Chapter 19 I chose to stay.
Fiona read the letter twice, then set it upon the table with hands that trembled only slightly.
“Fiona.” Christian’s voice was sharp with concern. He had risen from his chair and crossed to her side, one hand closing around hers. “What has happened? What does it say?”
She handed him the letter without a word.
He read it in silence, his expression darkening line by line. When he finished, he laid the paper down with deliberate care, as though he did not entirely trust himself not to tear it in two.
“Your mother,” he said after a moment, “writes with considerable severity.”
“She has reason.” Fiona was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “From her perspective, I have behaved very badly indeed.”
“You have done nothing that warrants such harsh judgement.”
“Not intentionally. But I have certainly done something unorthodox. My mother has spent her life following the rules—doing what was expected, ensuring that her family remained above reproach. And now her sensible, practical daughter has thrown all of that aside for—what was it she wrote?—the idle fancies of a circulating-library romance.”
“You have thrown nothing aside. You have chosen—”
“I know what I have chosen.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I do not regret it, Christian. Not for a moment. But that does not mean there will be no consequences.”
He fell silent, his jaw tightening, his hand still clasping hers. She saw the familiar shadows gathering behind his eyes—the guilt, the reflexive self-reproach that rose whenever the world threatened to wound her on his account.
“This is my doing,” he said at last. “I ought to have sent you away. The moment the roads cleared, I should have insisted.”
“I chose to stay.”
“You should never have been placed in such a position to begin with.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “I knew what people would say. I knew what it might cost you—and still I let you stay. Because I was selfish—because I wanted—”
“Because you loved me.” She rose and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Because I loved you. Because we found something rare, and neither of us wished to lose it. That is not selfishness, Christian. That is courage.”
“Your mother would disagree.”
“My mother has never been in love. She married my father because it was expected of her—because he was suitable, because her parents arranged it, and she did not know how to refuse. She has never felt what I feel when I look at you. She cannot understand it, because she has never known it.”
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her touch.
“What do you wish to do?” he asked quietly.
It was the right question—the one that acknowledged her choice, her right to determine her own course. She loved him for asking it, even as she dreaded the answer.
“I do not know,” she admitted. “If I remain here, the scandal grows. If I leave, I lose you. Neither prospect seems bearable.”
“There is another possibility.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He opened his eyes, and she saw something there that made her breath catch—hope and fear intertwined so closely she could scarcely distinguish them.
“I could marry you.”
The words seemed to settle in the air between them, enormous and impossible. Fiona stared at him, her thoughts momentarily deserted.
“Christian—”
“I know it is not what you imagined. I know I am not—” He broke off, swallowing.
“I am not the husband any woman would choose if she possessed other options. But I could give you respectability. My name, my protection. The gossip would not vanish, but it would change. You would not be a ruined woman—you would be a duchess. And I…” His voice faltered.
“I would have the privilege of spending my life attempting to deserve you.”
Fiona’s eyes burned. She blinked quickly, though the tears refused to be denied.
“You would marry me,” she said slowly, “to preserve my reputation?”
“I would marry you because I love you.” He took her hands in his, holding them tightly.
“I would marry you because the thought of losing you is unbearable. Because you are the first person who has ever looked at me and seen something worth loving—and I cannot imagine the rest of my life without you in it.”
“But I thought you never meant to marry.”
“I thought that before I met you.” He raised her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You have altered everything, Fiona. For the first time in my life, I believe I might deserve happiness. That I might even be capable of giving it. That what I once thought a curse is nothing more than a part of me—a part you have taught me not to fear.”
The tears slipped down her cheeks despite her efforts to contain them. He brushed them away with gentle fingers, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
“Marry me,” he said again. “Not because society demands it. Not because your mother is afraid. Marry me because you love me—because you wish to spend your life with me. Because you cannot imagine a future without me any more than I can imagine one without you.”
“Yes.”
The word escaped before she could consider it.
“Yes,” she repeated, a breathless laugh breaking through her tears. “Yes, I will marry you. Yes to all of it, Christian. Yes.”
He kissed her then—deep and fervent—and she clung to him as though he were the only steady thing in a suddenly shifting world.
When at last they parted, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I ought to do this properly,” he murmured. “A formal proposal. A speech worthy of the occasion.”
“I do not require any of that.”
“I know.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “But I should like to give it to you nonetheless.” He drew back, resolve settling over his features. “I will write to your father today. Request a formal meeting. We shall proceed in the proper manner.”
“My father may refuse. You read my mother’s letter—he is furious.”
“Then I shall go to London myself and make my case.” He squared his shoulders, looking every inch the formidable duke he was meant to be.
“I will not allow your family—or anyone else—to stand between us. You have agreed to be my wife, Fiona Hart, and I intend to make that promise a reality as swiftly as possible.”
She smiled up at him, her heart so full it almost ached.
“You are very formidable when you are determined.”
“I have never before possessed anything worth fighting for.” He kissed her once more, more gently this time. “Now I do.”
***
The remainder of the day passed in a haze of happiness and planning.
Christian retreated to his study to compose the letter to her father—a task which, judging by the occasional muttered imprecation that drifted through the closed door, proved more difficult than he had anticipated.
Fiona, for her part, wandered the castle in a kind of daze, scarcely able to believe what had happened.
She was engaged.
To a duke.
To the man she loved.
It felt like something lifted from one of Molly’s circulating-library romances, and she kept waiting for the inevitable reversal—the moment when fate would snatch the happiness away, when some complication would arise that could not be overcome.
But none came.
There was only the steady rhythm of her heart and the warmth that filled her whenever she remembered Christian’s expression as he had asked her to marry him.
She found Molly in her chamber, mending a torn hem with her usual brisk efficiency.
“I am engaged,” Fiona announced.
Molly looked up, unsurprised. “I had wondered when you meant to tell me.”
“You knew?”
“Miss, the entire household knows. His Grace has been smiling all morning—properly smiling, with his teeth and everything—and you have been drifting about the corridors like a lady who has received very good news indeed.” Molly set aside her needlework and rose to embrace her.
“I am glad for you, miss. Truly. He is a good man, for all his brooding.”
“He is.” Fiona hugged her maid tightly. “He is the best man I have ever known.”
“And a handsome one too, once you grow accustomed to the size of him.”
“Molly!”
“What? It is true.” Molly stepped back, grinning. “Now then—have you given any thought to what you will wear for the wedding? If we are to make you a duchess, we must do it properly.”
They spent the next hour discussing fabrics and lace, flowers and venues—all the practical matters Fiona had never imagined considering for herself.
She had long assumed she would remain unmarried: the spinster aunt, the sensible daughter, the woman who managed everyone else’s romantic adventures while having none of her own.
To be planning a wedding of her own felt strangely unreal.
Yet it was her life. Her choice. Her future.
And she intended to embrace it fully.
***
That evening, they dined together in the small breakfast room—now pressed into service for intimate dinners, since neither of them could bear the formality of the great dining hall.
Christian was quieter than usual, a slight furrow between his brows that suggested the letter to her father had not progressed well.
“What troubles you?” Fiona asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand.
He sighed and set down his fork. “I have written seventeen drafts of that blasted letter, and none of them will do. Each sounds either abject or insufferably proud. I cannot seem to strike the proper tone.”
“What are you attempting to say?”
“That I love you. That I wish to marry you. That I know my reputation is hardly what any father would desire for his child, but that I will spend the rest of my life devoted to your happiness.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“It sounds simple enough when I say it to you. On paper, however, the words become stiff and formal—as though I were proposing a business arrangement rather than a marriage.”
Fiona considered this.
“Perhaps that is because you are writing to my father, whom you have never met. You are attempting to persuade a stranger of your worth.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop.” She squeezed his hand. “Stop trying to persuade him, and simply tell him the truth. Tell him what you told me this morning—that you love me, that you never expected to love anyone, that you intend to spend every day of our marriage striving to deserve me. My father is not a warm man, but he is not unreasonable. He will respond to honesty far better than to carefully composed rhetoric.”
Christian was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“You are right,” he said. “You are almost always right. It is extremely vexing.”
“You will grow accustomed to it.”
“I look forward to the attempt.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “For the next fifty years, at least.”
***
They retired early that evening—to his chambers, which had gradually become theirs without either of them ever remarking upon the change. Fiona lay in his arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Are you frightened?” she asked softly. “Of what lies ahead?”
“Terrified.” He pressed a kiss to her hair.
“But not of marrying you. That is the only part that does not trouble me. It is everything else—your family, society, the scrutiny that will follow us. I have spent years avoiding the world. The thought of stepping back into it, even for you, is… daunting.”
“You will not be alone. I will be beside you. At every ball, every dinner party, every whispered conversation behind fans. I will be there, reminding you that you are loved.”
“And if they reject us? If society decides that the Beast of Thornwick and his scandalous bride are unfit for polite company?”
“Then we shall make our own company.” She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him in the candlelight.
“We will fill this castle with friends who see us clearly—who value us for who we are, not who society thinks we ought to be. We will host our own gatherings, establish our own standards, build our own world.”
He laughed softly—the warm sound she had come to treasure—and pulled her down for a kiss.
“I love you,” he murmured. “Have I told you that today?”
“Only seventeen times. I was beginning to feel neglected.”
“Then I must remedy that oversight.”
He rolled her beneath him, and for a while, there were no more words.
***
But even within the warmth of their small refuge, shadows were beginning to gather.
The next morning, Fiona encountered Mrs Blackley in the corridor and immediately noticed the housekeeper’s expression—carefully composed in a way that suggested concealment rather than calm.
“Mrs Blackley.” Fiona paused. “Is something the matter?”
A hesitation, scarcely perceptible. “Nothing of consequence, miss.”
“You are a very poor liar. What is it?”
Mrs Blackley sighed softly, the mask slipping. “There has been… talk. In the village. About you and His Grace.”
“Well, I imagine there has been talk since I arrived. That is hardly new.”
“This is different.” The housekeeper lowered her voice.
“The stories have become… specific. Someone has been spreading tales about the two of you—about what happens in this house after dark. The vicar’s wife has declared she will no longer purchase goods from any merchant who supplies Thornwick.
Several of the tenant farmers’ wives have stopped speaking to our kitchen staff. ”
A chill crept through Fiona.
“What sort of stories?”
“The sort polite women do not repeat.” Mrs Blackley’s mouth tightened. “I do not know who began them, or how they claim to know what they know. But they are spreading, miss. And they grow uglier by the day.”
“Does His Grace know?”
“I have not yet told him.” She hesitated. “He has seemed… so happy, miss. Happier than I have seen him in many years. I did not wish to be the one to spoil it.”
Fiona understood. She understood all too well.
“I will tell him,” she said quietly. “He deserves to know. But… not today. Let us have one more day of peace before the storm arrives.”
Mrs Blackley nodded slowly. “As you wish, miss.”
She moved away down the corridor, leaving Fiona standing alone with the weight of what she had learned.
The world was closing in. The fragile refuge they had built around themselves was beginning to crack. Soon—very soon—they would have to face the consequences of their choices.
But not today.
Today, she would hold fast to the happiness they had found.
Tomorrow, she would tell Christian the truth.
And together they would face whatever came next.