Chapter Eighteen
Lady Ashworth’s townhouse on Curzon Street was everything Thornwick Castle was not: bright, elegant, immaculately maintained, and filled with the constant bustle of a household that entertained frequently and well.
The walls were papered in cheerful stripes, the furniture was fashionably modern, and fresh flowers appeared in every room as though by magic.
Fiona hated it.
Not Lady Ashworth herself—the woman had proven unexpectedly kind, taking in her nephew’s scandalous houseguest without a word of reproach and installing her in a pretty guest chamber with instructions to rest and recover from her “ordeal.” But the brightness grated on Fiona’s nerves, the elegance felt oppressive, and the constant parade of callers and cards and social obligations made her want to scream.
She missed the gloom of Thornwick. She missed the drafty corridors and the creaking floorboards and the water stain shaped like a rabbit. She missed the yellow parlour with its faded silk and antique furniture.
She missed Christian.
Three weeks had passed since Fiona’s arrival in London.
Three weeks of polite conversation and careful evasion, of smiling when required and ignoring the whispers that trailed behind her like shadows.
Lady Ashworth had done everything within her considerable power to shield her.
Within days of Fiona’s arrival, the older woman had quietly begun circulating a particular version of events through the drawing rooms of Mayfair—one that suggested long-standing acquaintance between the Ashworth and Hart families, and implied that Fiona’s extended stay at Thornwick had been undertaken under Lady Ashworth’s tacit knowledge and approval.
It was not, strictly speaking, true.
But Lady Ashworth possessed both confidence and social authority, and in London society those qualities often proved more persuasive than the truth.
If she claimed familiarity with both her nephew’s character and Miss Hart’s, and declared their conduct entirely proper, many people were inclined—if not to believe her entirely—at least to repeat the story rather than the uglier alternatives.
It had helped.
Not entirely, of course. The whispers still followed Fiona wherever she went.
Fiona heard them all.
She pretended she did not.
Her parents had been informed of her whereabouts, and her mother had descended upon Curzon Street within days—full of tears, reproaches, and urgent demands that Fiona return home at once.
There had been a scene in Lady Ashworth’s drawing room: Lady Hart weeping and scolding in equal measure, Lady Ashworth receiving the storm with unruffled composure, and Fiona herself sitting silent between them.
At last, a compromise had been reached.
Fiona would remain in London for the Season under Lady Ashworth’s protection. Appearances would be maintained. Invitations accepted. Suitable gentlemen introduced.
In time—so her mother firmly believed—a respectable marriage might yet repair the damage done to her reputation.
It was a sensible arrangement.
A practical one.
The sort of solution Fiona herself might once have proposed.
She despised it.
But she submitted to it, partly because she had not the strength left to argue, and partly because some small, stubborn corner of her heart still clung to hope.
Hope that Christian would come for her.
That he would find the courage she had begged of him. That one morning, he would appear on Lady Ashworth’s doorstep—hair disordered, eyes fierce with determination—and demand the future they had both once dreamt of.
But he did not come.
Days turned into weeks. The Season was now fully underway, and Fiona found herself swept up in the whirlwind of balls and soirées and afternoon calls that constituted polite society.
She danced with eligible gentlemen and made small talk with their mothers and smiled until her face ached.
She wore beautiful gowns and styled her hair in fashionable arrangements and pretended to be the respectable young lady her family wanted her to be.
And every night, alone in her pretty guest chamber, she took out Christian’s handkerchief and pressed it to her face and wept.
“You have an admirer.”
Lady Ashworth made the announcement over breakfast one morning, her tone carefully neutral, though her eyes were sharp with observation.
She was a handsome woman in her late fifties, with Christian’s dark hair and strong features—though without the birthmark that had so shaped his life.
She had been kind to Fiona—genuinely kind, not merely polite—but she was also perceptive enough to see what Fiona was attempting to conceal.
“I have several admirers, according to the gossip columns.” Fiona did not look up from her toast. “Most of them appear to be chiefly interested in scandal.”
“This one is different.” Lady Ashworth slid a calling card across the table. “Lord Weston. Third son of the Marquess of Hartington. Six-and-twenty, agreeable in manner, possessed of a comfortable fortune, and—by all accounts—a genuinely decent young man.”
Fiona glanced at the card without interest. “And why, precisely, should I concern myself with Lord Weston?”
“Because he has called three times this week, each time asking particularly for you. Because he danced with you twice at Lady Morrison’s ball and spent the entire evening enquiring after your opinions rather than staring at your décolletage.
Because he appears to be a gentleman who sees you as something more than a scandal to be stared at. ”
“How refreshing.”
“Fiona.” Lady Ashworth’s voice sharpened slightly.
“I understand that your affections are otherwise engaged. I understand that you are waiting for my nephew to remember that he possesses a spine. But I must speak plainly: Christian may never come. He has spent his entire life retreating from love, and there is no guarantee he will cease doing so now.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Lady Ashworth regarded her steadily. “Because from where I sit, you appear to be a young woman who has placed her life in abeyance in the expectation that a miracle will occur.”
She leaned forward, her expression softening.
“I am not suggesting that you marry Lord Weston tomorrow. I am merely suggesting that you allow yourself to consider the possibility of other futures. That you cease treating your time in London as a sentence to be endured and begin regarding it as an opportunity.”
Fiona set down her toast.
“And if I do not wish for other futures?” she asked quietly. “If I wish only for Christian?”
“Then you may find yourself waiting a very long time.” Lady Ashworth’s voice was gentle but resolute.
“I love my nephew. I have loved him always—even when the rest of the family chose not to see him. But I also know him. I know his fears, his wounds, and his seemingly inexhaustible capacity for convincing himself that he does not deserve happiness.”
She sighed faintly.
“He may find his courage. He may come to you. But he may just as easily persuade himself that you are better off without him and spend the rest of his life alone in that draughty castle, mourning a happiness he was too afraid to claim.”
“That is a bleak assessment.”
“It is an honest one.” Lady Ashworth reached across the table and took Fiona’s hand. “I am not asking you to abandon hope. I am asking you to protect yourself. Leave the door open to happiness—even if it arrives from an unexpected direction.”
Fiona looked down at their joined hands. Lady Ashworth’s fingers were warm, her grip steady and reassuring. She meant well. Fiona knew that. She was attempting to help, in her practical, clear-sighted way.
But she did not understand.
She could not understand.
“I will receive Lord Weston,” Fiona said at last. “I will dance with him at the next ball, and make polite conversation, and behave precisely as society expects. But I will not pretend that my heart is available, because it is not. It belongs to Christian. It will always belong to Christian. No amount of practical advice will alter that.”
Lady Ashworth sighed.
“You are every bit as stubborn as he is.”
“Perhaps that is why we suit each other.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Ashworth released her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Very well. Receive Lord Weston. Dance with him. And try, at least, to keep an open mind. Life does not always unfold as we expect, Fiona—and happiness is sometimes found where we had not thought to seek it.”
Fiona inclined her head and returned to her toast.
She did not believe happiness would find her elsewhere.
She believed in Christian.
And she would wait for him for as long as she could bear it.
***
Lord Weston, as it transpired, was precisely as Lady Ashworth had described: agreeable and genuinely interested in Fiona as a person rather than a scandal.
He called the following afternoon, and Fiona received him in Lady Ashworth’s drawing room with all the composure her upbringing required.
He was a handsome man—not striking, perhaps, but pleasant, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile.
He spoke of books and travel and politics, enquired after her opinions, and listened attentively to her replies.
Not once did he mention the Duke of Thornwick or the rumours that clung to her stay at his estate.
It was, Fiona had to admit, refreshing.
“You seem distant, Miss Hart,” Lord Weston observed at one point, tilting his head slightly in mild enquiry. “I hope I have not said something to give offence.”
“Not at all.” Fiona forced a small smile. “I am merely… somewhat preoccupied. Pray forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. We all suffer moments of distraction.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I hope you know that you may speak freely with me. Whatever concerns weigh upon you, I should be honoured to help lighten them.”
It was a kind offer. A generous one. The sort of offer that, under different circumstances, might have stirred the faintest flutter of interest.
Instead, she felt only a dull ache.