Page 36

CHAPTER 36

F iona could not seem to banish the smile from her lips. It lingered, unbidden and stubborn, as she sat at her writing desk pretending to tally accounts. The columns blurred before her eyes, numbers shifting aimlessly on the page.

He kissed me.

The memory danced through her mind like a sunbeam, soft and warm and entirely inconvenient. Her fingers absently traced the edge of the paper as her thoughts wandered back to the high balcony, to the touch of his hand, the press of his lips.

She barely had time to school her features when a soft knock came at the door and the butler entered.

“Your mother, Your Grace.”

Fiona blinked. “Show her in, please.”

Prudence entered with a measured step, her gloved hands folded before her, her gaze guarded. Fiona rose from her chair, instantly alert.

“Mama. Is everything quite all right?”

There was a gravity about her mother that unsettled her.

Has something happened? Or is this about the debt? Fiona watched closely, noting the faint crease in her mother’s brow, the careful precision of her movements.

“All is well, Fiona,” Prudence said with a smile that did not meet her eyes.

Fiona’s own expression faltered. She sat slowly, the weight of disappointment settling across her shoulders like a too-heavy shawl. You came all this way to lie to me?

But then?—

“Well,” her mother added, settling opposite her. “Not quite as well as you might suppose.”

Fiona lifted a brow. “No?”

Prudence drew in a quiet breath. “I ought not to be here. Certainly not to say what I am about to say. Your father would be furious if he knew. But I believe you have a right to the truth, whatever the cost to me.”

Her words came carefully, and Fiona’s stomach clenched, unease coiling tightly inside her.

Whatever the cost...

“Your father is in debt, Fiona,” she said at last. “He approached your husband privately to ask for the funds to settle what he owes.”

Fiona let out a breath slowly, pressing her palms flat on her lap. “I know, Mama,” she said quietly. “I am already aware.”

“You do?” Prudence echoed, her eyes widening. Then, as if remembering herself, she added, “Of course you would. The Duke would have told you.”

Fiona lowered her gaze to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. The Duke tells me very little.

But she did not voice the thought. There was no need to open that door—not now. If her mother sensed the distance between husband and wife, she might ask questions Fiona had no desire to answer.

Instead, she lifted her chin and asked, “Is Canterlack truly threatening him?”

“I am afraid the Earl is most displeased by the delay in repayment,” Prudence said, nodding slowly.

Fiona swallowed, the unease deepening. Of course he is. That man would not forget a debt, nor the leverage it brings.

She drew in a breath and met her mother’s gaze. “Then why did you choose to tell me, if you were forbidden?”

It was no small thing, Prudence standing against her husband. Fiona knew it, and the knowledge unsettled her.

Her mother hesitated. Then, at last, she raised her eyes. And they were shining.

“I have failed you, Fiona,” she said. “I allowed myself to be swallowed whole by your father’s will. And in doing so, I let you suffer far more than I should have ever permitted.”

Fiona’s breath caught.

“I do not expect you to forgive me all at once,” Prudence continued. “But I made a vow to myself. I will no longer live in fear of that man’s temper. I wish to be part of your life, Fiona. As I ought to have been.”

Emotion tightened like a ribbon round Fiona’s chest. She had not expected this—had never even dared to hope. And yet, hearing her mother speak so plainly, so bravely, stirred something deep within her.

She had always understood her mother’s silence. The way Prudence moved about her world with careful precision, never drawing ire, never making demands. Fiona had known the cost of that quiet compliance. And though the pain of it had been hers to bear, she had never cast blame.

Only pity.

“You did your best under the circumstances, Mama,” she said softly, reaching forward to take her mother’s hands in her own. Her grip was firm, steady. “And I see that now.”

Tears brimmed anew in her mother’s eyes, glistening against the fine lines of her face before slipping, unbidden, down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” Prudence said, her voice breaking as the sob escaped her. Her shoulders began to shake.

Fiona stood and drew her into a tender embrace, arms closing round her with the strength of forgiveness.

“It was never your fault,” she murmured. “Fate might have done better by you, had it matched you with a kinder man.”

Her mother clung to her, trembling still, and gave a soft, broken laugh through her tears.

“And you, a better father,” she said.

Fiona said nothing more. She only held her closer. We are no longer alone in this. Inwardly, she promised herself to find a way to free her family of the debt to Canterlack. But she decided to keep this to herself for the time being.

Long after her mother had departed, Fiona remained seated, her thoughts a web of regret, determination, and sorrow. The fire in the hearth was burning, but her hands were cold.

The following day, Fiona stretched and sighed as she sat up in her bed. Sleep had not come, and neither had peace. Her unease clung to her like damp wool.

By mid-morning, unable to bear her own restlessness any longer, she summoned her maid and requested a carriage. She gave no reason for her visit. none was needed. The silence between her and her mother had been broken, and now she must see for herself that Prudence was truly well.

When she arrived at Holden House, the butler admitted her with a deferential bow.

“Her ladyship is in the drawing room, Your Grace,” he said.

Fiona nodded and handed off her gloves. Her footsteps were quiet upon the marble floor as she moved through the familiar halls, the scent of beeswax and polished wood rising to meet her.

As she neared the drawing room, voices carried through the half-open door.

“I heard you went to Craton Manor yesterday,” her father’s voice cut through the stillness. “What business did you have there?”

“Can I not call upon my own daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” Prudence answered. Fiona halted mid-step, every muscle gone taut.

Her mother’s voice held a thread of strain—tightly drawn, unmistakable.

“I shall ask only once,” George said, and there was an edge in his tone that made Fiona’s blood chill. “Did you tell her about the debt? About my seeking aid from Craton?”

A pause. The kind that stretched and snapped at the nerves.

“I told her everything, George.”

The sound that followed was shattering—violent, unmistakable. Glass.

Fiona’s breath hitched as she surged forward, her slippers scuffing against the floor as she burst into the room.

Her mother was crouched by a carved chair, one hand braced against the upholstery, her form trembling. Shards of porcelain littered the floor beside her, glittering like ice.

Fiona dropped to her knees beside her. “Are you trying to kill her with that thing?”

Her voice was sharp with disbelief as she examined her mother for injury.

“I am unhurt, dearest,” Prudence whispered, her breath still shaky. “It missed me. By the grace of God.”

Fiona’s fingers gripped her mother’s arm. Her pulse roared in her ears, the sight of the shattered vase burning behind her eyes.

He could have struck her. He meant to.

“Barely,” Fiona muttered, her gaze fixed on the shattered vase, its jagged edges glinting in the morning light.

A hot fury rose in her chest, swift and unstoppable. She stood abruptly, the motion sharp, and turned to face her father.

“Enough with your monstrosities, Holden.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Holden?” he echoed. “You become Duchess, and now I am no longer your father?”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed. Her voice was steady, though her fists clenched at her sides.

“Name me one instance when you ever truly were,” she said. “One moment when you acted as a father to me. Or a husband to your wife.”

His jaw tightened. “The food on your table, the clothes on your back, every party you attended—where do you suppose all of that came from?”

Fiona stepped closer, her chin raised.

“What of respect?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “A man of honor provides for his family, yes—but more than coin and gowns. He gives them dignity. Because they are his reflection, and he their steward. You have never understood that.”

George recoiled slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming with something uncertain.

“Do not preach to me of honor,” he said, though less fiercely than before. “What do you know of such things, you insolent child?”

“Clearly more than you.” Fiona’s breath came fast, and her eyes never left his, not even when his mouth twitched, ready, no doubt, to cast another insult.

She raised her voice and cut him off before he could draw breath.

“Think about it, Holden,” she said. “In all of this, it is yourself you have disgraced most thoroughly. A man of honor and repute would bestow those very virtues upon his household and cultivate them. But I daresay you never possessed them to begin with. How wretchedly small you are, and how painfully obvious it has become.”

She took a breath, and it did not catch.

With each word, each long-silenced truth that spilled from her lips, she felt as though some great weight had lifted—like a cloak she had worn too long. It fell away, and in its place came clarity. Strength.

You will not touch her again.

George Holden stood before her, livid and silenced, his face an alarming shade of crimson. But for all his fury, he did not speak. Could not.

“And hear me well,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “If ever again you raise a hand or your voice to my mother in violence, I shall ensure you rue the day you named her your Marchioness. And the day you ever dared to bring me into this world.”

He opened his mouth again, but the words would not come.

Fiona turned from him, her hand resting on her mother’s trembling shoulder. “We are leaving now, Mama.”