Page 10

CHAPTER 10

“ A aron, I must speak with you,” Fiona said quietly as they entered the gilded ballroom, her gloved hand resting lightly on the Earl’s arm.

He barely glanced at her. “Whatever it is can wait. I must introduce you to the Duke of Devon,” he replied with a polished smile that never reached his eyes.

Fiona opened her mouth to object, but he was already steering her across the room.

The Duke stood with three other gentlemen, all appearing equally uninterested in the proceedings. Aaron launched into introductions before she could manage another word, and Fiona found herself smiling politely, nodding, offering the requisite pleasantries—when what she truly wanted was to scream.

After the hollow exchange, she leaned toward him once more. “Aaron, please?—”

But he gave her no opportunity.

“Ah, there is Monsieur Lefèvre. He is recently arrived from Paris,” Aaron said smoothly, drawing her along again. This time, toward a group of foreign dignitaries, most of whom looked as though they could not care less about her name or lineage.

And yet she was presented to them like some prize filly at auction.

Fiona’s jaw ached from smiling. Her temples throbbed.

She tried again. “I must insist?—”

Aaron’s hand tightened slightly around her arm. He leaned in with that dreadful, false affection and whispered, “You shall tell me later, dear.”

The term of endearment made her stomach turn.

If I do not get away from him this instant, I may very well scream.

As though summoned by the desperation in her heart, Craton stepped into view.

The group quieted as he approached, his presence unmistakable even before he spoke. Without so much as glancing at Aaron, he turned to Fiona and said with practiced nonchalance, “May I claim this dance, Lady Fiona?”

Fiona curtsied graciously, her relief immediate and vast. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She took his offered arm and felt Aaron’s grip release—reluctantly. She did not look back.

Craton, for his part, was unreadable. Cool, steady, calm.

As the music began and they moved into the waltz, he spoke low. “You’re nervous.”

“I’ve been attempting to speak to Canterlack,” she said, eyes fixed somewhere beyond his shoulder. “But he’s made himself perfectly unavailable.”

“Is something amiss?”

She hesitated, then met his gaze. “I’ve changed the plan slightly. I intend to tell him outright that I have formed an attachment elsewhere.”

He nodded slowly. “And you believe that will compel him to dissolve the arrangement?”

“I cannot say. Not unless I try,” she replied, her voice nearly a sigh.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “A scandal remains your surest escape.”

Fiona shook her head. “And an irrevocable one. I would be freed, yes—but not without disgrace. My family would disown me. I would be ruined.”

He shrugged, but said nothing.

She realized, in that moment, that she had stopped counting steps. He led so effortlessly, so precisely, that her body simply followed. She might have been walking on clouds. She might have been dreaming.

But reality returned all too quickly.

The dance ended, and with a polite bow, Craton returned her to Canterlack, whose smile did little to disguise the fury in his eyes.

Fiona’s heart clenched as her arm was reclaimed, his grip far too possessive.

“I presume you would care to dance again?” Aaron said.

She had not the chance to answer. He led her back toward the floor before the question was fully out of his mouth.

“You look pale,” he observed as they took position.

“Perhaps because I am too weary for more dancing,” she replied, keeping her tone even.

“You might have said so before we walked the entire length of the room.”

“You gave me little opportunity to speak, in case that escaped your notice.”

“Ah, but I did offer the chance, did I not?” His smile was all teeth and no warmth.

Yes, he offered. But never waited for an answer. He never did.

He moves the pieces and I follow. A puppet on strings I never asked for.

Fiona drew in a breath, bracing herself.

“I am in love with someone else, Aaron,” she said.

He was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice too calm, he said, “You seem to forget you are already betrothed to me, Fiona. What you feel, or do not feel, is of no consequence now.”

She met his gaze. “Oh, but you are wrong.”

“I am certain you yourself would not wish to be saddled with a woman whose heart is already lost to another,” Fiona said, each word clipped with restrained desperation.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, unbothered.

The audacity.

“I believe you ought to collect yourself, Fiona. You are not making the slightest bit of sense,” he said, still laughing quietly to himself.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the heat in her cheeks rising quickly—fueled by frustration, by helplessness, and by the way he looked at her as though she were hysterical.

The moment the dance came to its merciful end, Fiona gave a stiff curtsy and excused herself.

Once in the hallway, she turned the corner and slipped into the first unoccupied room she found. It was a guest chamber, dimly lit by a single oil lamp, the fire in the grate burned low. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard.

Her slippers sank into the rug, but the comfort of the room was lost on her.

She began to pace.

He does not believe me. He does not care. None of them care. Not Papa. Not Aaron. They would rather parade me like property, marry me off like livestock…

Her breath came too fast, too shallow.

The handle turned.

“Are you well?”

She startled, spinning toward the door.

Isaac stood there, his expression unreadable but his brow drawn tight.

“I saw you leave the ballroom,” he said, his voice low. “In quite a hurry.”

She opened her mouth, and everything spilled out at once.

“I told him, Isaac. I told him I care for another. But he laughed. He laughed at me. He means to go through with the marriage all the same.” Her chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm now, her voice breaking. “I do not even think he believes me.”

He closed the door behind him and strode across the room. Without a word, he placed both hands on her shoulders, firm but gentle, halting her pacing.

“You need to sit,” he said evenly.

She allowed him to guide her to the edge of the bed, sinking onto the mattress without protest.

He sat beside her, then glanced down at the rigid bodice she wore.

“These blasted things,” he muttered, reaching toward the laces at the back of her gown.

She froze. “Isaac?—”

“Breathe, Fiona. You will faint if you do not.” His fingers were already at work, loosening the ties.

The scandal of it all burned at her, but the heat was quickly replaced by something else—something that stirred beneath the surface, as his hands moved with surprising care. She felt breath return to her chest, cool and steady. Each loosened lace seemed to peel away a layer of panic.

Her posture softened. Her shoulders dropped.

She looked at him then, really looked, and something about his nearness—his scent, his quiet strength—unraveled her completely. The tears came fast.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice cracking as the first tear slipped down her cheek. “I feel as though I am walking straight toward ruin, and there is no turning back. I will be bound to him. Forever.”

And then she crumpled.

She pressed her face against Isaac’s chest, the tears falling freely now as her breath hitched again and again. The soft linen of his cravat grew damp beneath her cheek. He was warm beneath the layers—solid, real, and entirely still.

He hesitated, then placed his hand on her back, palm open, fingers lightly curved against her spine. The gesture was awkward, but it steadied her in a way she hadn’t expected.

She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear—strong and slow.

Then came voices—just outside the door.

They stiffened. The voices were drawing nearer.

She lifted her head, panic surging through her again as she looked to him.

“You have a choice,” Isaac said, calm as ever. “The wardrobe would conceal you quite nicely, I should think.” He held her eyes. “Or… you could stay here and be freed.”

Time stopped between them as she allowed his words to settle. Her gaze moved toward the wardrobe, and for a brief moment, she measured the distance and calculated the time—just enough to slip inside unseen.

Yet, she remained rooted. The seconds passed, heavy and deliberate, until at last the door swung open.

Gasps filled the threshold as three stunned faces took in the sight: Fiona seated on the bed, laces undone, eyes swollen from crying—and Isaac seated beside her, his hand still resting lightly on her back.

The murmurs rose, sharp and immediate, but Fiona heard them distantly, as though through water. Her body felt far away. She couldn’t quite tell if her feet were still on the floor.

Fiona could not breathe, could not think. Isaac rose to his feet, placing himself between her and the stunned onlookers. His expression was unreadable, but the quiet authority emanating from him was unmistakable.

“The lady is unwell,” he said calmly, as though announcing the weather. “You will grant her some privacy.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then came a sharp, nasal voice from the doorway. “If she is so unwell, why is she half-undressed?” a lady arched a brow, pointing a gloved hand directly at Fiona. A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by another voice, colder and sharper still. “Men will invent any excuse to ruin a woman. And a Duke? They think themselves above consequence.”

Then, reluctantly, a few of the gawkers stepped back, faces pale and stiff with shock. Others lingered longer, greedy for more. Lord Brightwell muttered something under his breath about “utter disgrace,” and Lady Welley’s fan fluttered like a trapped bird as she turned away with a dramatic sigh.

Fiona felt herself shrinking inward, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as her hands clenched. Her father appeared, his face a thundercloud of rage. He took one look at her, disheveled and wide-eyed on the edge of the chaise in the salon, and Isaac standing over her, and Fiona saw something darken in his gaze—something far more dangerous than anger.

“Get up,” George hissed through gritted teeth. Fiona scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling. Isaac stepped aside, but his hand brushed briefly against her elbow—a small, steadying touch that grounded her more than anything else had that night.

George’s glare pinned her where she stood. “We are leaving,” he barked. Prudence, red-faced and wringing her gloved hands, hurried into the room, casting fearful glances between Fiona and the gathering crowd. “Come, dear,” she whispered, reaching for Fiona’s hand.

Fiona allowed herself to be led, feeling numb, a marionette with her strings yanked mercilessly. As they moved through the crowd, the whispers chased them like snapping hounds: “Ruined.” “Disgraceful.” “Poor Prudence—how shall they recover from this?”

She kept her head high, her spine rigid, refusing to let them see her crumble.