Page 7

CHAPTER 7

T he night was unusually still.

The city had long since settled into its nocturnal hush, and Fiona moved quickly beneath her cloak, hood drawn low. Each step along the cobbled street echoed louder than she liked, but she pressed forward with purpose, drawn not by impulse but necessity.

You are not a reckless girl. You are not the sort who sneaks out of her home like some unruly debutante from a dreadful novel. And yet, here you are.

The butler at Craton Manor answered as soon as she knocked, as though expecting her. He bowed without surprise and, without so much as a word, led her through the dimly lit hallways, past somber oil portraits and flickering wall sconces, until they reached the tall, paneled doors of the duke’s study.

The air shifted the moment she stepped inside.

The room was warm with firelight, and yet it was the man standing behind the great desk—sleeves rolled to his forearms, brow furrowed in thought—that commanded all the heat. The Duke looked up, and the intensity of his gaze struck her like a chord.

“You came,” he said, not unkindly, though not softly either. There was never anything soft about him.

Fiona gathered her skirts, her gloves still clutched in one hand. “Of course,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He stepped around the desk, slow and deliberate, as if weighing each stride.

“I have decided to help,” he said, without preamble or flourish.

The relief was so swift, so absolute, that Fiona felt her knees weaken beneath her. She took one small step forward, then stopped, swallowing against the sudden sting that pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Oh, thank heavens…

She pressed a gloved hand to her middle, trying to calm the tremor building inside her chest. “You mean it?” she asked, blinking too quickly. “You truly mean it?”

“I do,” he replied. “Though I must warn you… a scandal might be your best course. And undoubtedly the quickest.”

“A scandal?” Her voice rose before she could stop it, and she caught herself with a quiet breath. “Your Grace, I should be ruined.”

He tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting. “You seem desperate, Lady Fiona. I am merely laying your options before you.”

“I do appreciate your assistance,” she said, folding her hands tightly, “and your suggestions. But I would prefer to attempt a safer route first.”

He nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, simply listening as she continued.

“I have already told my father my heart is engaged elsewhere,” she said, her voice quieting with the memory of that conversation. “Naturally, he does not believe me. And this… is where I must ask more of you, Your Grace.”

“Isaac,” he interrupted, his tone still level but unmistakably pointed.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“If we are to convince your father—and all of society—that we are in love,” he said, his mouth curving just slightly, “then I suggest we begin by abandoning the formalities. Do you not agree… Fiona?”

Her name on his lips sounded different. Warmer. Unsettling. She felt her cheeks heat at once.

“I—yes,” she said quickly, and to her own ears, breathlessly. “That seems… wise.”

He smiled, the expression brief but real.

“I want him to be the one to end the engagement,” she said, regaining her footing. “If Canterlack is the one who calls it off, my father will be forced to accept it. He will have no argument then.”

Isaac crossed his arms, nodding once. “So now we must convince your fiancé as well. You do realize, of course, that for another man to show interest in his betrothed is a direct challenge to his pride. He will not withdraw easily. In fact, he may take it as a deliberate insult.”

“I understand that,” she said, lifting her chin. “But it is a risk I must take.”

His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer, searching. Then, quietly: “Be careful with Canterlack. Do not trust him. No matter what he says.”

Fiona hesitated. The words struck a chord in her, the certainty in his voice drawing out a question she had been turning over for days.

“You do not seem fond of the Earl,” she said, her tone light but cautious. “May I ask why?”

For a long beat, Isaac said nothing. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a log shifted with a faint pop. Then, finally, he spoke.

“We must not meet like this again,” he said, deflecting cleanly. “We cannot have you calling upon me again—not like this. I summoned you tonight because it was necessary, but further visits risk exposure, and that I cannot allow. Not for your sake.”

Fiona’s mouth parted slightly. She had expected a dismissal, perhaps, but not this. Not concern.

He may have no love for society’s rules, but he’s still watching out for me.

She lowered her eyes, unsure what to make of the unfamiliar twist in her chest. “I understand,” she murmured.

The following morning, after a strained breakfast marked by her father’s cold silence and her mother’s clipped suggestions regarding ribbons and comportment, Fiona retreated to the conservatory, seeking a moment’s quiet among the fragrant rows of lavender, mint, and rosemary. Her fingers moved distractedly over the tea herbs she was sorting—motions long committed to habit, but utterly devoid of attention this morning.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” came Miss Jameson’s soft voice, drawing Fiona’s gaze upward.

The lady’s maid held out a folded missive. “I was passing through the hall when it arrived. The butler had not yet sent it up, so I took the liberty.”

“Thank you, Miss Jameson,” Fiona replied, taking the letter in hand. The paper was familiar—too familiar. Her heart sank before she even broke the seal.

Canterlack.

Of course.

She opened it with practiced care, as though gentleness might dull the disappointment. His scrawl was precise, polished, and utterly devoid of affection:

Lady Fiona,

The weather this afternoon appears promising. I shall call for you at two o’clock for a walk at Hyde Park. I expect you will be ready.

—Canterlack

Fiona sighed, folding the note tightly between her fingers. What I wouldn’t give to be free of this man.

When afternoon came, she strolled beside Lord Canterlack, her hand nestled—imprisoned, really—in the crook of his arm.

She glanced sidelong at him. His posture was perfect, his smile controlled. There was not a hair out of place. And yet something about his composure grated more than ever.

Perhaps… if she became insufferable enough, he might find her no longer worth the trouble.

“I do wish it would rain,” she said suddenly, tilting her head back to the blue sky above.

He didn’t even glance at her. “No, you don’t want that. It would spoil our promenade.”

Fiona’s brows drew together. No, you don’t want that. Of course.

“Jumping in puddles sounds quite tempting just now,” she added, raising her voice with deliberate care.

Two passing matrons paused mid-conversation, their heads swiveling toward her with twin looks of scandalized dismay. Fiona smiled sweetly in their direction.

Aaron gave the ladies a tight smile and a shallow bow. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said smoothly, as though attempting to erase Fiona’s outburst through charm.

“Jumping in puddles?” he hissed to her under his breath, his smile never faltering. “You are not a child, Fiona.”

“Oh, of course I’m not, my lord,” she trilled, giving his arm a graceless pat and giggling for good measure.

The matrons were still watching. Fiona met their gazes with open delight. Aaron’s mouth parted—perhaps to scold her further—but she beat him to it.

“Well, since there’s no rain, we could always climb the trees,” she mused, peering toward one of the tall oaks.

He said nothing. Not a word. Good. She had his attention now.

Without another thought, she began to gather her skirts.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low and taut.

“Climbing a tree,” she replied lightly, taking a step off the path. Then, as if seized by a whim, she laughed—high, bright, and too loud. A nearby pigeon flapped away in alarm. The matrons from before were still lingering, exchanging hushed commentary behind their gloved fingers.

Fiona turned toward them, beaming. “Have you ever tried it, ladies?” she called out. “I am told the view from the branches is quite restorative.”

The older matron stiffened. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, never mind,” Fiona said cheerfully, waving a hand. “It’s only that I’m quite determined to climb that particular oak. There’s something about its shape that simply demands it.” She started forward again, skirts gathered in both hands.

“Fiona,” Aaron muttered through clenched teeth. She paid him no mind.

“I daresay the bark looks rather welcoming. Perhaps we might all take a turn?” she added, glancing coyly back at the women.

They recoiled slightly, one of them clutching her reticule as though Fiona had suggested disrobing.

That was when Aaron’s patience snapped. His hand shot out, closing around her wrist with force. “What has come over you this afternoon?” he hissed, his smile now a mask stretched too tight. “Will you not comport yourself?”

His grip tightened, biting into her skin. Fiona winced, but lifted her chin.

“Oh, forgive me,” she said sweetly, her eyes narrowing. “I forgot myself for a moment. I thought this was my promenade too.”

He yanked her closer until there was scarcely a breath between them. The pleasant veneer he wore in public had cracked now, revealing something coiled beneath—something cruel.

“You will not embarrass me,” he spat.

“I daresay you’re doing a fine job of that all on your own,” she snapped back.

“You will not make a fool of me again,” he hissed just loud enough to chill her. “Do you understand? I will not be humiliated by your theatrics, not in the park, not anywhere.”

His fingers dug in deeper into her skin. It was no longer about control but punishment.

“I have tolerated your impertinence long enough,” he went on. “But let me be clear: there is a line, and you are perilously close to crossing it.”

Her heart pounded. This wasn’t anger, for it was sharper.

She tried to pull away, but he yanked her closer, his face just inches from hers now. There was darkness in his eyes—cold and cruel.

“Let her go,” came a new voice, low but commanding.

A second hand closed gently over hers, resting atop Aaron’s clenched fist. They both turned to see Isaac.

Fiona had not seen him approach, but there he stood—tall, immovable, and wholly unbothered by the growing scene.

“You do not wish to make a spectacle, do you, Canterlack?” Isaac said, his voice low enough to be civil, yet sharp enough to draw blood.

Aaron hesitated. Then, with visible reluctance, he released her wrist.

Fiona instinctively cradled her arm, rubbing the reddened skin. Her breath trembled.

Isaac’s eyes followed the motion. His expression darkened further.

“You will not touch her in such a manner again,” he said, his voice quieter now but edged with steel. “Ever.”

Aaron straightened. “This one is none of your concern, Craton. I am already betrothed to her.”

Fiona flinched at the phrasing— this one . Not even a name.

“We shall see about that,” Isaac replied, and then he reached for her hand. She allowed it—gratefully—his touch cool and firm as he tucked her arm into his.

“Shall we?” he asked, his gaze not leaving Canterlack’s.

Fiona nodded, unable to summon words. Her legs were moving before her mind could catch up.

Aaron did not follow. Not here, not now. The eyes of the park were upon them, and he would not suffer the indignity of a public quarrel.

They walked in silence, and Fiona could feel the tension slowly bleed from her shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” Isaac asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her voice was too thin.

“I shall walk you home.”

“Thank you.”

A few steps later, he spoke again. “I told you not to trust him.”

Fiona exhaled slowly. “No matter what, I am his betrothed, Isaac. When he asks for a walk in the park, I cannot very well refuse.”

“I dread to think what might have happened had I not arrived,” he muttered. “He hurt you, Fiona.”

The sharpness in his voice startled her.

“My wrist is hardly mangled. It’s already fading.”

He stopped walking. “A little discoloration? He was violent.” Fiona blinked up at him. Why are you so furious? “And you were reckless,” he added, the accusation startlingly sharp.

“I beg your pardon?” she returned, equally bristled now.

“I would have managed the situation perfectly well,” she said tightly. “Besides, what could he possibly have done in a public park, surrounded by half of Mayfair?”

“Oh, you would be surprised.”

Her mouth parted again—this time not in shock but suspicion.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, stopping in her tracks. “Why do you care so much?”

He stared at her.

“You asked for my help,” he said curtly. “You require me to pretend I am in love with you. I am doing precisely that.”

“Yes, but your treatment of Canterlack… your anger—it feels far beyond pretense, Isaac. It feels personal.”

His gaze sharpened, and then, with a bitterness she could not name, he said, “This is not about helping you. It is about saving one more woman from Canterlack’s destruction.”

Fiona recoiled slightly, stunned by the coldness in his tone. She had expected… not affection, perhaps, but something more human.

She said nothing as they reached her house. The butler opened the door as if summoned by her silence.

Craton released her hand and gave a clipped bow. “Good afternoon.”

He turned and left.

Fiona stood in the doorway, watching his retreating form until it vanished down the lane.

Another woman? What did he mean by that?