Page 19

CHAPTER 19

“ T he florist sent word that the white peonies have arrived,” Prudence said as she adjusted her napkin. “You know how difficult they are to procure this late in the season, but nothing less would do, of course. White peonies, ivory roses—the effect will be sublime.”

Two days before the wedding, Fiona sat at dinner with her parents, the silver cutlery gleaming under the chandelier’s glow, its brightness in stark contrast to the tension thickening the air.

Prudence dabbed delicately at her mouth before clasping her hands beneath her chin, her expression bright with excitement.

“Oh, and can you believe society is anticipating the wedding?” she said with breathless delight. “The Morning Gazette featured your engagement again just this morning. The columns can hardly stop chattering about what a beautiful couple you and the Duke shall make, Fiona darling.”

Fiona didn’t look up. She merely cut into her steak with scrupulous care, dividing it into perfect, bite-sized cubes. Slowly, she dipped each piece into the gravy and chewed longer than necessary.

Across the table, her father made a sound of disdain, loud enough to break through her practiced indifference.

“It does not change the fact that it is a shameful union,” George muttered, fingers tightening around his wineglass. “A public scandal, paraded about for all to see.”

Prudence gave a flutter of her hand, as if shooing away an offending thought. “Oh, such negativity, George. That is all in the past now. People forget quickly when there is a title involved.”

Fiona took a hearty sip of her wine.

Yes, nothing soothes public opinion like a coronet and an ancient name, she thought grimly.

Her father wasn’t finished.

“Tell me, girl,” he said, cutting through her silence. “Is this what you dreamed of for yourself? A beast of a Duke, penniless and cursed with a name that makes decent men shudder?”

Fiona lifted her gaze slowly, setting her knife down with calm deliberation.

Before she could reply, her mother interjected.

“Who says he is penniless, George? Surely, the title alone carries some fortune still?”

Fiona turned to her mother in disbelief.

“Is that truly what concerns you?” she asked. “His bank ledgers?”

Prudence blinked, taken aback. “Well, I should hope for your sake that he can support a household. You must think of the future, Fiona. A home, a reputation, children?—”

“Yes,” George cut in sharply, “and think of the legacy. Or what remains of it. The man lives among the ashes of the fortune his dead father squandered. The Craton name was dragged through the mud before the boy even came of age.”

Fiona picked up her wineglass once more, lifting it with a quiet poise. And yet, for all that ruin, I have never felt safer than in his presence.

Her mother looked more unsure now. “Surely those are only rumors,” she said, her voice faltering, as if trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

George scoffed. “Apparently, such a man appeals to our daughter, Prudence.”

His words were like stones, sharp and deliberate.

Fiona set her wineglass down, her fingers curling slightly around the stem. “Well, Canterlack was certainly not my dream, Father.”

George’s face darkened. “You insolent child!”

He drew breath, his features twisting with rising fury.

“First you shame me, then you dare speak back as if you have done no wrong!” he barked. “You bring disgrace to my name?—”

“Perhaps it was your name that brought disgrace to me,” Fiona said, her heart pounding.

George spluttered in outrage, his fists clenching at the edge of the table.

Before he could unleash another torrent, Fiona pushed back her chair. The legs scraped softly against the floor as she stood.

“Have a good evening, Mother,” she said, not sparing George another glance.

She turned and walked out, her spine straight despite the burn in her throat.

“That girl’s disrespect knows no bounds, I tell you,” she heard her father growl behind her. “And it’s all your fault, woman.”

Fiona climbed the stairs with measured steps, the echo of her father’s voice fading behind her.

Dinner had been good. But not good enough to make her sit and collect more insults from the man who was supposed to be her father.

Sleep refused her, and she paced her chamber restlessly, her thoughts unraveling into knots.

Two days. Two days until everything changed.

And yet there is so much I do not know. So much I must understand.

She dressed quietly, wrapping her cloak about her shoulders and slipping from the house with practiced ease.

By the time she reached the Duke’s residence and knocked, she was already bracing herself for his surprise. The butler answered with a stiff bow and ushered her inside without a word, as though her late-night appearances were now to be expected.

Moments later, she was shown into Isaac’s study. His coat was off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal his strong forearms. Fiona took in his slightly musses hair while he regarded her with a faint curve of one corner of his mouth.

“You are making a bold habit of your visits here,” he said, rising from behind his massive desk.

Fiona stepped closer, pulling back her hood. “We’ve already been seen together, and are to be wed in less than two days. What’s the worst that could possibly happen now?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be a pessimist,” Fiona countered.

He shrugged. “I am being realistic.”

Isaac regarded her with a gaze far too steady for Fiona’s comfort. She shifted from one foot to the other, smoothing the folds of her cloak with a hand that trembled before she mastered it. Drawing in a quiet breath, she lifted her chin.

You came for answers. Do not lose your wits now.

“So,” she began, “how is reality to shape our life going forward? What manner of existence are we to have between us?”

He folded his arms loosely across his chest, studying her with a quiet intensity that prickled across her skin. “If you mean our marriage,” he said at last, “then you need not trouble yourself. It shall not differ greatly from our present acquaintance.”

Fiona blinked, feeling the words strike with more force than they ought. “I beg your pardon?” she managed, the edges of her composure fraying.

This was not the reassurance she had come seeking. Indeed, she had not known precisely what she wished to hear, but it had not been... this.

Isaac’s mouth quirked, the smallest movement, almost as if he found her confusion faintly amusing—or perhaps pitiable.

“I made the offer for you out of duty, Fiona,” he said, his words clipped and efficient, as though pulling the veil from any foolish romantic notions.

Duty. A word that should not have wounded—and yet somehow did.

She lowered her gaze briefly, collecting herself, before a shifting movement drew her attention upward again. He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, his boots soundless against the carpet.

Without thinking, she retreated a step—only to find her back pressing against a bookshelf, leaving her no retreat.

Isaac came to a halt before her, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of leather and something clean and masculine beneath.

“Tell me, Fiona,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. “Why are you truly here?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, her throat tight.

“Surely,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of hair at her temple, “you did not steal into the night and cross London for such trivialities?”

Her heart gave a traitorous thud against her ribs. And however much she tried to read his expression, it remained as maddeningly unreadable as ever. His gaze held hers, steady and unflinching, revealing nothing. Not reassurance. Not rejection. Simply a wall she could not scale.

Why must you always look at me as though you feel nothing at all?

But he was right. She had not come merely for answers. She had come because she was scared.

Scared of what lay ahead. Of what her life would become after she stepped into that church and signed her name to his. Of what it would mean to live beside a man she barely knew, yet somehow kept turning to as though he were her compass.

You were the first to choose me when I had no choices left.

And somehow, that had made him her ally. Her anchor. Even if he was also the storm.

Fiona drew a slow breath, fingers curling at her sides as she looked up at him.

“I’m scared, Isaac,” she said softly.

His head tilted, just slightly. “Scared of what, Fiona?”

She paused. Her lips parted, then pressed closed again as she searched for the words. He waited, unwavering.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Of getting married,” she replied, honest.

His brow drew ever so slightly, the only indication that her answer had struck deeper than he let on. He was silent for a long moment. So long she thought perhaps he would not answer at all.

Then: “Are you scared of marrying me?”

Fiona felt her eyes widen. Her breath caught.

“Oh no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It isn’t that at all. I’m not scared of marrying you, Isaac. The future just seems... most uncertain.”

She paused, then added more quietly, “And yet somehow, you are the only part of it that feels steady. That terrifies me more than anything.”

For the first time, she caught a shift in his gaze—a softening, as though some long-guarded emotion stirred behind his steady mask. She saw it—a crack in the armor. Something warmer. Something that looked almost like wonder.

Still, he said nothing.

So she held his gaze and gave him a trembling smile. “Is that not absurd? That I came here because I am afraid of what comes next, and still I came to you?” She dropped her gaze, cheeks warm. “I must be entirely mad.”

“We shan’t get in each other’s way after marriage, Fiona,” he said at last, sounding as though he chose each word with care. “You shall live your life doing whatever your heart desires—managing the household, hosting your gatherings, pursuing your interests. And I shall be free to pursue my own endeavors, of course.”

The reassurance she had so desperately clung to splintered into a hundred sharp pieces, cutting at her from within.

Her heart gave a painful lurch.

What does he mean—his own desires?

Unbidden, the image of Canterlack surfaced in her mind—the heated, secretive embrace with Miss Aldridge in the garden. Her mother’s chilling words echoed next:

It is not uncommon for a man to seek comfort elsewhere after marriage. Especially after marriage. Fiona felt a wave of nausea rise within her.

What have I done?

Her mind spun, memories and fears colliding with merciless clarity. She had fled one prison only to blunder straight into another.

Isaac stood before her—steady, indifferent—while she unraveled inside.

“You shall not be expected to report to me,” he added, mistaking her silence for concern of another kind. “Nor shall I interfere with your pursuits. I do not require constant companionship, Fiona. I never have.”

Each word, though likely intended as some twisted kindness, felt like another stone laid atop her chest.

She tried to draw breath, but her chest tightened painfully.

“I—I should go now,” she choked out, her voice thin and strained.

She gathered her skirts hastily, stepping aside before he could see the betrayal she could no longer mask.

“You’re right, it’s quite late, and I shouldn’t have come,” she added before she fled the manor.