Page 6

CHAPTER 6

“ Y ou would not believe how glad I am to see you,” Anna said, ushering Fiona into the light-washed morning room with a smile that was both warm and knowing.

“And I you,” Fiona replied, allowing herself a breath of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’ve no idea how much I needed the excuse.”

She had told herself the visit was simply social—Anna was, after all, a dear friend—but in truth, Fiona had needed to escape the hush of Holden House. The silence there had grown thick and oppressive, and her thoughts had begun to crowd her with unwelcome clarity.

Anna Caldwell, the Duchess of Copperton, led her to the settee with her usual easy grace. The house smelled of roses and fresh ink, and somewhere in the distance, the faint, comforting strains of a pianoforte drifted in from another room. It was, Fiona thought, the sort of home where worries did not cling to the walls.

Moments later, a maid entered with a silver tea service, the steam rising in elegant wisps.

“Would you like to serve the tea? I know how very much you adore it,” Anna offered with a teasing lift of her brow.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to play hostess in someone else’s house,” Fiona said, rising with practiced ease.

They laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Fiona moved to the table with practiced ease, grateful for the familiar rhythm of pouring tea—the clink of porcelain, the rustle of linen. It gave her hands something to do, her thoughts a narrow path to follow.

She reached for the strainer and poured slowly, watching the amber stream settle into Anna’s cup.

“Are you well, Fiona?” Anna’s voice softened, cutting through the pleasant clatter.

Fiona’s fingers stilled. She glanced up, caught by the sincerity in her friend’s gaze.

“I... beg your pardon?” she said lightly, though her spine straightened beneath her gown.

“You are the object of every conversation in drawing rooms this week,” Anna said gently. “The gossip columns have not ceased. I know all too well how it feels to be under that sort of scrutiny. It stings more deeply than one expects.”

Fiona set down the teapot and folded her hands in her lap, her gloves still faintly warm from the handle. Of course she understands. Anna had suffered the cruel persistence of society’s attention last season, their fixation with her age, her marital state, her supposed inadequacies—all until she had confounded them by marrying a duke and finding happiness in spite of it.

“I do not know what to think anymore,” Fiona admitted, her voice quiet. “I find myself wishing—” she hesitated, then gave a small laugh. “Wishing I might be as fortunate as you. To fall in love, at the very least.”

Anna’s brows lifted, full of gentle protest. “And who says you shall not?”

Fiona gave a rueful tilt of her head. “I am already engaged to Canterlack, Anna. You know that.”

Her friend’s face fell. “And you do not love him.”

“He is my parents’ choice.” Fiona reached again for the teapot, needing something to hold. “And they are very firm in their convictions.”

“But the Season is not yet over,” Anna pressed. “There is still time to meet someone who might?—”

“You make it sound simple,” Fiona interrupted with a soft smile. “As though all it would take is a stroll through Hyde Park and a misstep into the arms of a stranger.”

Anna leaned forward, clasping Fiona’s hand across the table. “I am sorry, truly. I only mean that I believe in the possibility of something better for you. You deserve more than duty, Fiona.”

Fiona looked down at their hands, the reassuring pressure of Anna’s fingers warming her skin even through the gloves.

If only I could believe that myself.

“Let us not allow the tea to go cold,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone.

Anna laughed again, easing the heaviness between them. “If it were up to you, I suspect you’d drink it even if it turned to ice.”

“I do not discriminate,” Fiona replied with mock solemnity. “Tea is gold in all its forms.”

They returned to the task of tea and conversation, and the remainder of the afternoon passed in pleasant ease—at least on the surface. Fiona clung to it, the comfort of a friend, the illusion of calm.

But as the carriage drew her closer to Holden House, the familiar weight settled on her shoulders once more.

She barely had time to remove her gloves when her father’s voice rang out in the foyer.

“Come.”

The single word was clipped, brisk, and cold.

He did not look at her as he passed by, and Fiona had no choice but to follow.

She trailed him into the study, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“Where were you?” he demanded, rounding on her the moment the door shut behind them.

“I called upon the Duchess of Copperton,” she answered, keeping her voice calm, though her stomach had begun to churn.

“That spinster has a poor influence on you,” he said without missing a beat.

“She is married now, Father,” Fiona defended. “To a duke!”

“That does not change the fact that she wasted countless seasons and grew old on the shelf before finally deciding to marry,” he snapped, waving a dismissive hand in the air as if batting away something foul. “It matters not what she does now. She’s hardly a model of success.”

Fiona’s brows drew together, the words stinging more than she wished to let on. He means Anna. Of course he does.

He turned sharply toward her, the set of his jaw growing harder. “Tell me— is she the reason you are dragging your feet? Are you listening to her whispers now? Filling your head with fancies?”

The heat crept up Fiona’s neck as her composure strained under the weight of his accusations. She lifted her chin, just slightly, and replied with a steadiness she did not feel. “Anna has nothing to do with my engagement. Nor with my desire to end it.”

Though her tone remained calm, her hands betrayed her, tightening in the folds of her skirts while the sound of her pulse seemed to echo in her ears, steady and sharp.

He scoffed, the sound full of disdain. “The time you squandered with that friend of yours this afternoon could have been better spent with your betrothed. You are not a girl at play any longer, Fiona.”

“I have told you,” she said, her voice tightening as her breath grew shallow, “I cannot marry Lord Canterlack.”

Her father’s nostrils flared, and he took a step forward, his displeasure all but tangible. “On those baseless grounds?” He gave a harsh laugh that chilled her. “Not under my roof. You’ll not waste another season unwed. Canterlack it is. That is final.”

Fiona’s vision wavered as her throat tightened, the rising panic pressing against her ribs like something physical, suffocating. She cast about, her mind racing for something— anything —that might stay the tide of his certainty and offer her a sliver of escape.

And then, from somewhere between desperation and resolve, the words tumbled from her lips.

“What if—” she faltered, then gathered herself. “What if my heart is engaged elsewhere?”

The silence that followed was so profound it rang louder than any raised voice. Even the mantel clock seemed to hold its tick in deference to the moment.

Her father’s eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable for a beat, before it darkened further. “You are living in fairytales, girl,” he said at length, his voice low and cold, saturated with contempt. “And the sooner you grow and wake from these absurdities, the better. Hearts are for poetry. Not marriage contracts.”

Fiona swallowed, the tightness in her throat refusing to ease. Why did I think that would move him? And yet, even as the thought passed, she drew herself up taller, unwilling to shrink away.

“If Canterlack has another woman,” she said, more quietly now but no less firmly, “why may I not love another as well?”

“Because love —” he snapped, pivoting toward her with such force she instinctively stepped back, “is a lie. A fool’s notion. You will marry for advantage. That is all it has ever been. Canterlack may be an Earl, but he is powerful, influential, and wealthy.”

He stepped closer still, his presence bearing down on her like a verdict.

“You shall marry him. I shall not hear another word of this nonsense.”

Without waiting for her reply, he spun on his heel and strode from the room, barking over his shoulder, “Benson, my hat and coat—now!”

The door slammed behind him, the echo of it reverberating through the room like a final blow.

Fiona remained rooted to the spot, her breath shallow, her hands trembling in open defiance of the composure she had fought so hard to maintain.

There is no reasoning with him. No hope of being heard.

Turning slowly, she stepped into the hallway, the stillness of the house pressing in on her like fog. At the foot of the staircase, she paused, one hand brushing the polished banister more for balance than out of habit.

“Forgive me, my lady,” came a voice from behind, low and hesitant.

She turned to see Benson, the butler, approaching with a sealed envelope in hand.

“This arrived not ten minutes ago.”

Fiona accepted it, her fingers unsteady as she broke the wax and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes scanned the words hastily—and then stopped.

Craton.

Her heart gave a sharp jolt against her ribs.

Lady Fiona,

If you are still of the same mind as when we last spoke, I would see you tonight. Discretion, as ever, will be expected. The matter you brought to me requires further discussion.

Craton

For the first time in days, something stirred within her chest that was not dread, not resignation, but something far more dangerous.

Hope.