Chapter Twenty-Two
The morning after Lady Morrison’s ball, London exploded.
Every gossip column devoted paragraphs to the unprecedented scene: the Beast of Thornwick emerging from his lair, the scandalous Miss Hart on his arm and the declaration of love that had silenced a ballroom.
Opinions were divided—some declared it the most romantic thing they had ever witnessed, while others pronounced it a disgrace to civilised society—but no one was indifferent.
Fiona learned this when Molly arrived with her morning chocolate and a stack of newspapers so thick it required both hands to carry.
“You are quite the subject of conversation this morning, miss.” Her maid deposited the papers upon the bed with a soft thump. “Famous—or infamous, depending upon whom one asks.”
Fiona pushed herself upright, brushing her hair from her face, and reached for the topmost paper. The headline made her wince:
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST: DUKE OF THORNWICK
CLAIMS SCANDALOUS brIDE
“Scandalous bride,” she murmured. “How charming.”
“That is one of the kinder descriptions.” Molly handed her the chocolate.
“The Morning Post calls you ‘a lady of questionable virtue who has somehow ensnared a duke.’ The Lady’s Magazine declares the whole affair ‘a romantic triumph over the rigid dictates of convention.’ And there is a caricature in the Satirist which I would not recommend viewing before breakfast.”
“A caricature?”
“His Grace is drawn as an actual beast. With fangs.” Molly’s cheeks reddened faintly. “And you are depicted as—well. Let us say the artist has taken certain liberties with your neckline.”
Fiona set down her chocolate and rubbed her temples.
She had known there would be gossip. She had prepared herself for whispers, for curious stares, for the inevitable judgements of a society that prized propriety above all things.
But seeing it in print—seeing her name and Christian’s splashed across every newspaper in London—was quite another matter.
“Where is His Grace?”
“Downstairs with Lady Ashworth. I believe they are… discussing the situation.” Molly hesitated. “And miss? Your parents have arrived.”
Fiona’s stomach dropped.
“Here? Now?”
“They came about twenty minutes ago. Lady Ashworth showed them into the blue drawing room and requested that they wait.” A pause. “Your mother has been weeping. Your father has been pacing. Neither appears particularly pleased.”
Of course they were not. Their sensible, practical daughter—the one who was meant to manage everyone else’s difficulties while remaining entirely above reproach herself—had just become the scandal of the Season.
They had likely heard the news from a dozen different sources, each account more lurid than the last.
Fiona closed her eyes and drew a steady breath.
“Help me dress,” she said. “Something dignified. Something that suggests I am a future duchess and not at all inclined to be intimidated.”
Molly grinned.
“I believe I know just the thing.”
***
The blue drawing room felt smaller than usual, though that might have been because it was filled with tension thick enough to cut.
Fiona’s mother sat on the settee, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
Her father stood by the window, his back rigid, his hands clasped behind him in a posture of barely contained fury.
Lady Ashworth occupied the armchair by the fire, watching the proceedings with an expression of polite interest that did not quite mask her amusement.
And Christian stood beside the mantelpiece, tall and imposing, his face carefully neutral but his eyes tracking Fiona the moment she entered the room.
“Fiona.” Her mother’s voice was a wail. “How could you? How could you do this to us?”
“Good morning, Mother. Father.” Fiona crossed to stand beside Christian, taking his hand in a deliberate gesture of solidarity. “I trust you have seen the papers.”
“Seen them? We have done nothing but read them since we rose!” Her father whirled to face her, his face mottled with anger. “Have you any notion what you have done? Any notion of the damage you have caused? Our family name is being dragged through every scandal sheet in London!”
“Our family name will survive it.” Fiona’s voice remained calm. “It has endured worse.”
“Worse? What could possibly be worse than this?” He gestured sharply toward the newspapers scattered across the side table. “My daughter, embracing a man before half the ton—a man with whom she has been residing, unchaperoned, for weeks—”
“I was not unchaperoned. Molly was—”
“Molly is a maid, not a lady of standing.” His father cut her off sharply.
“Her presence at Thornwick Castle could hardly satisfy society when you spent nearly a month beneath the roof of an unmarried gentleman.” His voice rose with each word.
“Do you deny it? Do you deny that you compromised yourself under his roof?”
Fiona felt Christian stiffen beside her. His hand tightened around hers; she could sense the anger gathering in him—anger at her father’s accusations, and at himself for having placed her in such a position.
“I deny nothing,” she said quietly. “I remained at Thornwick because I was injured and the roads were impassable. I remained because I fell in love. And I intend to marry the Duke of Thornwick, Father, whether you approve or not.”
“Marry him?” Her mother’s cry rose again. “You cannot marry him! He is—he is—”
“He is what, Mother?” Fiona asked sharply. “A duke? A wealthy man? A peer of the realm? What precisely is your objection?”
“He is a monster!” The word burst from her mother with desperate conviction. “Everyone says so. The birthmark, the seclusion, the rumours—they say he is cursed, Fiona. They say—”
“They say a great many things.” Christian’s voice cut cleanly through her mother’s agitation.
“Most of them are untrue. The rest are exaggerations. But none of them alters the simple fact that I love your daughter, Lady Hart. I love her more deeply than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I mean to spend the rest of my days ensuring her happiness.”
Silence fell.
Fiona’s mother stared at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Her father’s jaw worked as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Lady Ashworth sipped her tea with evident composure.
“You love her,” her father said at last, disbelief heavy in his voice. “You profess to love her, and yet you kept her at your castle for weeks—ruining her reputation, destroying her prospects of a respectable match—”
“I attempted to send her away.” Christian’s voice roughened slightly.
“I attempted to spare her precisely this—the gossip, the scandal, the judgement of those who look at my face and presume to know my character. But she refused to go. She refused to abandon me, even when I gave her every reason to do so.”
“Because I love him.” Fiona stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Christian and her parents.
“I love him, Father. Not in spite of who he is, but because of it. He is the kindest and most honourable man I have ever known. He has endured more cruelty than you can imagine, and yet his heart remains generous and steadfast. I will not apologise for loving him. I will not apologise for choosing him. And I will not permit you to speak of him as though he were something shameful.”
Her father opened his mouth—to argue, no doubt—but her mother spoke first.
“You truly love him?” she asked softly. “This is not merely—this is not simply an attempt to make the best of an unfortunate situation?”
“There is nothing unfortunate in it, Mother.” Fiona’s voice gentled. “Except perhaps the manner in which the news became public. I would have wished to tell you myself before the whole of London heard of it. But yes—I love him. And he loves me. Is that not what every mother hopes for her daughter?”
Her mother looked at Christian—truly looked at him, perhaps for the first time.
At his towering height and broad shoulders, at the dark hair falling untidily over his brow, at the severity of his features softened now by sincerity.
Her gaze lingered on the edge of the birthmark visible above his collar.
“You will take care of her?” she asked quietly. “You will treat her kindly?”
“I shall treat her as the treasure she is.” Christian’s voice was steady.
“Every day of our marriage, I shall endeavour to ensure her happiness. I shall give her a home, a family, and a life filled with affection. And should I ever fail in that duty, I fully expect her to remind me of the promise I make today.”
“He speaks the truth, Mother.” Fiona returned to his side and took his hand once more. “I know it is not the future you imagined for me. I know it is not the safe, conventional match you hoped I might make. But it is the life I have chosen. And I have never been more certain of anything.”
Another long silence followed.
Then, slowly, her mother nodded.
“Very well.” Her voice trembled, but there was resolution in it. “If this is truly your wish—if you are quite certain—then I suppose I must accept it.”
“Helena!” her father exclaimed. “You cannot simply—”
“I can, and I shall.” She rose from the settee and drew herself up with unexpected dignity.
“Our daughter is to be a duchess, Reginald. Whatever scandal may attach to the match, that fact remains. And if we wish to retain any place in her life—to see our grandchildren, to remain her family—then we must accept her choice.”
Her father’s face moved through anger, frustration, and something very near despair. At last, the tension seemed to drain from him.
“You will regret this,” he said heavily. “Both of you. Society will never truly accept—”
“Society accepted us last evening,” Fiona replied gently. “Not every individual, perhaps—but enough. And those who do not accept us are not worth troubling ourselves over.”