not a coward, and I am not a half measure.
She walked toward the door, her spine perfectly straight.
Where are you going? Panic spiked in his voice.
I’m going to pack my trunk.
You can send my remaining wages to the post office in the village.
I will be gone before dinner.
The trunk smelled of mothballs and damp canvas as Megan folded her three plain skirts and her sensible, ugly coat.
Her hands were perfectly steady, but her heart was violently tearing itself to pieces inside her chest.
She did not say goodbye to the children, leaving a carefully worded letter for Tyler on his pillow.
Craig stood in the entrance hall, holding her pathetic trunk by the fraying leather strap.
The carriage is ready, Megan, he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Are you entirely certain?
I am certain, Mr. Craig, Megan said, tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.
She stepped out into the biting winter air and climbed into the hired carriage.
The hired coach jerked into motion, its heavy wheels grinding against the frozen stone of the driveway.
Kensley Park began to recede through the frosted glass of the window.
Megan finally let the tears fall, hot and silent, tracking down her cheeks and freezing against her skin.
She had demanded all or nothing, and he had chosen nothing.
The carriage passed through the towering iron gates, turning onto the open moorland road as the wind howled against the wooden sides of the coach.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the wind.
Thud, thud, thud.
It was the heavy, frantic drumbeat of galloping hooves, moving completely recklessly on the treacherous icy road.
The carriage driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins.
The coach skidded, tilting dangerously before slamming to a halt.
Through the frosty glass, Megan saw the massive slate-grey hunter block the road, lathred in sweat.
Dan sat on its back, wearing no coat, his white shirt plastered to his chest with sweat and melting snow.
He slid off the horse, his boots hitting the snow with a heavy crunch.
He walked straight to the carriage door and wrenched it open.
The cold, impenetrable duke was dead.
In his place was a man stripped raw, panting, desperate, and entirely terrifying.
Get out! he rasped, his breath pluming in the freezing air.
Megan gripped her reticule tight, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it bruised.
Move your horse, your grace, I am leaving.
I will shoot the horse! he snarled, a wild, frantic light in his eyes.
I will burn the carriage.
I will tear up the road with my bare hands.
You are not leaving!
You made your choice! she yelled back, her composure finally shattering.
You decided to cling to your past, so release me!
Dan grabbed her gloved hand, hauling her down from the carriage so hard she stumbled into the snow.
Before she could find her balance, he dropped to his knees.
Right there in the freezing mud and snow, the Duke of Kensley, a man who knelt to no one, sank into the slush at her feet.
Megan froze, her breath hitching in her throat.
Dan looked up at her, his grey eyes entirely bare, filled with a terror that had nothing to do with memories and everything to do with losing her.
I am a coward, he said, his voice cracking, loud enough for the wind to carry.
I have been a coward for three years, thinking if I never loved anything again, nothing could ever hurt me.
He squeezed her hands, pressing his face against her knuckles.
But watching you drive away is worse than the fear.
It is worse than the dying.
If you leave, there is nothing left but the grave.
Megan stared down at him, her chest heaving, the tears returning hot and fast to her eyes.
I will not ask you to be my secret, Dan pleaded, his eyes burning into hers.
I will not hide you in the shadows.
I want you in the light.
I want you at the head of my table.
I want to argue with you about the horses for the next fifty years.
He swallowed hard, his throat working.
Marry me, he pleaded, the words torn out of him, ragged and desperate.
Marry a broken man, Megan.
Challenge me every single day.
Just do not leave me in the dark.
The wind howled across the moor, and the grey horse snorted, stamping its heavy hoof in the snow.
Megan looked at the man on his knees.
She didn’t see a duke; she saw a man who had finally decided to drop his armor and bleed for her.
Slowly, her hands shaking, she pulled her fingers from his iron grip.
Dan let out a harsh, defeated breath, dropping his head, bracing for the rejection.
Instead, Megan reached out, burying her hands in his damp, freezing hair.
She tugged hard, forcing him to look up at her.
If we do this, she whispered, her voice fierce and completely uncompromising.
You never run again.
You face the ghosts with me.
Dan let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh.
He reached up, grabbing her waist, and buried his face in her stomach, holding on to her like she was the only solid thing left on earth.
I swear it, he mumbled into the rough wool of her coat.
I swear it.
Megan closed her eyes, the cold wind whipping her hair around her face, and cradled his head in her hands.
She had come to Kensley Park with three shillings and a frayed trunk.
She had found a monster, challenged a ghost, and somehow, in the freezing mud of the moors, won a duke.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
