Page 15

CHAPTER 15

F iona soon found herself swept along in a whirl of muslin and ribbons, her mother’s hand firm at her elbow as they embarked upon the arduous business of trousseau shopping.

“Stand up straight, Fiona,” Prudence murmured as they entered the crowded modiste’s shop, her own posture ramrod perfect.

Fiona obeyed, lifting her chin as she was ushered toward a dais to be measured.

As the modiste’s tape was drawn tight around her waist, murmured voices floated from the corner of the room.

“Did you hear what happened with Canterlack?” one lady said, her voice pitched just low enough to be scandalous.

Fiona stiffened, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine.

Of course. It was only a matter of time before the whispers began.

She braced herself for her own name to be dragged forth, but instead the other lady’s response made her blink in confusion.

“I hear he’s embroiled in a fresh scandal,” the woman said, her voice laden with glee. “Cowardice, they say. Losing his diamond to the beast was bad enough, but now?—”

The modiste’s tape slipped from Fiona’s waist. She barely noticed.

A new scandal? Cowardice?

What could they mean?

Before she could make sense of it, one of the ladies caught her gaze across the room. There was a brief, awkward pause before the woman bent close to her companion, whispering furiously while making a show of adjusting her gloves. A furtive gesture pointed unmistakably in Fiona’s direction.

Fiona lowered her eyes to her hands, folding them neatly in her lap even as her cheeks burned.

Whatever it is, I am the entertainment of the hour. Again.

“Pay them no mind, dear,” Prudence said, catching the exchange. She spoke lightly, but her fingers tightened perceptibly around her fan.

Fiona said nothing, allowing herself to be herded back into the carriage when the shopping concluded. She leaned her head against the squabs, watching the city blur past the windows.

“Once you become a Duchess,” Prudence said, flicking open her fan with a snap, “society will forget every unflattering whisper. None of it shall matter.”

Fiona turned to regard her mother, a tired smile tugging at her mouth.

“You make it sound as though the title is all that matters, Mama.”

Prudence tilted her head, peering out the carriage window at the passing shopfronts.

“Why, of course it is,” she said. “To society, a title defines a person. It is their very worth.” She fanned herself briskly, as though the thought were as commonplace as the weather.

Fiona pressed her gloved hands against her knees, steadying herself.

And what of kindness? Of loyalty? Of honor? Are they nothing at all?

“Then what a sorrowful society we live in,” she said aloud, her voice quiet but firm.

“Oh, my own daughter, a duchess!” Prudence said, as if Fiona had not spoken at all.

Fiona barely managed not to sigh as her mother continued, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I shall tell you something, Fiona,” Prudence said, glancing about as though fearful of eavesdroppers. “I was never truly keen on your match with the Earl. This outcome suits us far better. Smart of you to aim higher, dear.”

“I did not do this for title or stature, Mama,” Fiona said, keeping her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

“For love, then?” Prudence asked, arching a brow.

The skeptical lift of her mother’s brow made Fiona’s mouth flatten into a thin line.

“Your reason matters not,” Prudence said breezily, waving her fan with renewed vigor. “Once you marry and become Duchess, your father shall mellow. Mark my words, dear.”

Fiona turned her face toward the window, swallowing the knot rising in her throat.

They see me as a means to an end. Nothing more.

By the time they arrived home, Fiona was desperate for air. The butler collected their gloves and bonnets, and she had barely set her reticule down when a sharp knock echoed at the front entrance.

Both she and her mother turned in surprise as the butler opened the door.

“Your Grace,” Prudence said, her voice pitched a touch too high. “What a delightful surprise!”

Fiona watched her mother’s face transform—smiling too widely, standing a little too straight.

Oh, do stop fawning, Mama. He shall not grow taller because you bat your lashes at him.

“You arrive just in time for tea,” Prudence continued, fluttering her fan. “Indeed, we have just returned ourselves. I shall ring for the refreshments immediately.”

Isaac stepped inside, offering a shallow bow.

“I think His Grace might prefer some air in the gardens, Mama,” Fiona said quickly, stepping forward before her mother could draw him into a suffocating afternoon of stilted conversation.

Isaac’s mouth quirked slightly. “A walk would be most agreeable.”

Prudence’s disappointment was plain—a slight stiffening of her shoulders, the sharp snap of her fan shutting—but she masked it with a gracious nod.

“Very well,” she said sweetly. “But His Grace shall owe me tea another time.”

Fiona led her fiancé into the gardens. A fresh breeze stirred the hedges, but between them stretched an awkward, prickling silence.

She laced her fingers together, then unclasped them again. Say something, anything.

“Pardon Mama,” she ventured at last. “She is merely... overly excited about the wedding.”

Isaac gave a short nod, his gaze drifting over the rose bushes as though they held some profound secret.

“She must be,” he said.

Fiona tilted her head, studying him. He sounds distracted. Distant . She tucked the thought away, refusing to give it oxygen. He would not have come at all if he wished to avoid me. Do not be ridiculous.

Drawing a steadying breath, she continued. “I never had the opportunity to thank you,” she said. “For making the offer, I mean. You need not have done so, and yet you did. It was most magnanimous of you.”

Isaac’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp and clear.

“It was not an act of kindness,” he said.

Fiona blinked, momentarily thrown. Not an act of kindness? Then what? Recovering her poise, she offered a light chuckle, hoping to chase away the sudden tension.

“You needn’t be humble around me, Your Grace,” she said lightly.

“Neither am I being humble,” he returned, his words as blunt as a dropped stone.

Fiona’s smile faltered, but she rallied.

“You know,” she said, lifting her skirts slightly as they continued down the path, “if I did not know better, I would think you had been forced to be here today.”

She laughed again, soft and self-deprecating, but Isaac said nothing in response. Fiona’s steps slowed. Why did he come if he has no wish to be here?

The sunlight dappled through the trees, gilding the path before them, yet Fiona felt none of its warmth.

“The weather is far too beautiful for brooding, Your Grace,” she said, striving to maintain her cheer.

Still no reply. Truly, I may as well be talking to a stone wall. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and turned to him with a determined brightness.

“Is one’s mood meant to mirror the weather?” Isaac asked at last, a touch of dry amusement coloring his words.

“Well,” Fiona said, lifting her chin, “the weather, however indirectly, does tend to influence our spirits.”

Isaac snorted, a short, derisive sound. “Hardly makes a difference,” he said.

Fiona bit the inside of her cheek, suppressing a sigh. This is going marvelously. Truly.

“But I suppose it does not work that way for everyone,” Fiona said lightly, though a part of her sank with the words.

She walked a little ahead, keeping her gaze fixed on the gravel path.

He is not interested in anything I have to say. He does not even pretend to share my thoughts.

The realization pressed against her ribs, cold and unyielding. I have never met two people more at odds than we are.

The remainder of their walk passed in stilted conversation—or none at all. By the time Isaac took his leave with a curt bow and a mumbled promise to return, Fiona was almost grateful.

Later, she found herself distracted, her thoughts returning again and again to the garden path, the silence, the disinterest.

She knelt in the greenhouse, her fingers half-heartedly tending to the herbs, but her mind elsewhere.

This is the man I am to marry. A man who cannot be bothered to speak a civil word. A man who looks at the roses as though they offend him.

It appeared she was now tied to that indifferent character for the rest of her life.

Better this than a life with Canterlack, she reminded herself. Yet the optimism she tried to summon rang hollow. A light step behind her broke her reverie.

“How was your walk with the Duke?” her mother inquired, stepping into the greenhouse, her gloves tucked neatly beneath one arm.

Fiona brushed the soil from her skirts and rose, her heart sinking further.

“Mama,” she said slowly, “do you believe two vastly different people might ever truly get along?”

Prudence arched a brow, plucking a leaf from one of the herb pots and rubbing it between her fingers.

“My dear, there is no bridging certain gaps between people,” she said. “Some differences are simply impossible to change.”

Fiona pressed her lips together, feeling the words settle heavily upon her.

“Oh,” she said, the small sound escaping her before she could stop it.

Prudence paused, her fingers stilling. Her eyes widened, a flash of dawning realization lighting her face.

“Could this be about the Duke?” she asked.

Fiona turned away, pretending to adjust a potted lavender. When Fiona did not respond, her mother seemed to take her silence for assent. “As I mentioned before, Fiona,” Prudence said, plucking another leaf from the herb pot, “in marriage, such things as compatibility are of very little consequence. Cheer up. Your children shall fill whatever void there may be.”

She waved her hand as though brushing aside Fiona’s concerns with the very air.

“You shall find your sanctuary in their joy. In the meantime, you must simply make things work as they are. There is no going back now.”

No reconsidering. No escape.

Her mother’s words offered no comfort—only a sense of quiet resignation. Perhaps this was the ultimate price of her freedom.

You sold your happiness to secure your liberty. A worthy sacrifice, she reminded herself, though the words echoed hollowly. A sudden chill traced her spine, and Hester’s warning rose unbidden in her mind.

What if he is as bad as Canterlack? You do not know the Duke, Fiona.