Chapter 35
Christian read the letter three times.
Then he read it a fourth time, his hands shaking so badly that the paper trembled.
Lord Weston. A formal declaration. Within the fortnight.
Fiona was going to marry someone else.
She had said she would wait. She had promised, on the morning of her departure, that she would be there if he found his courage. She had told him she would never stop hoping.
But she was going to marry someone else.
Something inside Christian cracked.
It was not anger—not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal, a howl of anguish that rose from the very core of his being.
She was slipping away. The woman he loved, the only person who had ever truly seen him, was about to pledge herself to another man.
And he was sitting here, in his drafty castle, doing nothing.
You have the power to make a different choice, her voice echoed in his memory. You just refuse to use it.
She was right. She had always been right. He had let fear dictate his every decision, had convinced himself that noble suffering was somehow superior to messy happiness, had pushed away the only woman who had ever loved him because he was too terrified to believe he deserved her.
And now he was about to lose her forever.
No.
The word rose up from somewhere deep inside him, fierce and absolute.
No. He would not let this happen. He would not sit here and watch his future slip away while some pleasant, uncomplicated lord claimed the woman who should be his.
He was done hiding. Done running. Done letting the voices in his head tell him he was worthless.
Fiona had asked him to be brave. She had begged him to fight for them. And he had failed her, again and again, because the fear was easier than the fight.
Not anymore.
Christian stood so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor behind him. He strode to the door and yanked it open, nearly colliding with Mrs Blackley, who was passing in the corridor with an armload of linens.
“Your Grace!” The housekeeper stumbled back, her eyes wide. “Is something—”
“Ready my carriage.” His voice was rough, urgent. “I am going to London.”
“London? But Your Grace, the weather—the roads—”
“I do not care about the weather. I do not care about the roads. I need to leave within the hour.”
Mrs Blackley stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face.
“I am very glad to hear it, Your Grace.”
She hurried away, leaving Christian standing in the corridor with his heart pounding and his mind racing.
He was going to London. He was going to find Fiona. He was going to get down on his knees and beg her to forgive him for being the world’s greatest fool.
And if Lord Weston had already proposed—if she had already accepted—
He could not think about that. He would not think about that. He would focus on the journey ahead, on the words he would say when he saw her, on the future he was finally, finally ready to fight for.
Please, he thought, as he strode toward his chambers to pack. Please let me not be too late.
***
The storm began an hour into the journey.
It came out of nowhere—one moment the sky was grey but calm, the next it was a churning mass of black clouds, rain hammering against the carriage windows with a violence that reminded Christian of the night Fiona had arrived at Thornwick.
The night he had carried her through the darkness and changed both their lives forever.
He should have taken it as a sign. Should have ordered the driver to stop, to wait out the storm, to proceed with caution. The roads were treacherous in weather like this; the very cliff road where he had found her was notorious for accidents in high winds.
But Christian could not wait. Every moment of delay was a moment closer to losing her, a moment in which Lord Weston might be sliding a ring onto her finger and claiming her forever.
“Drive on,” he called to the coachman through the small window. “Never mind the storm. Only get me to London.”
The coachman shouted something back—a protest, perhaps, or a warning—but Christian could not hear it over the wind. He sat back against the seat and stared out at the rain-lashed darkness, his jaw set, his hands clenched in his lap.
He would reach London by morning. He would go to his aunt’s townhouse—and he would demand to see Fiona.
And then...
He did not know what would happen then. He did not know what he would say, how he would explain himself, how he could possibly make up for the weeks of silence and suffering he had caused.
All he knew was that he had to try.
The carriage made good time despite the weather.
They stopped twice to change horses, Christian pacing the inn yards like a restless sentinel while the ostlers worked with practised speed.
He did not eat. He did not sleep. He spoke little, save to thank the men for their efforts and to press coins into their hands, urging them to make what haste they could without overtaxing themselves or the horses.
Dawn was breaking over London when they finally clattered through the city streets, the storm having blown itself out somewhere in the small hours of the night.
The sky was pale and washed-clean, the cobblestones gleaming with rain, and the early morning light gave everything a strange, dreamlike quality.
Christian directed the driver to Curzon Street, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
What if she was not there? What if she was at Lord Weston’s townhouse, accepting his proposal at this very moment? What if he had come all this way only to discover that he was, as he had always feared, too late?
The carriage stopped in front of a handsome townhouse with green-painted shutters and a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head.
Christian did not wait for the footman; he threw open the carriage door and leapt down to the pavement, striding up the steps with a purpose that left no room for hesitation.
He raised his hand to knock—and the door swung open.
Lady Ashworth stood in the entrance hall, still in her dressing gown, her hair in a long silver braid over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him: wild-haired, unshaven, still wearing the clothes he had thrown on at Thornwick nearly twenty-four hours ago.
“Christian.” Her voice was a mixture of shock and something that sounded almost like relief. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”
“Where is she?” He stepped past his aunt into the hall, his gaze darting about as though he might discover Fiona behind the nearest door. “Where is Fiona? I must see her. I must—”
“Christian.” Lady Ashworth caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Christian, look at me.”
He did. His aunt’s face was grave, her eyes searching his with an intensity that made him want to flinch.
“She is here,” Lady Ashworth said at last. “She is safe. And she is asleep in her chamber, as any sensible person would be at this hour.” She paused. “And Lord Weston has not yet proposed.”
The relief that flooded through Christian was so overwhelming that he nearly staggered.
“Thank goodness.” The words came out in a rasp. “Thank goodness. I thought—I received a letter—I believed I had come too late—”
“A letter?” Lady Ashworth’s brow furrowed. “From whom?”
“I do not know. It was signed ‘A Friend.’ It said—” He ran a hand through his hair. “It said Fiona was on the verge of accepting a proposal. That I ought to hear it from a personal source rather than the gossip columns.”
Understanding dawned in his aunt’s eyes—followed by something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“I see.” She released his arm and stepped back, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes. “And this letter prompted you to ride through a storm, arrive at my doorstep at dawn, and demand to see the woman you sent away weeks ago?”
“Yes.” Christian did not flinch from her gaze.
“I was a fool, Aunt. A coward. But I am done running. I am done hiding. I came here to tell Fiona that I love her, that I will spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of her, and that if she will have me—if she can forgive me—I want to marry her.”
Lady Ashworth was silent for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
“Well,” she said. “It’s about time.”
She stepped aside and gestured toward the staircase.
“Second door on the left. And do try not to give the poor girl a fright.”
Christian did not need to be told twice.
He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding, his palms sweating, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say. He reached the second door on the left and stopped, suddenly paralysed.
What if she refused him? What if she had decided, in the weeks since her departure, that she was better off without him? What if he knocked on this door and she told him to go away, that she had moved on, that his chance had passed?
“Be brave,” her voice whispered in his mind. “For both of us.”
Christian raised his hand and knocked.
A long pause. Then, muffled by the door, a voice he had heard in his dreams every night for weeks:
“Who is it?”
He opened his mouth to answer—and found that his voice had deserted him. His throat was too tight, his heart too full. He could not speak.
So instead, he did the only thing he could think of.
He opened the door.
Fiona was sitting up in bed, her hair a tumbled mess around her shoulders, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She wore a white nightgown, simple and unadorned, and she looked so beautiful that Christian forgot how to breathe.
She stared at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Fiona,” he said, and his voice cracked on her name. “I am sorry. I am so sorry. I should have come weeks ago. I should have followed you the moment you left. I should have—”
He did not get to finish.
Fiona was out of the bed and in his arms before he could blink, her body slamming into his with enough force to drive him back a step. She was crying—he could feel her tears soaking through his shirt—but she was also laughing, a wild, joyful sound that made his heart sing.
“You came,” she gasped against his chest. “You actually came.”
“I came.” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly he was afraid he might break her. “I am here. I am not leaving. Never again.”
She pulled back just far enough to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shining.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“I know.”
“You smell of horse and rain—and at least three days without bathing.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
His heart seemed to crack open.
“I love you too.” He cupped her face in his hands, marvelling at the reality of her—warm and solid and here, truly here, not a dream or a memory but flesh and blood within his reach. “I love you, Fiona. I ought to have said it every day. I ought to have—”
She kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was fierce and desperate and tasted of tears, saying everything words could not. It said I forgive you, and I missed you, and do not ever leave me again.
Christian kissed her back with all the desperate relief in his heart.
When at last they parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Marry me,” he said. “Please, Fiona. Marry me. Let me spend the rest of my life making amends for the weeks I wasted. Let me prove that I can be the man you deserve.”
“You already are the man I deserve.” She smiled through her tears. “You merely needed a little time to see it.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a yes, you impossible man.” She kissed him again, more gently this time. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
Christian laughed—a wild, unrestrained sound he scarcely recognised as his own—and swept her into his arms, spinning her about until they were both dizzy.
He had come for her. At last, he had found his courage.
And nothing—not society, nor scandal, nor all the fear in the world—would ever part them again.