Page 12

CHAPTER 12

T he moment dawn broke, Isaac made his way to his bedchamber, and after changing into fresh clothes and making himself presentable, he called upon the Holden residence.

“You are quite early, Your Grace,” the butler observed as Isaac stepped into the marbled vestibule of Holden House.

“Kindly inform the Marquess that I must speak with him at once,” Isaac said, tugging off his gloves and handing them over.

The butler bowed and disappeared, leaving Isaac alone with the chill of the morning air still clinging to his coat.

No sense delaying what must be done. Best to strike while the man is still too dazed to mount a defense.

He had scarcely slept. A few hours after dawn, he had forced himself from his study, changed into fresh attire, and made himself presentable, though no amount of careful grooming could entirely banish the sharp edge of exhaustion that pulled at him.

Within moments, he was ushered into the Marquess’s study.

George Holden rose from behind a massive desk, his brows lifting in evident surprise. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice clipped. “I had not expected company so early.”

Isaac did not bother with pleasantries. “I have come to offer for your daughter, Holden.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the grate.

The Marquess blinked, as though the words had landed somewhere behind his understanding. Then, regaining his composure, he gave a slow, almost calculating nod.

“Very well,” he said, smoothing a hand over his waistcoat. “We shall discuss the terms.”

The casualness of it—a daughter bartered like a bolt of cloth—set Isaac’s teeth on edge. His hands curled loosely at his sides to keep from betraying his disdain.

Terms? For a human being? How very noble of you, Holden.

But now was not the time to wage that battle. There was one purpose to his visit, and it would not be served by righteous indignation.

“We shall,” Isaac agreed curtly. “As soon as the lady in question joins us.”

The Marquess frowned, as though the very notion were an inconvenience. “Why, I see no use in having her here.”

Isaac allowed a slow smile to curve his mouth, though it held no warmth. “Might I inquire whose hand it is I have just requested, Lord Holden?”

Or have you forgotten you possess a daughter at all, so long as she cannot serve your ambitions?

George’s mouth opened, only to close again, his jaw working in clear irritation.

“Certainly not yours, if I recollect correctly,” Isaac added smoothly before the man could summon a reply.

The Marquess gave a short, brittle laugh, though there was no true amusement in it. “My, of course not, Your Grace.”

“Then why are you insisting on your sole presence in this discussion, Lord Holden?” Isaac challenged, his tone measured but unyielding.

The Marquess’s jaw tensed, his displeasure written clear across his face.

When no answer came, Isaac allowed a faint, mocking bow. “Perhaps I should navigate your house and fetch Lady Fiona myself,” he said, voice calm but carrying a steel edge.

It was less a threat and more a declaration of intent.

Holden must have seen it for what it was, for he shot a glare at Isaac, then turned sharply to summon his butler. The servant was dispatched at once to fetch Fiona.

Isaac remained standing by the hearth, arms crossed behind his back, his gaze steady upon the Marquess. You can sneer and seethe all you like, old man. It will not change what must be done.

Moments later, the door opened, and Fiona entered.

Something within Isaac twisted at the sight of her.

She held herself upright, her chin lifted in a show of strength—but it was the mark on her face that stole his breath. A livid bruise marred the delicate curve of her cheekbone, angry and dark against her pale skin.

An odd, violent ire surged within him, swift and hot.

His gaze snapped to the Marquess before returning to Fiona, now laced with a protectiveness he scarcely understood.

He laid hands on her. That bloody coward!

Isaac forced his hands to unclench, though it cost him dearly. There would be a reckoning. But not yet. First, he must secure her safety.

“Lady Fiona,” Isaac said, holding her gaze steadily, “do you wish to marry me?”

He watched a parade of emotions cross her bruised features—shock first, then guardedness, then a glint of wary hope. Caution, perhaps. Fear, perhaps. Trust, he dared hope, though he did not deserve it.

Fiona glanced toward her father, a fleeting, almost fearful motion. Then, gathering herself, she turned back to Isaac and gave a small, resolute nod.

Relief—sharp and visceral—cut through him.

“Very well,” Isaac said, his voice a low rumble.

He moved toward the Marquess, step by deliberate step, until he stood over the man like a thundercloud ready to break.

“Fiona is now my betrothed,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “And I expect you to treat her accordingly, Lord Holden.”

The Marquess’s mouth twisted, as if he might object, but Isaac did not allow him the luxury.

“If you so much as touch another hair on her head,” Isaac continued, his voice dropping into a deadly quiet, “I shall ensure you regret the day you first drew breath.”

His gaze darted briefly to Fiona, then back to Holden.

That bruise was your doing, you miserable wretch. And I know precisely when you delivered it.

The guilt gnawed at Isaac even as the rage simmered hotter. After all, he had drawn Fiona into this scandal. It mattered not that she had agreed. It mattered only that he had failed to protect her from the cost.

He hated seeing her like this. Battered. Helpless.

Never again, he vowed silently. Never again while I live.

“She is my daughter,” Holden hissed, though his voice lacked the conviction it once had.

“And she is my betrothed now,” Isaac returned, his words cutting clean through the air. “My future wife.”

The Marquess flinched, his shoulders curling inward as though the very words had struck him.

Good. Let him feel the fear he is so quick to inflict on others.

Without sparing another word, Isaac turned on his heel and strode from the room, the burden of his vow settling across his shoulders—but it was a burden he would carry without regret.

The door to her father’s study closed with a quiet snick behind her, but Fiona stood there a moment longer, her hand resting on the brass handle, as if the world beyond that threshold had shifted and left her struggling to catch her breath.

He offered for me. The Duke of Craton—offered for me.

The words chased themselves through her mind, wild and impossible. She pressed a hand lightly to her stomach, willing the roiling within to settle.

Just then, a rustle of skirts snapped her head up. Her mother swept past, her face a study in barely contained agitation. Without so much as a glance at Fiona, she sailed through the door Fiona had just exited, pulling it nearly closed behind her.

“Did I hear correctly, George?” her mother’s voice pierced the thin wood. “Did Craton truly offer for Fiona?”

The door shut properly then, swallowing whatever reply her father gave, but it hardly mattered. Fiona had heard enough.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself forward, moving on numb feet through the hallways. Her bedchamber was a blessed distance away, tucked at the far end of the hall where no one could demand anything more of her—at least for a few moments.

Once inside, she let herself crumple onto the bed, her skirts a tangled mess around her. The embroidered coverlet was cool beneath her palms, grounding her as her mind spun with all that had just occurred.

Offered for me. A man like that. A man who could crush the very air from a room with a glance...

She squeezed her eyes shut, the memory of Isaac’s steady, uncompromising gaze flashing behind her lids. There had been no hesitation in him, no doubt. Only an unwavering certainty that had made her feel—for the first time in weeks—seen.

And yet...her cheek still throbbed. The bruise pulsed angrily beneath her skin, a humiliating reminder of just how little power she truly possessed in her own life.

A sharp knock at the door jolted her upright. She blinked at it, expecting Miss Jameson, or worse, her mother come to issue fresh orders.

Instead, when the door creaked open, it was Anna who swept inside, a vision of concern wrapped in fashionable muslin. Behind her came Nancy and Hester, the latter wringing her hands as she bustled in.

“Oh, Fiona, dearest, how have—” Anna began, but the words choked off as her gaze snagged on Fiona’s left cheek.

A beat of silence fell, brittle and loud. Hester’s gasp shattered it first. She clutched her reticule against her chest as if to shield herself from the sight. Nancy, ever the blunt one, took two steps forward, her mouth tightening into a grim line.

“She is decidedly not well,” Nancy declared, her voice low and simmering with fury.

Fiona managed a brittle smile, tugging the edge of her shawl higher, though it did nothing to disguise the mark.

Anna rushed to her side, her skirts rustling against the carpet. She sank onto the bed beside Fiona, her blue eyes wide and fierce. “Who did this to you?”

Fiona opened her mouth but found herself at a loss. How to explain? How to make sense of the shame clawing at her insides?

She shrugged, a hollow, helpless gesture. “I suppose,” she said lightly, “I earned it. For my recklessness.”

“Rubbish,” Hester snapped, dropping onto the bed with a surprising thump. She reached for Fiona’s hand and gripped it tightly. “No one deserves this. And most certainly not you.”

Nancy hovered at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed, her entire stance taut with outrage. Her Scottish blood was up; Fiona could see it in the way her chin jutted forward.

“Suffice it to say,” Fiona said, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat, “my father was...not pleased.”

Fiona watched her friends exchange a look—one of those quick, wordless conversations that only true companions could carry out without a single syllable.

Hester moved first, gathering Fiona into a tight, unreserved hug. Her arms wrapped around Fiona’s shoulders, offering a warmth that made her breath catch painfully.

Anna and Nancy each took one of her hands, their fingers firm and reassuring around her chilled ones.

“We are so very sorry, Fiona,” they said together, their voices soft but fierce with feeling.

“No matter what led to it,” Anna added, her eyes flashing, “he had no right whatsoever to lay a hand upon you.”

Fiona managed a small smile, but it felt brittle, stretched too thin over the ache inside her. “Well,” she said with a lightness she did not feel, “I did not expect a scandal of this magnitude to go without some consequences.”

I merely underestimated the depth of my father’s wrath. How foolish of me to think I could escape unscathed.

The memory of his hand against her skin—the sharp, humiliating sting of it—rose unbidden, and she forced her mind away from it before the sickness in her belly could overtake her.

Hester leaned back, her arms still looped around Fiona’s shoulders. “After the shock of last evening, we could not remain away,” she declared stoutly. “We had to be certain you were well.”

“And we are most decidedly not pleased with the state we find you in,” Nancy added, squeezing Fiona’s hand again, her mouth thinning in disapproval.

The tenderness and the sheer loyalty of her friends wrapped around Fiona like a balm, but it also scraped against the frayed edges of her composure. Tears threatened, prickling hot behind her eyes. She swallowed hard, tilting her head back slightly, willing them not to fall.

Not now. I must not break now. They have seen enough already.

Anna’s fingers tightened around hers. “Tell us what happened,” she said gently.

For a long moment, Fiona simply stared at the intricate pattern of her coverlet, tracing the embroidered flowers with her gaze as if they might offer her courage.

Say it. If you say it, it becomes real. If you keep silent, you might yet pretend it was all a fevered dream.

At last, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady.

“I had to end my betrothal,” she said. “I could not... I would not go through with it.”

Across from her, realization lit Anna’s face. She sat up straighter, her mouth parting as if the final pieces of a puzzle had snapped into place.