Because this was Fiona, however, he had to try.
He went to the closed door. The light seeping from underneath told him she was still awake. Inhaling, he rapped on the wood.
He heard rustling sounds, and Fiona’s voice filtered through the barrier.
“Yes?”
She sounded distant. As if she were miles instead of mere inches away.
“I…I…” He cursed his own ineptness. “I wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“No, thank you.”
He curled his hands at his sides. “May I come in?”
“It’s rather late.”
“Why are you avoiding me?” His anger took him by surprise. “Has something happened?”
Silence greeted him. Too late, he remembered that his frustration helped nothing. Confrontations had only resulted in more withdrawal, more weeping and silence. Bloody hell, he almost wanted the numbness to return. Feeling nothing was better than this gut-wrenching helplessness. This cataclysmic sense of failure…
The door clicked open, revealing Fiona. Her reddened eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks struck him like a physical blow. She wasn’t wearing one of her usual bedtime ensembles, those sensual scraps that made his hands itch to tear them off. Instead, she was bundled up in a worn chintz wrapper, her bare toes peeping out from beneath the voluminous folds. Her hair hung over one shoulder in an untidy plait.
Because of Fiona’s poise, he sometimes forgot that she was only nineteen. Right now, she looked her age—looked achingly young and vulnerable. Every instinct in him clamored to hold her, protect her, soothe away her pain. He just didn’t know if he was capable of giving her what she needed.
“Are you…is everything all right?” he asked.
“No. Everything isnotall right.” When her bottom lip quivered, she bit it in an obvious attempt to control whatever she was feeling. “That is why I wanted to be left alone.”
Retreat,a voice in his head warned.She wants to be left alone. You can do nothing.
He crossed the threshold; she retreated a few steps.
“Tell me what is wrong,” he said.
“Notwhat. Who.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Howcouldyou, Hawk?”
“How could I what?” he asked warily.
“Sleep with that horrid Melinda Ayles,” she burst out.
It took him a moment to register what she was saying. To recognize that Fiona wasn’t caught in the throes of despair that had no apparent cause. No, she wasjealous…over a past lover of his.
Relief flooded him, rocking him to the core. Guessing that she must have seen Melinda at the ball, he could understand her feelings. After all, he’d burned with possessiveness whenever Fiona had danced with another man. If he’d had to interact with a former paramour of hers, he’d probably be fit to kill. Not only did he comprehend Fiona’s reaction, but he also knew what to do about it. As a young bride, Fiona undoubtedly needed husbandly reassurances—reassurances that he was happy to give.
“I ended my affair with Lady Ayles before we were married. It was a brief arrangement,” he said. “There is no need to be jealous.”
His complacency vanished at the flash of ire in Fiona’s eyes.
“You think I am jealousof Lady Ayles?”
He sensed a trap. “Er, aren’t you?”
“No, Hawk, I am not jealous. I am furious,” she declared.
She gave a huff of rage that he probably should not have found endearing. She began pacing, her braid bouncing over her shoulders.
“There I was, having a splendid evening. Then, out of nowhere, I am ambushed by that vindictive woman and her friends.”
