Page 4

CHAPTER 4

T he knocker felt heavier than it ought to.

Fiona stood on the narrow stone step outside the looming house on Craton Street, her gloved hand raised and hovering—absurdly, stupidly—just above the iron knocker’s lion’s head. The brass glinted in the faint glow of the gas lamps lining the quiet street, and her reflection in the polished metal was pale and wretched.

You are only asking for help, she told herself, even as her stomach roiled. You are not here to ruin yourself.

With one breath drawn too quickly to be calming, she dropped the knocker against the wood.

Once. Twice.

The sound echoed into the night, swallowed by the ivy-covered facade and the heavy air of disapproval that seemed to hang around the place.

A long moment passed. Fiona shifted on her feet, unsure if the silence meant refusal or mere delay. Then the door opened with a deliberate slowness, and a tall, elderly man in austere black appeared.

He blinked.

She wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find at his master’s door at this hour—certainly not a gently trembling lady in a blue cloak with her bonnet askew and shoes damp from pacing.

“I—” she began, then straightened. “Good evening. I wish to speak with His Grace. It is most urgent.”

The butler, to his credit, betrayed nothing more than a flicker of confusion. “May I ask your name, madam?”

“Lady Fiona Pierce.”

A pause, as though he were attempting to reconcile her presence with all known facts. Then: “Please wait here.”

She nodded, stepping inside when he held the door. The foyer was dim and quiet, the hush of the house so complete it rang in her ears. She remained just within the entrance, her gloves pressed together at her waist, heart battering against her ribs.

The butler disappeared, leaving her in a house that felt more like a mausoleum than a residence. No warmth, no idle conversation. No hint of welcome.

Her nerves were beginning to fray by the time he returned.

“His Grace will see you,” the butler intoned. “This way, my lady.”

He led her down a hallways that smelled faintly of wax and cedar, the silence between their steps stretching taut. Finally, he opened a heavy door and gestured for her to enter.

The study was large, wood-paneled, with tall windows now hidden behind thick curtains. A low fire burned in the grate, casting shadows that danced across bookshelves and leather-bound volumes. And at its center, behind a broad desk cluttered with correspondence and what looked like estate ledgers, stood the Duke of Craton.

The very picture of displeasure.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with muscle. He looked up as she entered, surprise flickering across his face—and vanishing just as quickly.

The butler closed the door behind her, sealing them in silence.

“What,” the duke said at last, voice low and rough as gravel, “could possibly bring you to my door at such an hour?”

Fiona lifted her chin a fraction. She had expected this. Anticipated it, even.

“We danced at the ball yesterday,” she replied. “That makes us something more than strangers, I should think.”

He did not move. Did not speak. His gaze, dark and unflinching, remained fixed on her.

She swallowed once. “I beg your pardon for the lateness of the hour, Your Grace. But I require your help.”

At that, his brow lowered just enough to suggest skepticism rather than anger.

“This is your idea of seeking assistance?” he said, his tone clipped. “Alone. At night. At a man’s house?”

Fiona flushed. He is not wrong. But she kept her posture straight, her voice steady.

“No one else would help me. And I believe you might.”

He said nothing, waiting. She pressed on, the words tumbling faster now.

“I am betrothed. Unwillingly. And I have exhausted every proper avenue to end the arrangement. My parents will not listen. My friends cannot be asked to intervene. But you, Your Grace…” Her hands clenched tighter in front of her. “You have the power to.”

The duke’s expression didn’t shift, not even by degrees.

“And why should I involve myself in such a domestic inconvenience?” he asked, his voice dry.

“I have no one else to turn to.”

It was the truth, plain and painful. And her shoulders sagged ever so slightly beneath the weight of it.

He studied her. “And what would you have me do, precisely?” he asked.

Before she could answer, he added, “Do you wish for me to ruin you?”

The question hit her like a slap.

“Oh—heavens, no!” she exclaimed, recoiling a step. “That is not— I did not mean?—”

He remained unruffled. She, by contrast, felt her pulse thudding in her ears.

“A scandal would destroy my family. I only wish for a broken engagement. Nothing more.”

“And how do you intend for me to assist in that without inciting one?” he asked, folding his arms as he leaned against the desk.

Fiona’s gaze darted—briefly, traitorously—to his forearms. She forced it back up to his face.

“I thought… if you were to feign interest in me,” she said, wincing slightly at how absurd it sounded aloud, “it might give my parents cause to dissolve the betrothal. They would believe another match possible. Preferable, even.”

She drew a breath. “But we must make it convincing. We must appear as if we are… in love.”

He did not move. He did not speak.

The silence stretched.

Her nerves prickled beneath her skin. She could feel the way her palms had begun to sweat inside her gloves.

“Did you not hear me, Your Grace?” she asked, when she could bear it no longer.

His brow lifted, slowly.

“I heard you. I am only giving your scheme the consideration it deserves.” A pause. Then: “And what then? After we have performed our charade and deceived half of London—do you expect me to marry you as well?”

She blinked. “Oh—no. Certainly not. Once the engagement is ended, we need only declare a quiet parting of ways.”

“So,” he said, straightening, his voice edged with something sharper now, “you would have me parade about like some besotted idiot, for the amusement of your family and their acquaintances.”

“That is not at all what I?—”

He held up a hand.

“I will not make a fool of myself, Lady Fiona. Nor play a part in this farce. Whatever cause has brought you here, I am afraid I cannot help you.”

His words, cool and final, settled over her like a sudden frost. Something in her chest clenched tight.

She took a step back, her voice quiet. “I did not mean disrespect, Your Grace. I only…”

She faltered.

“I only hoped you might understand.”

He said nothing. His eyes were unreadable once more.

“You should return home before someone sees you,” he said. “I shall have my butler escort you out.”

This was it, then. The end of her mad little scheme, neatly concluded by his refusal. Fiona could feel the sting behind her eyes, not quite tears, but the sort of ache that made one want to bite their tongue rather than let anything else slip.

“I suppose it’s a victory for Canterlack after all,” she murmured, turning toward the door.

She had meant it for herself, not for him to hear, and so she startled when his voice rang out behind her.

“What did you say?”

She turned slowly. “The Earl of Canterlack is my betrothed,” she said, puzzled by his sudden interest.

There was a pause, and then his gaze shifted.

The cool indifference vanished, replaced by something darker—colder. It was not mere curiosity that moved across his features now, but something else. Recognition? Contempt? It was impossible to name.

And then he smiled. Neither kindly nor warmly. It was a smile that sent a chill creeping down the back of her neck.

“Well,” he said softly, “you ought to have mentioned that sooner.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, blinking.

“You must return home now,” he said, stepping away from the desk. “I shall be in communication soon.”

As if on cue, the butler appeared once more, and Fiona found herself being ushered back down the hall, past the unmoved portraits and into the night.

She stepped out into the cold and drew her cloak tightly around her shoulders, the wind biting at her cheeks as she began the walk home.

What just happened?

She had not received an answer, not truly. Only a promise of… what? Correspondence? Action? Consent? Was that his way of agreeing? Dare I wait? Hope?

But above all else, one thought haunted her as she walked beneath the gaslamps and back toward the only home that did not feel like hers.

What was that smile when I said Canterlack’s name?

It had been a smile meant for war, not reassurance. And she, foolish creature that she was, had knocked on the door of a stranger and begged for rescue.

Reckless and desperate, but it was done now, and she would have to live with whatever came next.