His answering smile was quiet and proud.
“That’s my future duchess.”
***
Lady Ashworth emerged from the drawing room, resplendent in deep purple silk, her silver hair swept high beneath a turban adorned with peacock feathers. She looked, Fiona thought, rather like a particularly fashionable general preparing for battle.
“The carriage is waiting,” she announced. “And so is half of London society, if the reports from my spies are to be believed. Lady Morrison has been telling everyone she has a ‘special surprise’ planned for this evening. I suspect she means you.”
“Delightful,” Christian muttered.
“Chin up, nephew. You are a duke. You outrank nearly everyone who will be in that ballroom tonight. And the ones you don’t outrank are too old and feeble to pose any real threat.” Lady Ashworth swept toward the door. “Now come along. We have a scandal to cause.”
Lady Morrison’s townhouse blazed with light.
Every window glowed; every chandelier sparkled; every surface had been polished until it shone. Carriages lined the street, disgorging passengers in a steady stream of silk and jewels and elaborate coiffures. The cream of London society had turned out in force, drawn by the promise of spectacle.
They were not to be disappointed.
The carriage bearing the Duke of Thornwick, Lady Ashworth, and Miss Fiona Hart drew up to the entrance at precisely nine o’clock. A footman opened the door; Lady Ashworth descended first, to a ripple of acknowledgement fromthose waiting nearby. Then Christian emerged, unfolding his considerable height from the carriage interior, and the ripple became a wave.
Whispers erupted. Heads turned. Fans fluttered before faces as matrons leaned together to exchange shocked commentary.
The Beast of Thornwick. He’s actually here.
Is that—is that the birthmark?
I can see it, just there, above his collar—
Christian’s jaw tightened, but he did not flinch. He simply turned and offered his hand to help Fiona from the carriage.
She took it and stepped out into the light, and the whispers doubled in volume.
That’s the Hart girl. The one who stayed at his castle.
Ruined, they say. Completely ruined.
But look at her—she doesn’t look ruined, does she? She looks—
She looks like she doesn’t care what any of us think.
That was closer to the truth than the whisperer could have known. Fiona walked beside Christian with her head high and her back straight, her hand resting on his arm, her expression serene. Inside, her heart was hammering so hard she could feelit in her temples. But she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
They climbed the steps to the entrance. They passed through the receiving line, Lady Morrison’s eyes widening as she realised exactly who had just arrived at her ball. They entered the ballroom—
And the world held its breath.
The space was enormous, glittering with candlelight, packed with the most influential members of the ton. Hundreds of faces turned toward them as they appeared in the doorway. Hundreds of eyes tracked their progress as they began to move through the crowd. The orchestra faltered, then recovered, continuing to play a waltz that no one was dancing to.
Everyone was too busy staring.
Christian’s grip on Fiona’s hand tightened. She could feel the tension radiating from him, the effort it took to keep moving forward instead of retreating. This was his worst nightmare made manifest—a room full of people, all looking at him, all judging him, all waiting to see the monster they had been promised.
She squeezed his hand in return.
I’m here. We’re together. You can do this.
They walked. Through the parting crowd, through the gauntlet of whispers and stares, through the sea of silk and scandal. Christian’s shoulders were rigid, his jaw set, his eyesfixed straight ahead. He looked, Fiona thought, like a man walking to his execution.
