“It was no dream.” Fiona turned in his arms and looked up at him. “It was real. We were real. And we have the rest of our lives to prove it.”
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly along her cheek.
“I love you,” he said. “Have I mentioned that recently?”
“Not within the last five minutes.”
“An unconscionable lapse.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you.” Her nose. “I love you.” And then her lips, softly, lingering there in the quiet darkness. “I love you, Fiona Hart. Soon to be Fiona Hale. My future wife. My duchess. My everything.”
“I love you too.” She smiled against his mouth. “My beautiful beast.”
“Only yours,” he said softly. “Always.”
Above them, the stars wheeled in their endless dance. Inside, the music drifted into the night.
And two people who had once believed themselves unworthy of love stood together beneath the quiet sky, ready to face whatever the future might bring.
Together.
Just as it was always meant to be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The morning after Lady Morrison’s ball, London exploded.
Every gossip column devoted paragraphs to the unprecedented scene: the Beast of Thornwick emerging from his lair, the scandalous Miss Hart on his arm and the declaration of love that had silenced a ballroom. Opinions were divided—some declared it the most romantic thing they had ever witnessed, while others pronounced it a disgrace to civilised society—but no one was indifferent.
Fiona learned this when Molly arrived with her morning chocolate and a stack of newspapers so thick it required both hands to carry.
“You are quite the subject of conversation this morning, miss.” Her maid deposited the papers upon the bed with a soft thump. “Famous—or infamous, depending upon whom one asks.”
Fiona pushed herself upright, brushing her hair from her face, and reached for the topmost paper. The headline made her wince:
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST: DUKE OF THORNWICK
CLAIMS SCANDALOUS BRIDE
“Scandalous bride,” she murmured. “How charming.”
“That is one of the kinder descriptions.” Molly handed her the chocolate. “TheMorning Postcalls you ‘a lady of questionable virtue who has somehow ensnared a duke.’ TheLady’s Magazinedeclares the whole affair ‘a romantic triumph over the rigid dictates of convention.’ And there is a caricature in theSatiristwhich I would not recommend viewing before breakfast.”
“A caricature?”
“His Grace is drawn as an actual beast. With fangs.” Molly’s cheeks reddened faintly. “And you are depicted as—well. Let us say the artist has taken certain liberties with your neckline.”
Fiona set down her chocolate and rubbed her temples. She had known there would be gossip. She had prepared herself for whispers, for curious stares, for the inevitable judgements of a society that prized propriety above all things. But seeing it in print—seeing her name and Christian’s splashed across every newspaper in London—was quite another matter.
“Where is His Grace?”
“Downstairs with Lady Ashworth. I believe they are… discussing the situation.” Molly hesitated. “And miss? Your parents have arrived.”
Fiona’s stomach dropped.
“Here? Now?”
“They came about twenty minutes ago. Lady Ashworth showed them into the blue drawing room and requested thatthey wait.” A pause. “Your mother has been weeping. Your father has been pacing. Neither appears particularly pleased.”
Of course they were not. Their sensible, practical daughter—the one who was meant to manage everyone else’s difficulties while remaining entirely above reproach herself—had just become the scandal of the Season. They had likely heard the news from a dozen different sources, each account more lurid than the last.
