Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“She is quite right, you know.” Lady Ashworth finally spoke, setting down her teacup with calm finality.
“I have navigated society for rather longer than any of you, and I assure you—scandal fades. Gossip finds new prey. What endures is the strength of the marriage itself.” She smiled.
“And I have rarely seen two people so determined upon one another.”
Fiona’s father looked from Lady Ashworth to Fiona to Christian, and finally back to his wife. He seemed suddenly older.
“I do not approve,” he said at last. “Let that be understood. But neither will I stand in your way.”
“Thank you, Father.” Fiona stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “That is all I ask.”
He did not return the gesture, but neither did he withdraw.
It was, Fiona supposed, as much as she could hope for.
***
The rest of the morning was consumed by practical matters.
Lady Ashworth took charge, as Lady Ashworth always did, summoning solicitors and sending messages and managing the thousand details that accompanied a ducal engagement.
Fiona’s parents, somewhat subdued after the morning’s confrontation, were sent home with firm assurances that the wedding would take place at Thornwick in a fortnight—and that their presence would be expected.
By early afternoon, Fiona and Christian finally found themselves alone.
They had retreated to Lady Ashworth’s small library—a cosy room lined with books and warmed by a fire—and were sitting together on the settee, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. The chaos of the morning seemed very far away.
“That went rather better than I expected,” Christian said quietly.
“You set your expectations very low.”
“When it comes to my reception by the wider world?” He brushed a kiss against her hair. “Extremely low. But your mother relented in the end. That counts for something.”
“My mother has always been more yielding than my father. She values happiness over strict propriety, though she would never say so outright.” Fiona sighed softly. “My father will take longer. He may never fully accept you.”
“I can live with that.” Christian’s voice was calm. “So long as I have you, the rest matters very little.”
“You make it sound dangerously simple.”
“It is simple.” He tilted her chin upward until their eyes met. “I meant every word I said to them, Fiona. I intend to spend the rest of my life making you happy. I will—”
She silenced him with a kiss.
It was soft; the kiss of two people who had fought through fire and emerged on the other side. When she pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion.
“A fortnight,” she said. “In a fortnight I shall be your wife.”
“My wife.” He spoke the words slowly, as though savouring them. “My duchess. My partner in everything.”
“In everything,” she agreed. “Even scandalising the ton, it seems.”
He laughed—that warm, unguarded sound she had come to love—and drew her closer.
“I suspect we shall provide them with conversation for years to come.”
“Good.” She settled comfortably against his chest. “Society could do with a little excitement.”
***
The fortnight that followed was a whirlwind.
There were fittings and consultations and an endless stream of callers, some curious, some congratulatory, some barely concealing their desire to witness the scandal firsthand.
There were gifts and cards and invitations that Lady Ashworth sorted through with ruthless efficiency, accepting some and declining others based on criteria Fiona did not entirely understand.
And there was Christian.
He remained at Lady Ashworth’s townhouse, propriety be damned, unwilling to let Fiona out of his sight for longer than absolutely necessary.
He accompanied her on morning walks and afternoon drives.
He sat beside her during tedious meetings with solicitors and modistes.
He held her hand through it all, a steady presence in the chaos, a reminder of why she was doing this.
One evening, a few days before they were to depart for Thornwick, they found themselves alone in the garden again. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, and the air smelled of spring flowers and promise.
“I received a call today,” Christian said. “From Lord Weston.”
Fiona went still. “Did you?”
“He came to offer his congratulations. And, I suspect, to take the measure of the gentleman who has displaced him.” A faint, wry smile touched Christian’s mouth. “He is a good man. I can understand why my aunt believed he might suit you.”
“He might have suited me—once.” Fiona turned to face him fully. “But I never felt for him what I feel for you. Not even the smallest part of it.”
“I know.” He took her hands in his. “Still, I thought you should know—he bore no ill will. He wished us both every happiness, and I believe he meant it. Not every man carries defeat with bitterness.”
“He was not defeated,” she said softly. “He simply never had a chance.” She squeezed his hands. “My heart was already yours, Christian. It has been yours since the moment you carried me through that storm.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle.
“In four days, you will be my wife.”
“In four days, you will be my husband.”
“Are you ready?”
She thought of everything that had led them here—the accident upon the cliff road, the weeks at Thornwick, the anguish of their separation and the wonder of finding one another again. The ball, the scandal, the quiet work of shaping a future together.
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said.
He smiled—one of those rare, unguarded smiles that transformed his face—and drew her into his arms.
“Nor have I.”
They stood together in the fading light, holding one another and imagining the life that lay before them.
In four days, they would begin it.
Together.
And nothing—not scandal, nor society, nor all the whispers in the world—would ever part them again.