Chapter Twelve
“Absolutely not.”
Christian’s voice was flat and final—the voice of a man who had made his decision and did not intend to be moved.
Fiona, who had faced that voice before and prevailed, was not deterred.
“You cannot hide in this castle forever,” she said, settling into the chair across from his desk with an air of determined patience.
“You have tenants who know you chiefly through letters and your steward. Merchants who supply your household and have never met you in person. An entire village that has spent years whispering about the Beast of Thornwick without ever encountering the man himself.”
“And I see no reason to alter that arrangement.”
“The reason is me.” She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “I am going to be your wife, Christian. Presumably. Eventually. And I refuse to spend the rest of my life sequestered in this castle because you are afraid of what people might think when they see you.”
“I am not afraid—”
“You are terrified. And that is understandable.” Her voice softened. “But you cannot let the terror win. Not anymore. Not when we have come so far.”
He was silent, his jaw working. She could see the struggle behind his eyes—the desire to please her battling the old, familiar dread of exposure, of judgement, of the cruelty he had learned to expect beyond these walls.
“The village is small,” she continued. “A few shops, a church, an inn. We need not stay long. We can walk through, show our faces, let them see that the Duke is a man like any other—”
“I am not a man like any other.” His voice was bitter. “That is precisely the problem.”
“You are exactly like any other in all the ways that matter. You are kind and intelligent and capable of great love. The birthmark does not change that. It has never changed that.” She reached across the desk and took his hand.
“Come to the village with me, Christian. Let them see that the man they have imagined is not the man you truly are.”
He looked down at their joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm.
“And if they see exactly what they expect to see?” he asked quietly. “If they stare and whisper and turn away in disgust?”
“Then we will leave, and we will not return until you wish to.” She squeezed his hand. “But we will have tried. We will have given them the opportunity to surprise us.”
“I do not like surprises.”
“I know. But the world can occasionally be kinder than we expect.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sighed.
“One hour,” he said. “We go for one hour, and then we return.”
Fiona smiled.
“That is all I ask.”
***
The carriage ride to the village took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes during which Christian’s tension mounted steadily, his shoulders growing more rigid with every passing mile.
He sat across from Fiona with his hands fisted on his knees, staring out the window at the passing countryside as though it were an approaching enemy.
Molly rode quietly near the door, attending her mistress as propriety required.
“Breathe,” Fiona said gently.
“I am breathing.”
“You are holding your breath and then gasping. That is not the same thing.” She moved beside him, taking one of his clenched hands and easing it open, threading her fingers through his. “Tell me about the village.”
“Thornwick,” he said. “Like the castle. It grew up around the estate centuries ago. Most of the villagers are tenants, or descended from tenants, or work for merchants who supply the household.”
“So they depend on you.”
“On the estate. Not on me personally.” His voice was strained. “Most dealings pass through the steward. It is… easier that way.”
“Easier for whom?”
“For everyone,” he said shortly.
She squeezed his hand.
“Well, the estate is you. You are the Duke. Their livelihoods are tied to your prosperity. They have every reason to want to think well of you, Christian.”
“They have every reason to fear me. The mad duke in the castle, who never shows his face, who dismisses servants for speaking out of turn—”
“Have you? Dismissed servants for speaking out of turn?”
He hesitated. “Once. When I was younger. A kitchen maid who screamed when she saw me unexpectedly.” His voice was low with shame. “I was cruel to her. I told her if she couldn’t control herself, she had no place in my household. She left that day.”
“And you’ve regretted it ever since.”
“It does not undo what I did.”
“No. But it shows who you are. Then, you were a wounded boy—not a cruel man.” Her voice softened. “I imagine you have spent years trying to make amends, have you not? Being fair to your staff, paying good wages, looking after your tenants.”
She held his gaze steadily. “The people in that village deserve to see who you have become, Christian. Not the wounded boy. Not the rumours. The real man.”
The carriage began to slow. Through the window, Fiona could see the first buildings appearing—a church steeple, a row of cottages, the hanging sign of what was presumably the village inn.
“We are here,” she said quietly.
Christian’s hand tightened around hers.
“One hour,” he said, more to himself than to her.
***
The village of Thornwick was smaller than Fiona had expected.
A single main street, unpaved but well-maintained, ran between two rows of stone cottages and shops.
There was a blacksmith at one end, the inn at the other, and between them a scattering of businesses—a baker, a chandler, and a small shop that appeared to sell both cloth and provisions.
The church stood slightly apart, its ancient stone walls speaking to centuries of service.
It was quiet when they stepped from the carriage.
A few people were visible—a woman sweeping the step of a cottage, two men talking outside the blacksmith’s, a child chasing a chicken across the street—but no one was looking their way.
Not yet.
“We might begin with the baker,” Fiona suggested lightly. “I could do with some fresh bread. And I have heard that village bakeries often produce pastries superior to anything one finds in London.”
“You have heard this from whom?”
“From no one. I invented it. But it sounded plausible.” She tugged at his arm. “Come. Let us be ordinary people doing ordinary things.”
They walked down the street arm in arm, Molly following a few paces behind at a respectful distance.
Fiona felt the precise moment when the village noticed them.
It began with the woman sweeping—her broom stopping mid-stroke, her eyes widening. Then the men outside the blacksmith’s turned, their conversation falling abruptly silent. The child abandoned the chicken and stared.
Recognition spread slowly—not of the man himself, perhaps, but of the implication.
The Duke of Thornwick was walking through the village.
And the whispers began.
Fiona could not hear the words, but she did not need to. She saw them in the expressions, in the pointing fingers, in the way doors opened as curiosity drew people into the street.
Christian’s arm had gone rigid beneath her hand. His pace faltered.
She could feel him wanting to retreat, to turn around, to flee back to the carriage.
“Keep walking,” she murmured. “Look straight ahead. You are a duke. They are your tenants. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“They are staring.”
“Let them stare. Staring is not cruelty.”
They reached the baker’s shop. Fiona pushed open the door, the small bell chiming overhead, and drew Christian inside.
The shop was warm and fragrant, filled with the smell of fresh bread and honeyed pastries. A plump woman in a flour-dusted apron stood behind the counter, her face frozen in astonishment.
“Good morning,” Fiona said brightly. “We should like to purchase some bread, if you please. And perhaps a pastry or two.”
The woman did not move. Her eyes were fixed on Christian—on his face, on the birthmark visible above his collar.
“Madam?” Fiona prompted gently.
The woman blinked, returning to herself.
“I—yes—of course—” She fumbled behind the counter, producing a loaf of bread with trembling hands. “This is fresh, baked this morning—”
“Excellent. We shall take two loaves. And what are those?” Fiona pointed to a tray near the window.
“H-honey cakes. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“They look delicious. We shall take half a dozen.”
The transaction was completed in awkward silence. The woman wrapped their purchases in brown paper, her hands still shaking, and named a price that was almost certainly too low.
Fiona paid without comment, adding a few extra coins that made the woman’s eyes widen.
“Thank you,” Fiona said warmly. “You have a lovely shop. You must be very proud of it.”
“I—thank you, miss—ma’am—Your Grace—” The woman faltered over the proper address.
Fiona smiled gently. “Miss, if you please—for the present, at least. We shall return; these honey cakes seem excellent.”
She took Christian’s arm and led him out of the shop.
***
“That was a disaster,” Christian said as soon as they were outside.
“That was a beginning.” Fiona steered him down the street toward the next shop. “She was startled. She’ll recover. And now she has a story to tell—how the Duke himself came into her shop and bought bread like an ordinary man.”
“She was terrified of me.”
“She was surprised by you. There is a difference.” Fiona paused and turned to face him.
“Christian, listen to me. You have been a ghost to these people for years. A rumour, a shadow, a name whispered in fear. They are not going to grow accustomed to your presence in a single morning. But that does not mean they never will.”
“And in the meantime? I am to endure their stares and whispers?”
“You are to show them that you are a man, not a monster. That takes time. It takes repeated encounters. It takes—”
“You there!”
The voice came from behind them—rough, masculine, edged with hostility. Fiona turned to see a heavyset man approaching, his face flushed with what might have been drink or anger or both.