Chapter Twenty
They stood in Fiona’s chamber for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither willing to let go.
Christian breathed her in—the scent of lavender and sleep and something that was simply Fiona—and felt the last of his walls crumble. He had spent so long convincing himself that he did not deserve this.
But here she was. Warm and real and solid in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, her tears drying on his shirt. She had said yes. She had forgiven him. She was going to be his wife.
The thought sent a thrill through him that bordered on terror.
Wife. Fiona is to be my wife.
“You are trembling,” she murmured against his chest.
“I am terrified.”
She pulled back to look at him, her brow furrowing. “Of what?”
“Of everything.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, marvelling at the softness of it. “Of facing society. Of announcing our engagement. Of giving them all the opportunity to whisper and stare and remind me that I am not fit to touch you.”
“Christian—”
“I know.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “I know what you are going to say—that their opinions do not matter, that we have each other and that is enough. And you are right—you are always right—but that does not mean I am not afraid.”
“Good.” She kissed his fingertip before pushing his hand gently aside. “Fear means you care. Fear means this matters to you. I do not want a man who faces the world with arrogant indifference; I want a man who is terrified and does it anyway.”
“And if I falter?”
“Then I shall hold you up.” She took his hands in hers, gripping them firmly. “We face it together, Christian. Whatever comes—the gossip, the scandal, our relatives—we meet it side by side. That is what marriage means.”
He stared at her, this extraordinary woman who had crashed into his life during a storm and refused to leave, no matter how determined he had been to drive her away. She was fierce and stubborn and far too good for him, and he loved her more than he had ever loved anything.
“How did I become so fortunate?” he asked quietly.
“You rescued me from a wrecked carriage during a storm. I should say that must count somewhat in your favour.”
Despite everything, he laughed.
A knock at the door interrupted whatever he might have said next. Lady Ashworth’s voice came through the wood, dry and faintly amused.
“If you two are quite finished with your reunion, breakfast is being served downstairs. And I believe there are one or two matters we ought to discuss.”
Christian and Fiona exchanged a look.
“We should probably—” she began.
“Yes.” He reluctantly released her and stepped back. “Though I warn you, my aunt will be insufferable about this.”
Fiona smiled. “Good. You deserve a little humbling.”
She was right about that too.
Lady Ashworth was waiting for them in the breakfast room, seated at the head of the table with a cup of tea and an expression of barely concealed triumph.
“Ah,” she said as they entered. “The prodigal nephew returns—and looking rather worse for wear, I must say.”
“Aunt.” Christian inclined his head stiffly. “You are looking well.”
“I am looking smug, which is not quite the same thing.” She gestured to the chairs on either side of her. “Sit. Eat. Then you may explain how you came to appear on my doorstep at dawn looking like something the cat dragged in.”
They sat. A footman appeared with fresh tea and toast, and Christian realised with sudden clarity that he was ravenous. He had not eaten since leaving Thornwick and had barely drunk any water.
The food before him seemed almost miraculous.
He had eaten three pieces of toast before Lady Ashworth cleared her throat.
“The letter,” she said. “The one that brought you here. May I see it?”
Christian reached into his coat pocket—still damp from the journey—and produced the folded paper. He handed it across the table, watching his aunt’s face as she read.
Her expression did not change.
“Interesting,” she said at last, setting the letter down. “Very interesting indeed.”
“Do you know who wrote it?”
“I have my suspicions.” Lady Ashworth lifted her teacup thoughtfully. “The hand is disguised, but the sentiment is… familiar. And there are only a handful of people in this house who knew enough of Miss Hart’s situation to compose such a message.”
A small movement came from the doorway.
Christian turned.
Molly stood just inside the room, her hands clasped tightly before her apron. She had clearly been listening for some time, her cheeks flushed but her chin lifted with quiet determination.
“If you please, my lady,” she said, dipping a quick curtsey, “there’s no need for guessing.”
Lady Ashworth raised an eyebrow.
Molly drew a steady breath.
“I wrote it.”
Fiona’s teacup clattered against its saucer. Christian felt his jaw drop.
“You?” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Molly kept her eyes lowered, but there was nothing uncertain in her voice. “I beg your pardon for the liberty. It was not my place; I know that well enough. But someone had to do something.”
Lady Ashworth regarded her for a long moment.
“Go on,” she said mildly.
Molly swallowed.
“Miss Hart has been miserable since leaving Thornwick, my lady. Begging your pardon, miss,” she added quickly, glancing toward Fiona, “but it’s the truth. And from what Mrs—” She stopped herself abruptly. “From what a reliable source informed us, His Grace was in much the same condition.”
Christian shifted uncomfortably.
“So I thought,” Molly continued, “if His Grace believed he might lose her entirely, he might find the courage to come and set things right.”
“You told me she was about to accept a proposal,” Christian said slowly.
“Yes, Your Grace. I did.” Molly lifted her chin a fraction. “Lord Weston has been calling often enough that it was not an impossible notion. I merely… hastened matters.”
“You deceived a duke,” Lady Ashworth observed.
“Yes, my lady.” Molly curtseyed again. “I did.”
“And you are not sorry?”
Molly hesitated only a moment.
“I am sorry for the deception, my lady. But not for the result.”
A faint smile tugged at Lady Ashworth’s mouth.
Christian ran a hand through his hair.
“I should be angry,” he said.
“That is entirely your prerogative, Your Grace,” Molly replied quietly. “But if I may say so… you are here.”
He glanced across the table at Fiona.
She was watching him with shining eyes.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that I am.”
Lady Ashworth set down her teacup with a decisive click.
“Well,” she said. “That explains everything rather neatly.”
Fiona looked between them; her expression caught somewhere between astonishment and amusement.
“You engineered this entire thing?” she asked Molly.
Molly flushed. “I only wrote the letter, miss.”
“And a very effective letter it was,” Lady Ashworth said dryly.
Christian looked at Fiona. Fiona looked at Christian.
And despite everything—the deception, the anxiety of the past weeks, the wild journey through the storm—they both began to laugh.
“You are all impossible,” Christian said.
“‘Resourceful,’ more like,” Lady Ashworth replied, rising from her chair and brushing the crumbs from her skirts. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have arrangements to make. Lady Morrison’s ball is tomorrow evening, and I believe the two of you have an announcement to prepare.”
“An announcement?” Fiona’s laughter faded. “You mean—publicly?”
“Of course publicly. You are engaged to a duke, my dear. The ton will expect to hear it from the source.” Lady Ashworth’s smile turned sharp. “And more importantly, they will expect to see him. The Beast of Thornwick emerging from his lair to claim his bride. It will be the scandal of the Season.”
Christian felt his stomach drop.
Lady Morrison’s ball. The event of the Season. Hundreds of people, all of whom had heard the rumours, all of whom were waiting to see whether the stories about him were true.
“I do not know if I can—” he began.
“You can.” Fiona’s hand found his beneath the table, her fingers intertwining with his own. “We can. Together.”
He looked at her. At the determination in her grey eyes, the set of her jaw, the fierce certainty that had carried her through storms both literal and metaphorical.
She believed in him. Even after everything, she believed in him.
The least he could do was try to believe in himself.
“Together,” he agreed.
Lady Ashworth beamed. “Excellent. I shall send word to my modiste immediately. If we are to cause a scandal, we may as well look spectacular while doing it.”
She swept from the room, Molly bobbing a quick curtsey before slipping quietly after her, leaving Christian and Fiona alone with their half-eaten breakfast and the weight of what lay ahead.
“Your aunt is terrifying,” Fiona said after a moment.
“She is a force of nature.” Christian turned her hand over in his, tracing the lines of her palm. “Rather like someone else I know.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth-teller.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Are you certain about this? The ball, the announcement—everything? Once we do this, there will be no going back. We shall be the subject of gossip for months. Years, perhaps.”
“I have been the subject of gossip since I arrived at Thornwick.” Fiona’s voice was steady. “A few more months will not kill me.”
“And if it is worse than you expect? If they are crueller than you imagine?”
“Then I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I am married to the most fascinating man in England.” She smiled. “And you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are married to the most stubborn woman in England. Between us, we should be able to weather anything.”
Christian wanted to argue—wanted to point out all the ways this might go wrong, all the pain and humiliation that might await them, all the reasons a sensible person would run in the opposite direction.
But he was done being sensible. Done letting fear decide his course.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “We face the ton together.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “And every day after that.”
***
The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations.
Lady Ashworth had not exaggerated when she said there were arrangements to be made.
The modiste arrived within hours, armed with fabric samples and fashion plates; the hairdresser followed soon after, clucking over Fiona’s curls; and a parade of servants came and went, carrying messages and packages and the thousand small necessities of a society appearance.
Christian, for his part, was subjected to the attentions of his aunt’s valet—his own having remained at Thornwick—who pronounced his appearance “salvageable, but only just” and set about restoring him to something resembling respectability.
It was late afternoon before he and Fiona found a moment alone.
They had retreated to Lady Ashworth’s small garden, a patch of green behind the townhouse that offered a measure of privacy from the bustle within.
Fiona sat on a stone bench beneath a flowering cherry tree, her face tilted upward to catch the last of the spring sunlight.
Christian stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder, still unable to believe that he was truly here.
“I keep thinking I shall wake,” he admitted quietly. “That this is all a dream, and I will find myself back at Thornwick—alone.”
“If this is a dream, I should rather not wake either.” Fiona reached up and covered his hand with her own. “But I suspect it is real. Dreams seldom involve quite so many fittings.”
He laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded—and sat down beside her.
“I never thanked you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For waiting. For believing in me, even when I could not believe in myself. For refusing to give up, even when I was doing my utmost to drive you away.” He turned toward her, taking both her hands in his.
“I know what it cost you, Fiona. The weeks of uncertainty, the parade of suitors, the constant whispers. You could have moved on—by any sensible measure, you should have done so—and yet you did not. You stayed.”
“I told you I would wait.” Her voice was soft. “I meant it.”
“I know. But meaning something and doing it are not always the same.” He lifted her hands to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn. “You are the bravest person I have ever known. And I shall spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that bravery.”
“Christian—”
“Let me finish.” He held her gaze, his expression suddenly earnest. “I love you, Fiona Hart. I have loved you through fear and doubt and weeks of my own miserable cowardice. And I will love you until the day I die—and perhaps longer still, if such things are permitted.”
Fiona’s eyes shone with tears.
“That was almost romantic.”
“Almost?”
“You mentioned doubt and misery. It rather spoils the poetry.”
He laughed again, and she joined him, and for a moment the weight of tomorrow’s ordeal faded away. There was only this: the two of them together beneath a flowering cherry tree, with the rest of their lives stretching out before them.
“I love you too,” Fiona said when the laughter had faded. “In case that was not perfectly clear.”
“It was clear.” He drew her close, resting his chin lightly atop her head. “But I do not object to hearing it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you, Christian Hale. I love you—I love you—I love you.”
He kissed her then, soft and sweet and full of promise.
Tomorrow they would face the ton. Tomorrow, they would announce their engagement to a society that had already decided he was a monster. Tomorrow, everything they had built might yet be tested.
But today, they had this.
Each other. The certainty of their love.
And for the moment, that certainty was all that mattered.