Page 3

CHAPTER 3

“ F iona, are you ill?” Prudence asked, her voice dripping with exaggerated concern that made Fiona’s skin prickle with irritation.

Ill? Is that truly what must be assumed? That one must be feverish to object to marrying a man who so shamelessly betrayed her?

“I am perfectly well, Mama,” Fiona replied with as much composure as she could summon, keeping her tone even and her posture measured, though her stomach twisted in protest. “And it is exactly as I said—I cannot marry the Earl.”

Her declaration seemed to settle in the room like a thick fog, obscuring all movement and muting all sound. Her mother’s fork hovered halfway to her mouth, forgotten, while her father, seated at the head of the table and obscured behind the morning paper, did not so much as twitch. He simply nursed his coffee with that same unreadable calm he always wore—like a mask he had long since mastered.

It was his silence that most unnerved her. That stillness.

At last, his voice broke through.

“Why?”

It was just one word, but it was enough to make Fiona feel as though she’d been struck. Sharp and cold, it cleaved through the air with the efficiency of a sword. There was no room for ambiguity in his tone. It was a command.

Fiona straightened in her chair, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap to still their trembling. “Because he has another woman,” she said plainly, the words dropping like stones between them.

Her father’s reaction was immediate.

He laughed.

A full, unrestrained, amused laugh that rang out across the breakfast room like a peal of mockery. It took Fiona a moment to understand what she was hearing. Her mouth parted, and she blinked, slowly, as though disbelieving.

How could he ? —?

“Is this amusing to you, Papa?” she asked, her voice sharpening. “I fail to see the humour.”

“If that is the case,” he said, still chuckling, “then all the more reason for you to marry him. At least you know he’s experienced.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice cracked on the edge of disbelief, rising despite her efforts to contain it.

Her mother interjected then, smoothly and without looking up from her plate. “What your father means is?—”

But Lord Holden lifted a hand, silencing her without so much as a glance. His eyes, when they met Fiona’s, were no longer amused. They were steel.

“You are being naive and foolish, girl. Utterly foolish,” he said, his voice now low and taut with warning. “So allow me to be perfectly clear: I do not wish to hear another word of this nonsense. You shall marry Canterlack, and that is the end of it.”

Each syllable landed with brutal precision.

“But I saw him,” Fiona said, desperation creeping into her voice as her composure threatened to unravel. “In the gardens. Last night. At the ball. He was—he was with her. There was no mistaking what I witnessed.”

Her father’s jaw tightened. His expression turned stony, immovable.

“You have already wasted two full seasons since your debut,” he snapped, his tone growing more severe. “I will not permit you to waste another. Nor shall I continue to expend my time or fortune indulging your whims.”

Fiona opened her mouth to speak once more, to defend herself, to plead for reason, but her mother’s hand came to rest atop hers.

It was not a comfort, but a warning.

Prudence’s grip was firm, her expression composed, her voice silent—but her eyes said everything. Do not push him further.

The protest withered in Fiona’s throat.

She swallowed it, along with her pride and what little strength she had left.

The rest of the meal unfolded in excruciating silence, each clink of silverware like a bell tolling at her execution. Her appetite was long gone; her food remained untouched, the scent of it turning her stomach.

When she finally rose from the table, her limbs felt heavy, her head clouded with helpless frustration. She wandered the halls like a ghost, aimless and numb, pausing in the drawing room only to find no comfort there.

Eventually, she turned toward the one place in the house that did not feel like a prison. The greenhouse.

As she stepped inside, the warmth of it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. The scent of damp earth, of herbs and florals, filled her lungs. Here, among the budding greenery and soft light, the world could be quiet. Here, she could pretend she had not just been dismissed like a troublesome servant.

Here, at least, she was not entirely powerless.

Fiona had always found solace in the art of tea.

There was something meditative about selecting the right leaves, combining herbs she had grown with care, coaxing out subtle flavors through precise brewing. She took pride in cultivating her own blends—lavender and mint for clarity, chamomile with rose for comfort. Even the more exotic herbs, sent from distant relatives or purchased discreetly through trusted vendors, had found their way into her collection. Here in the greenhouse, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and fragrant steam, she could breathe.

Her hands were just steadying a porcelain teacup when the soft rustle of silk interrupted the stillness.

She turned—and there stood her mother.

Prudence Pierce was not known for venturing into the greenhouse. It was too humid, too unrefined. And yet there she was, framed by ivy and morning light, her expression unreadable.

Fiona set the cup down with a quiet clink, bracing herself.

“I know you do not believe me either, Mama, but I?—”

“I believe you,” Prudence said.

The interruption was so unexpected that Fiona froze. Her eyes met her mother’s, searching. And what she saw was even more disarming than the words had been.

Truth.

“I beg your pardon?” Fiona asked softly.

Her mother stepped forward, folding her gloved hands before her as though she too needed something to hold on to.

“You see,” she began slowly, “it is not uncommon for a man to seek... comfort elsewhere. Even after marriage.”

Fiona’s breath caught in her throat.

“ Especially after marriage,” Prudence corrected, her voice more resigned now. “And I am afraid that is not reason enough to call off an engagement—least of all one to the Earl of Canterlack.”

“But Mama?—”

“What matters,” her mother said firmly, pressing on, “is that wherever he goes, whatever he does, and with whomever he does it, your position as his wife, as his primary companion, remains unchanged. That is what matters. That is your right. And your duty.”

Fiona stepped back a pace, as if the very words had struck her.

“My duty,” she repeated, nearly breathless. “But where is my comfort in that arrangement?”

Her voice trembled now, but she did not lower it.

“What of my honor? My dignity? My happiness ?”

Prudence looked at her daughter for a long moment before a slow, sorrowful smile spread across her face—one that aged her more than time ever had.

“Duty is not without sacrifice, Fiona,” she said. “And you will come to understand that, in time.”

Something in her eyes—something fragile and worn—told Fiona that these were not just words spoken in warning. They were words born of experience.

The realization struck Fiona like a stone to the chest. Her mother had lived this life. Was living it still. Prudence stepped closer and touched her daughter’s cheek, her hand light, almost tentative.

“But you will have children,” she said gently. “They will bring you joy, and in time, all of this will feel less like loss. All will be well, dear child.”

Fiona blinked away the sting behind her eyes, but the ache remained, low and deep and growing.

She could not do it. She could not live that life. No matter how softly it was spoken or how prettily it was wrapped in words like duty and legacy, it was still a prison.

And she could not marry Aaron Finch. Not now. Not ever.

There must be another way, she thought, her heart pounding with desperate clarity. I must find it.

“Fiona!”

The delighted exclamation rang through the drawing room before the butler had even finished announcing their names.

“You were not yourself when you left the ball last night,” Hester declared as she swept in, skirts bustling about her. “We simply had to come check on you. You vanished so suddenly!”

Nancy followed at a more composed pace, her eyes as watchful as ever. “Did something happen, dear?”

Fiona rose swiftly, smoothing her skirts as she turned to greet them. “Do come in. I am most pleased to see you both,” she said with genuine gratitude as she gestured for the footman. “Please, James, set out the tea tray. And do bring the rosehip and lemon balm.”

She turned back to her friends, smiling with more warmth than she felt. “You know how I rely on my herbs for sanity.”

Nancy arched a brow, though her lips curved. “Then you must have needed quite a strong brew this morning.”

“I confess, I have brewed stronger,” Fiona replied lightly, moving to arrange the tea cups with careful precision. “Oh, nothing of consequence. I suppose I simply grew a bit weary. Too many dances, too many eyes.”

Hester sighed with relief. “I did fear something dreadful had happened. You looked pale as a ghost when your mother pulled you away.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We both noticed it.”

Fiona gave a tight smile, pouring the tea. “Your concern is noted and appreciated.”

“Have you read the morning’s column?” Hester asked suddenly, her excitement returning as she pulled a folded sheet from her reticule.

“I have not,” Fiona said, accepting the paper with raised brows.

“You must,” Hester said. “It is positively scandalous.”

Fiona unfolded the paper and scanned the lines, Then her eyes widened.

Last night’s gathering at Berfield House gave us all the usual delights… until the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Craton. Yes, dear reader, the Beast of Mayfair himself!

Even more astonishing? He danced. And not just with anyone, but with the diamond, Lady Fiona Pierce. The waltz was quiet, intense, and far more telling than either of them likely intended. Romance and tension followed their every step.

But the real scandal, my dear readers? Mere moments later, Lady Fiona was claimed by none other than the Earl of Canterlack. Observers noted a marked coolness between the gentlemen, leaving many to wonder: Is Lady Fiona at the center of a budding rivalry?

Two powerful men. One Diamond. A single waltz that may have started it all…

Fiona blinked, stunned. “The only accuracy in all that nonsense,” she murmured, “is the part about the tension between them.”

Nancy leaned forward. “You noticed it too, then?”

“Indeed,” Fiona replied. “I was rather in the middle of it.”

“Well!” Hester leaned back in her seat, eyes gleaming. “How on God’s green earth did you manage a dance with the Beast of Mayfair, Fiona?”

Nancy nodded. “Indeed, we missed far too much once your mother spirited you away. You must tell us everything.”

Fiona took her time lifting her teacup. “He simply approached and asked me to dance. I could hardly refuse him in front of the entire ballroom, now could I?”

“Not that you had any reason to,” Nancy said with a knowing glance.

“I did not,” Fiona admitted, carefully avoiding the way her heart beat faster at the memory.

“Oh, you make it sound so simple ,” Hester breathed. “Craton does not dance. Not ever. Society has practically written poetry about it. The man is a ghost!”

“Well,” Fiona said with a measured smile, “perhaps even ghosts find cause to waltz, now and again.”

Nancy laughed. “Frankly, I’m rather surprised the Duke can actually dance.”

They all laughed then, but Fiona’s smile lingered too long.

She could still feel his hand at her waist, the certainty in his step, the unspoken intensity of his gaze. A warmth crept up her neck.

“Oh, what is that blush, Fiona?” Nancy gasped, eyes narrowing. “Do not tell me you’ve gone starry-eyed for the Beast himself.”

Fiona waved a hand. “Do not be ridiculous, Nancy.” But her cheeks burned hotter.

Hester clapped her hands. “She has! Fiona, truly?”

Fiona groaned and raised her teacup as a shield. “You are both incorrigible.”

“And you, dearest, are positively glowing,” Nancy teased. “Which, I daresay, is far more telling than that dreadful column.”

Fiona laughed, in spite of herself. For the first time that day, the constriction in her chest seemed to lift—if only just a little.

She was deeply grateful for the afternoon her friends had gifted her—lighthearted, full of laughter and warm tea, the sort that wrapped around her heart and made the world feel, for a fleeting while, less cruel. But the moment Hester and Nancy departed, the silence returned, thick and threatening.

Her fingers still curled loosely around her teacup, her eyes drifted to the paper they had left behind on the center table. That dreadful thing.

She crossed to it slowly, picked it up, and stared once more at the scandalous lines.

Craton and Canterlack, locked in competition for her hand.

The writer had gotten it entirely wrong, of course. There was no competition. No grand romance. Just her, alone, tethered to a man she could not bear to marry. Her father had seen to that, driving away any gentleman with the audacity to so much as look in her direction after the engagement had been announced.

But as she gazed at the Duke’s name printed beside the Earl’s, a thought struck her—bold and uninvited.

What if there could be competition?

Her breath caught.

The Duke of Craton was no typical man. That much was evident in the way he carried himself, in the way people spoke about him in hushed tones. He had defied society’s expectations without so much as a backward glance. If anyone could meddle in the affairs of the Marquess of Holden and emerge unscathed, it was him.

And then there was the matter of the tension— that tension—between Craton and Canterlack. She had not imagined it. The disdain, the hostility, the barely concealed loathing. Perhaps the Duke might have a reason of his own to interfere.

Even if it were simply to spite the Earl.

Hope bloomed, sudden and wild in her chest. A dangerous hope. A foolish hope. But a hope all the same.

Perhaps... perhaps there is a way out after all.

That evening, Fiona waited until the halls of the house fell into shadow and silence. She waited until the last of the footmen had retired and the soft click of her mother’s door confirmed that Prudence was, at last, at rest.

She slipped from her chambers and changed swiftly into a dark cloak, the hood drawn low. Her heart beat with frantic rhythm, but her steps did not falter. Through the servants’ entrance, she slipped into the cool night air and made her way down the quiet streets of Mayfair.

Toward the far edge of the district, where few ventured. Toward the house shrouded in ivy and isolation. Craton Manor.

It loomed like a sentinel in the moonlight—stoic, silent, and utterly indifferent to the rest of the world. Just like its master.

Fiona drew in a breath and stepped forward.

Let us see if the Beast of Mayfair might be persuaded to play hero.