Page 74 of A Rogue to Resist
A third attempt proved no more successful than the first two. Katherine abandoned the pretence of composing a note, letting her pen fall to the desk as she pressed her fingers to her temples.
The truth was, there were no words that could adequately express what she felt. No proper, socially acceptable way to say:I’ve only just realized I’m in love with you, and now it’s too late.
In love.The thought stopped her cold.
Was that what this hollowness in her chest signified? This sense of profound loss at the news of Drake’s engagement?
“Ridiculous,” she whispered to the empty room. “Impossible.”
She had sworn never to risk her heart again after Edmund. Never to place herself in a position where a man could diminish or control her. Her independence was hard-won and precious.
Yet as she stared unseeing at the darkening garden, Katherine could no longer deny the truth. Somehow, despite all her defences and determination, she had fallen in love with Drake Halston. Not with his title or position, but withthe man himself—his integrity, his intelligence, his unexpected gentleness toward those dependent on his care.
A man who valued her mind as much as he clearly appreciated her person. A man who challenged rather than dismissed her. A man as unlike Edmund as it was possible to be.
And now he was lost to her, committed to another woman for reasons of practicality and inheritance.
Had today’s events at Thornfield Park influenced his decision? Had he seen her with Lord Clifton and concluded that she was considering another suitor? The timing seemed too coincidental to ignore.
But no, how could Hilaria’s note have arrived mid-day?
And even if that were true, it only confirmed that whatever attraction Drake might have felt toward her, it had not been strong enough to overcome the practical advantages Lady Westmore offered. Given the choice between a complicated entanglement with Katherine and a straightforward arrangement with the widow, he had chosen the latter.
She couldn’t even blame him.
The entail’s deadline loomed, Greythorne’s future hung in the balance, and Katherine herself had never given Drake any indication that she might consider remarriage. Indeed, she had stated the opposite on multiple occasions.
The first tear caught her by surprise, sliding silently down her cheek before she could prevent it. Katherine brushed it away impatiently, only to find another following close behind. And another. Until her vision blurred, and her shoulders shook with the effort of containing the sobs that threatened to break free.
All the carefully constructed walls of her composure, maintained through five years of Edmund’s coldness and cruelty, through the public performance of proper widowhood, through the daily navigation of a society that valued her only forher connections and decorum—they crumbled now, leaving her defenceless against the tide of grief that swept through her.
Not just grief for the loss of Drake, though that cut deepest. But grief for the years wasted with Edmund, for the courage she hadn’t found until it was too late, for the possibility of joy she had only glimpsed before it vanished beyond reach.
“I let him go,” she whispered, the admission torn from some deep place within her. “I let him go.”
The words hung in the silent room, both confession and accusation. She had maintained her independence, her control, her careful distance—and in doing so, had lost perhaps her only chance at genuine happiness.
As twilight deepened into darkness outside her window, Katherine remained motionless, tears flowing freely down her face. Tomorrow she would rebuild her composure, don the mask of the dignified dowager countess, and face the world with appropriate detachment.
But tonight, alone in her sitting room with only the shadows as witness, she allowed herself to mourn what might have been—if only she had recognized her own heart sooner.
Chapter Nineteen
“To the future Countess!”
The cry rang out across White’s exclusive smoking room, echoing off wood-panelled walls as gentlemen nodded and hands were raised in Drake’s direction. He forced a smile that felt brittle on his face, lifting his own hand in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic congratulations.
“Lady Eleanor Thornhill will make a fine Countess of Greythorne,” someone called from the back of the room.
“Earl of Fairfield’s daughter,” another voice clarified for those who might not be familiar with his betrothed. “Excellent family. Substantial dowry. A most advantageous match.”
Drake sipped his brandy, letting the expensive spirit burn a path down his throat.
He had been accepting similar toasts and comments for the past hour, each one feeling more hollow than the last. After three days of hearing how fortunate he was to have secured such an appropriate bride, the words had lost whatever meaning they might have initially held.
Drake knew he was betraying everything his mother had taught him, everything he’d fled to America to escape. But what choice did he have? The entail’s deadline loomed, and with Katherine seemingly choosing Lord Clifton, he faced animpossible decision: lose Greythorne entirely to Captain Halston—abandoning all the tenants and workers who depended on him—or sacrifice his principles for a practical marriage that would at least preserve the estate.
He told himself it was different from his parents’ marriage. He wasn’t seeking social advancement or family connections—he was protecting Greythorne’s people. Lady Eleanor seemed content with the arrangement; she wasn’t being forced into anything. And perhaps, in time, they might develop some form of companionship, if not love.
