But today, they had this.
Each other. The certainty of their love.
And for the moment, that certainty was all that mattered.
Chapter Twenty-One
The gown was the colour of a winter sky.
Fiona stood before the mirror in her borrowed chamber, studying her reflection with a critical eye. The pale blue silk draped elegantly from her shoulders, gathered beneath her bust with a ribbon of deeper sapphire, and fell in soft folds to the floor. Her hair had been swept up in an elaborate arrangement of curls, threaded through with tiny seed pearls that caught the candlelight. Her mother’s pearls circled her throat—the one piece of jewellery she had brought from Suffolk, the one concession to family tradition she was willing to make.
“You’re beautiful, miss.” Molly stood behind her, making final adjustments to the hem. “The most beautiful woman who’ll be at that ball tonight, I’d wager.”
“Flattery will not make me less terrified, Molly.”
“It was not meant to.” Her maid smiled. “It was meant to remind you that whatever those grand lords and ladies may think of you, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are going to walk into that ballroom on the arm of a duke who loves you, with your head held high—and anyone who does not like it may go hang.”
Fiona laughed despite herself.
A knock at the door made them both jump.
“Miss Hart?” Lady Ashworth’s voice came through the wood. “Your duke is waiting—and growing increasingly agitated, I might add. If you do not come down soon, I fear he may wear a hole in my carpet.”
Fiona drew a deep breath. Squared her shoulders. Lifted her chin.
“I am ready,” she called.
She hoped it was true.
Christian was indeed wearing a hole in the carpet.
He stood at the foot of the staircase, pacing with the restless energy of a caged animal, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression thunderous. He had been dressed by Lady Ashworth’s valet in the finest evening clothes money could buy—black coat, white waistcoat, an immaculate cravat—but he had made one alteration that had sent the valet into quiet despair.
He had loosened his collar.
Not dramatically—not enough to be truly scandalous—but enough that the edge of his birthmark was visible above the snowy linen. A deliberate choice. A statement of intent.
He was done hiding.
When Fiona appeared at the top of the stairs, he stopped pacing.
She descended slowly, one hand on the bannister, the pale blue silk of her gown whispering against the steps. Her eyes never left his face—watching for his reaction, searching for reassurance, needing to know that she was not alone in this.
She was not alone. She would never be alone again.
“Fiona.” Her name came out rough, reverent. “You look—”
“Acceptable?” she supplied as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Devastating.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Exquisite. Utterly, impossibly perfect.”
She laughed softly. “You are determined to make me forget how terrified I am.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as though he had no intention of ever releasing it.
“If I can manage it, even for a moment, I shall consider it a triumph. Are you ready?”
“No.” She smiled up at him. “But I mean to go forward all the same.”
