Chapter Seven
The letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Fiona was in the yellow parlour, attempting to concentrate on a volume of poetry borrowed from the library, when Mrs Blackley appeared bearing a silver salver and an expression of discreet curiosity.
“For you, miss. From Whitby.”
Fiona’s stomach tightened.
She had written to her aunt three days prior, explaining the accident and her convalescence at Thornwick Castle.
She had been deliberately vague about her reasons for remaining after the roads cleared—mentioning only that the physician advised continued rest and that His Grace had been generous in extending his hospitality.
She had not mentioned the kisses. The stolen moments. The way her heart raced every time Christian entered a room.
Some truths were better left unwritten.
“Thank you, Mrs Blackley.” Fiona took the letter with steady hands, waiting until the housekeeper had departed before breaking the seal.