Chapter Eight
The days that followed the storm proved, paradoxically, the most exquisite and the most exasperating of Fiona’s life.
Exquisite, because something fundamental had shifted between her and Christian.
The walls he had so painstakingly erected had not vanished—he was still prone to silences, to sudden inward turns of thought, to fleeting shadows of self-doubt—but fissures had appeared.
Cracks through which warmth might enter.
And Fiona, resolute as ever, intended to widen them.
Exasperating, because wanting him had become a physical ache.
They took tea together each afternoon. They walked the grounds when the weather permitted, her arm resting lightly in his, their conversation meandering from philosophy to farming to the merits of oatcake versus shortbread.
In the evenings, they sat in the library in companionable quiet, books open, firelight low.
Sometimes she would glance up and find him watching her—not idly, but intently—and the look in his eyes would send heat rushing to her cheeks.
But he did not kiss her again.
Oh, there were moments.
Glances that lingered too long across the breakfast table. Fingers that lingered too long when passing a book. That afternoon in the garden, when he had steadied her over uneven ground and his hands had remained at her waist for several suspended heartbeats before he stepped back, breath unsteady.
But the fierce urgency of the training hall, the reckless press of bodies against bookshelves, the molten hunger of that first unravelling—those seemed to have been carefully folded away, as though winter garments no longer suited the season.
He was being honourable. She understood that.
He was courting her as a gentleman ought. Proving that what he felt was not merely desire. Offering patience where once there had been fire.
She admired the intention.
She also wished, at intervals, to overturn the nearest piece of furniture.
“You are sighing again, miss,” Molly observed mildly from her corner of the yellow parlour, where she was engaged in mending a hem.
“I am not sighing,” Fiona replied with dignity. “I am breathing deliberately. It strengthens the lungs.”
“If you say so.” Molly did not look up. “It does appear, however, that your lungs require particular strengthening whenever His Grace is present.”
Fiona cast her a warning glance. Molly, long immune to such tactics, smiled faintly and continued stitching.
The truth was, Fiona did not know what to do with herself.
She had never been in love before—had never expected to be, frankly, given her family’s assessment of her marriageability—and the reality of it was far more consuming than any novel had prepared her for.
She thought about Christian constantly. His voice, his hands, the rare warmth of his smile.
The way he looked at her as though she were something precious, something miraculous, something he could not quite believe was real.
She wished to touch him.
Wished to be touched.
Wished to resume that night in the library and discover what lay beyond confession and firelight.
But Christian, confound him, seemed determined to behave like a paragon of restraint.
It was enough to drive a woman to madness.
***
Christian, for his part, was losing what little composure he possessed.
He sat in his study, a sheaf of correspondence before him, though the contents had ceased to register some twenty minutes prior. His thoughts drifted—persistently, treacherously—to Fiona.
To the warmth of her curled against him that night.
To the reverence of her mouth against the mark he had despised since childhood.
To the quiet certainty in her voice when she had said she had already fallen.
He had spent every day since attempting to keep his hands from her.
It was the right thing to do. He knew that.
She was a gentleman’s daughter. A guest beneath his roof.
A woman whose reputation balanced precariously enough without his assistance.
If he allowed himself to tumble her into bed—or onto the library settee, or against the shelves he knew far too well—he would prove every fear he had ever harboured about himself.
He wished to be better.
For her.
But restraint was an unrelenting discipline.
Every time she entered a room, his body responded. The rustle of her skirts, the scent of her perfume, the musical quality of her laugh—all of it conspired to drive him to distraction. He found himself inventing excuses to be near her, then inventing excuses to maintain distance.
He lay awake at night, recalling the weight of her in his arms and forced himself to remain in his own chamber when every instinct urged him elsewhere.
He was a duke. Eight-and-twenty years of age. Master of an estate and its responsibilities.
He had faced obstinate tenants, failing harvests, and even—memorably—a ferocious goose that had terrorised the kitchen garden for the better part of a summer.
Surely he could withstand one woman.
And yet.
A knock at his study door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter.”
Mrs Blackley appeared, composed as ever. “Your Grace, Miss Hart wonders whether you might accompany her for a turn about the garden. The weather has improved.”
“Yes.”
The word escaped before he could consider it. “That is—yes. Inform her I shall join her directly.”
Mrs Blackley’s mouth twitched in a manner she no doubt believed discreet. “Very good, Your Grace.”
When she withdrew, Christian regarded the unread correspondence with something approaching resignation.
A walk in the garden.
Fresh air. Gravel paths. Perfect propriety.
He could endure a walk in the garden.
Probably.
***
The garden, Fiona had discovered, was considerably more appealing now that the rain had stopped.
The roses had not yet flowered, and the hedges bore the unmistakable evidence of neglect, but there was something undeniably appealing in their untamed state.
Wildness, Fiona had decided, possesses its own elegance.
Rather like the master of the estate.
She waited beside the moss-draped fountain, whose stone nymph had long since surrendered her nose to time, when Christian emerged from the castle.
He had exchanged his morning coat for attire better suited to walking, though “suited” was a charitable description. There remained about him a faint impression of disarray, as though propriety were something he wore reluctantly.
Fiona found the effect dangerously compelling.
“Miss Hart.” He halted at a decorous distance, hands clasped behind his back. “You wished to walk?”
“I wished to escape the parlour before it extinguished my spirit.” She softened the words with a smile. “And I thought you might welcome the same. You have been immured in your study since breakfast.”
“Estate correspondence.”
“Mmm.” She fell into step beside him as they took the gravel path. “And did you accomplish anything of note?”
A pause. “Not as much as I ought.”
“Distracted?”
Another pause—longer this time. “You might say so.”
A small, secret satisfaction unfurled within her. So, she was not alone in her torment. That seemed only just.
They walked on in companionable silence, gravel crunching beneath their feet, the pale winter sun attempting warmth upon the damp earth.
Fiona was acutely aware of him beside her—his height, his breadth, the subtle way his stride shortened to accommodate hers without thought.
He moved with an ease that belied his size.
Like a creature powerful enough to destroy, yet choosing restraint.
“May I ask you something?” she said at last.
“You may ask. I cannot promise to answer.”
“Fair enough.” She chose her words with care. “That night in the library. When you—when we—” Heat rose unbidden to her cheeks. “You wished to show me the birthmark. To let me see you as you are.”
“Yes.”
“Why then? What changed?”
He was silent for some time. They reached a stone bench beneath an ancient oak, its branches stark against the pale sky. He gestured for her to sit. She arranged her skirts carefully; he lowered himself beside her—near enough that warmth radiated through wool and muslin, yet not quite touching.
“I had a dream,” he said at last. “The night of the storm. Before you came to me.”
“A dream?”
“A nightmare.” His gaze drifted toward the bare branches overhead. “The same one I have had since childhood. I am in a ballroom—my mother’s ballroom in London—and everyone is staring. Then my clothes begin to vanish. My coat. My waistcoat. My shirt. Until I stand there exposed.”
Fiona’s chest tightened.
“They always react the same way,” he continued quietly. “They recoil. Some laugh. Some look away. My mother is always in the front. She looks at me as though I have disappointed her beyond repair.”
“It is only a dream.”
“Is it?” His eyes met hers, shadowed with memory. “When I was seven, my nurse insisted I attend a house party. She believed I should have companions my own age.”
Fiona’s fingers closed around his instinctively.
“We were playing in the garden. A boy tackled me. My shirt came loose.” His jaw tightened. “The screaming was… instructive. The children fled. The adults came running. I remember sitting in the dirt while they stared.”
“They were ignorant.”
“They were honest,” he replied flatly. “My mother never allowed me such gatherings again. She said it was for my protection. I understood what she meant.”
Fiona’s grip tightened. She could not undo his past. She could only sit beside him now, in winter light, and refuse to look away.
“And that night of the storm,” she said quietly, “was it the nightmare that drove you to the library?”
“It was. But the dream itself had altered.” His thumb traced the curve of her knuckles, slow and absent-minded. “When I stood exposed, the crowd parted, and you walked through them. You walked toward me.”
Her breath caught. “And?”