Page 20

CHAPTER 20

“ H old still, Fiona, or I shall never get this veil to lie properly,” Hester scolded gently, her fingers adjusting the lace with painstaking precision.

“If it shifts again, I swear I’ll sew it to your curls,” Nancy muttered, squinting as she smoothed another fold.

“You both fuss like nannies,” Fiona said with a laugh that barely masked the tightness in her throat.

“And for good reason,” Anna chimed in, standing back to admire their handiwork. “You’re about to become a Duchess, and we are not letting you face that aisle looking anything less than divine.”

Fiona tried to smile, tried to pretend that the ache in her chest wasn’t spreading. But the truth pressed in like corset stays too tight against her ribs.

I should never have approached Isaac for help in the first place.

The thought refused to be silenced, threading itself through her every breath like a curse. She watched her reflection without truly seeing it, her gown a swathe of ivory silk that shimmered with delicate beading, her veil soft as a whisper.

Too late now.

The choice had been made, sealed in ink and soon in vows.

Hester let out a little gasp as she adjusted the fall of the veil over Fiona’s shoulders. “Oh, you make the most beautiful bride,” she murmured, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

Nancy came to stand beside her, her expression more composed but no less warm. “The future will be bright, Fiona dear. You must hold onto that.”

As though she had somehow read the disquiet in Fiona’s bones.

Anna took her hand and squeezed it gently. “We’re here for you,” she said. “Today, tomorrow. Always.”

Fiona turned to the three of them, her lips trembling with a smile. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

Their embrace was soft and fierce all at once, a lifeline wrapped in muslin, perfume and tears.

Downstairs, the modest ceremony was already being prepared. True to her wishes—and Isaac’s disposition—the wedding was kept intimate, solemn. Only those closest to them were in attendance.

Her mother, naturally, had lobbied for something grander. “The Duke of Craton and my daughter? The very notion begs for a cathedral,” Prudence had sniffed, but when George had grumbled about appearances and the scandal already left in their wake, she’d relented.

Now she flitted about the drawing room below, rearranging ribbons and lace that had already been arranged, pausing only to shoot anxious glances toward the clock.

Fiona descended the stairs with her father at her side, his arm stiff beneath hers. “This is what comes of choices,” he muttered just before they reached the foyer.

She said nothing. The drawing room had been transformed into a quiet haven. Peonies in pale pinks and whites, adorned every surface. The scent of them filled the air with an aching sweetness. The vicar stood beneath the arched window, beside Lord and Lady Darlington, Isaac’s solicitor, and a handful of family acquaintances.

And there stood Isaac: composed, shoulders squared, mouth unreadable. His gaze met hers as she stepped into the room, and she thought for one breathless moment that perhaps—perhaps there was something there. A warmth. A glimmer.

But if it was, it vanished too quickly to hold. The ceremony was quiet. Words were spoken with gravity. Vows were exchanged with trembling hands—hers, not his. He said each word as though reading from parchment. Yet he did not falter.

Fiona fought her tears throughout. Not from joy. Not even from sorrow. But from the knowledge that this moment, more than any other, marked the point of no return.

She became a Duchess before a small group of witnesses and the roses her mother had insisted upon.

When it ended, her veil was lifted, her hand pressed into Isaac’s, her lips brushed with a kiss so brief and devoid of heat that it might as well have been a formality. And perhaps that was all it was.

As the guests filtered away from the parlor, Fiona found herself standing beside Isaac in the hall, their hands still loosely clasped.

“Well,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “that was... solemn.”

He gave the faintest lift of his brow. “You expected a circus?”

“No,” she said, lips curving slightly despite the heaviness in her chest. “Though a smile from the groom might have startled the roses into bloom.”

He looked at her then, properly, and she saw it—a flicker of something like amusement at the edge of his mouth.

“I shall attempt a grin at breakfast,” he said. “Though I make no promises.”

“A whole grin? How generous.”

They stood in a silence not entirely comfortable, yet not hostile either. She turned to him fully, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“Did I do well?” she asked. “As far as brides go?”

“You did,” he said without hesitation. “You looked... perfect.”

The words, so simply stated, robbed her of breath for a beat.

She dipped her head. “Thank you.”

He shifted slightly, and for a moment, Fiona thought he might say more. But Prudence reappeared in a flurry of silk and satisfied sighs, ushering them both toward the waiting breakfast.

The wedding breakfast, by contrast, was far more extravagant. Prudence had outdone herself with crystal goblets, silver flatware, sugared cakes shaped like swans. Guests made polite conversation, toasted the new couple, speculated on the honeymoon.

Fiona smiled when she was expected to, nodded when required, and drank more champagne than was strictly advisable. She watched Isaac from across the room, ever composed as he spoke with Samuel and Elaine.

Elaine caught her eye and gave her a warm, reassuring look. Later, she drew Fiona aside.

“You were lovely,” she said, taking both her hands. “And brave.”

Fiona searched her sister-in-law’s eyes. “Do you think I have done the right thing?”

Elaine paused. Then, gently: “I think you did what you had to. And sometimes, that is the bravest thing a woman can do.”

The words did not soothe as much as they ought to have, but Fiona appreciated them all the same.

As guests began to depart, Fiona found her friends once more.

“I asked him if we could remain in London,” she said quietly.

Anna brightened. “And?”

“He agreed.”

Nancy clapped her hands together. “Oh, Fiona!”

“We shall see each other constantly,” Hester said. “Imagine the tea parties.”

Fiona smiled, truly smiled, for the first time that day.

Even if I am a duty to my husband and a bargaining chip to my parents... she thought, her gaze drifting to Isaac as he helped an elderly guest into their carriage. To them, I am simply Fiona. And I am loved.

That thought, at least, she would carry with her into whatever this new life would bring.

A half hour later, the carriage rumbled to a halt before Craton Manor, and Fiona leaned forward, peering through the window as the driver descended. It was the first time she had seen it in daylight. The great stone facade loomed high and pale against the overcast sky, its windows shadowed and shutters drawn.

The front lawn was neat, but the hedges bore the trimmed stiffness of something maintained, not loved. And though the hour was early yet, a gloom seemed to hover about the place.

She frowned slightly. Why does it feel so... heavy?

The butler was already waiting as the footman opened the carriage door. He stepped forward and opened the great oak doors without a word.

“Fiona,” Isaac said, offering his hand to help her descend, “this is Mr. Everett, my butler.”

Mr. Everett bowed. “Your Grace. Welcome to Craton Manor.” He was respectful, but reserved. Fiona returned the bow with a polite nod, but her gaze flitted toward the entryway behind him.

They stepped inside. The foyer was large, its vaulted ceiling impressive, but the space was dim, cloaked in brown draperies and shadowed corners. The sconces on the walls gave off a weak light, and the stained-glass windows on either side of the stairwell let in only slivers of sunshine.

It feels more like a mausoleum than a home.

The gathered servants bowed in unison, and Fiona’s eyes were quickly drawn to a middle-aged woman standing just apart from the rest. She had round, rosy cheeks and bright green eyes that lit up warmly when their gazes met.

“Mrs. Burton,” Isaac said, gesturing toward the woman, “this is the Duchess.”

The housekeeper stepped forward with a warm smile and curtsied. “Your Grace. We’ve been expecting you.”

For the first time since they’d arrived, Fiona felt a sense of welcome stir within her. Before she could respond, Isaac turned to Mrs. Burton again. “Will you kindly show her to her chambers?” Then, without another word, he turned back to Fiona. “I shall see you later. Good day.”

Fiona blinked. “Oh. Yes... I... good day.”

Then he was gone.

She stood there for a moment, feeling the silence close in around her. The servants slowly dispersed, and she caught a footman giving her a pitying look.

Mrs. Burton touched her arm gently. “Shall I show you the way, Your Grace?”

Fiona nodded, but her thoughts were still lingering on her husband’s unexpected abandonment.

What sort of marriage have I gotten myself into?