Page 88

Yvette was far too focused on her new task, which was to find a perfect match for Fiona. She’d decided on the task after her talk with Fiona in the drawing room weeks ago, but so far, it had proven very difficult.

One evening however, at a ball hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Wellingham, a young gentleman approached Fiona. He was tall and fair, with warm hazel eyes and a friendly smile. He hadn’t written on her dance card, but he seemed confident enough that he would secure a dance.

“Lady Fiona,” he said with a bow. “Would you honor me with this dance?”

Fiona’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. “Of course,” she said, glancing at Yvette, who gave her an encouraging nod.

As Fiona danced with the gentleman, Lord Merrick—a baron who was known to have just found a mine—Yvette watched with a smile. Perhaps, she thought, the tide was finally beginning to turn.

That night after they’d returned home, Yvette decided to take a stroll around the gardens. She craved solitude, after being involved with thetonfor weeks, hoping it might soothe her thoughts.

The stars were scattered across the dark velvet sky, and the faint chirping of crickets accompanied the crunch of gravel beneath her slippers.

She hadn’t been out long when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning slightly, she saw Killian approaching, his tall figure illuminated by the moonlight.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his tone light but inquisitive.

“Not quite,” she replied, clasping her hands in front of her. “I thought a walk might help clear my mind.”

He nodded, falling into step beside her. For a while, they walked in companionable silence, the cool night air settling between them.

“It would seem Fiona has caught the eyes of a gentleman,” he pointed out, and she nodded with a dreamy sigh.

“They looked so perfect while they danced. The baron seemed pretty smitten with her.”

Killian nodded, taking Yvette’s hand in his while they walked. Comfortable silence fell between them before Killian spoke again.

“Are ye enjoying London?” he asked, his brogue slipping through the polished edge of his voice.

Yvette hesitated.

“It’s… different. I was born here, but I feel like an outsider now. Everything moves so fast, and I’m not sure I belong anymore.”

Killian glanced at her, his dark eyes thoughtful.

“Thetoncan make anyone feel like an outsider,” he said, “Even those who’ve lived among them their entire lives.”

Surprised by his candor, Yvette turned to him. “Do you feel that way?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. “Aye, more often than not,” he admitted. “But I learned long ago not to let it show. My father wouldn’t allow it.”

Her curiosity piqued, she pressed gently.

“What do you mean?”

Killian sighed, his gaze drifting toward the distance.

“When I was a lad, my father used to send me to my uncle in Scotland every summer. He wanted me to grow strong, to learn discipline. My uncle—he was a hard man—believed a true Scotsman never led with his emotions, never showed weakness. I spent those summers training, hunting, and learning what it meant to be a warrior.”

Yvette listened intently, her heart softening at the rare glimpse into his past.

“Whenever I returned to England,” Killian continued, “my father would insist I polish myself for Cambridge. He wanted me to be the perfect English gentleman. He hated my Scottish brogue, thought it made me less… refined.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Yvette said indignantly.

He smiled faintly.

“To him, it wasn’t. He believed strength lay in appearances. He wanted me to be someone thetoncouldn’t dismiss, despite my half-Scottish blood. It was the reason he forced me into a marriage with Albina. He claimed she was from a respectable family, and her influence would make others accept me.”