Teddy had not been expecting a visitor, and he had certainly not been expecting this one. That did not mean he was displeased; after all, a stone in one's path might often offer a better view, or at least a fine thing to leap off of.
He was dressed in his finest suit. He'd had his shoes polished to mirror reflection, and his hair was combed back in chestnut waves, as was the current style. He felt beautiful, and maybe it was love that turned his blood to fire. Maybe it was Mare Atwood.
Maybe it was fear. He was desperate to tell her everything. That he loved her and always had, that he was a fool, that had he known all he had to do to earn her heart was forsake this life and admit his love, he'd have done it ages ago.
But beneath that desperation, there was a looming shadow he was terrified to confront. That shadow, he knew, was reality.
Even love was not enough to live on. Teddy knew now that he could live severed from the heart of his family's estate. He could work, and would. He could earn. He could strive.
But with nothing to his name but another night in Alison's estate and the suit on his back, could he provide for a wife? A child? Did Mare yearn for children? If so, when? Soon? How many?
The fear rose in his blood until it roared, an endless crashing tide, deafening in his ears. He'd denied it every moment since he'd read her request in the paper, but as he lifted the black silk mask he'd ordered ages ago, it seemed impossible to hide any longer. This was the mask he would remove tonight. He would reveal himself as a romantic and writer; as a man who had given his heart to another such character.
His estate and fortune were gone. Now would go his reputation. The doors that had been open for him, that made his new occupation and possibly fruitful future possible, would be closed. The smallest sliver of Teddy still feared for himself; but all of him feared for Mare.
She could write. He knew this. Mare Atwood was an inferno, and forests would lie down and burn for her. Women around the world would seek out her books. Men would ignore the jeers of society and bring her drinks at parties. They would fall in love with her.
They could provide for her.
And what of the male writers? Those with more than heavy purses, but heavy hearts and clever minds? They could be whetstones for the blade of Mare's wit and creative work. They could take her to agents and publishers. They could take her to great cities and show her the world.
What could Teddy do, but be that stone in her path?
The knock did not wait a third time; Alison's parlor door was pushed wide.
Teddy turned, and the his world changed once more.