Fiona closed her eyes and drew a steady breath.
“Help me dress,” she said. “Something dignified. Something that suggests I am a future duchess and not at all inclined to be intimidated.”
Molly grinned.
“I believe I know just the thing.”
***
The blue drawing room felt smaller than usual, though that might have been because it was filled with tension thick enough to cut.
Fiona’s mother sat on the settee, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Her father stood by the window, his back rigid, his hands clasped behind him in a posture of barely contained fury. Lady Ashworth occupied the armchair by the fire, watching the proceedings with an expression of polite interest that did not quite mask her amusement.
And Christian stood beside the mantelpiece, tall and imposing, his face carefully neutral but his eyes tracking Fiona the moment she entered the room.
“Fiona.” Her mother’s voice was a wail. “How could you? How could you do this to us?”
“Good morning, Mother. Father.” Fiona crossed to stand beside Christian, taking his hand in a deliberate gesture of solidarity. “I trust you have seen the papers.”
“Seen them? We have done nothing but read them since we rose!” Her father whirled to face her, his face mottled with anger. “Have you any notion what you have done? Any notion of the damage you have caused? Our family name is being dragged through every scandal sheet in London!”
“Our family name will survive it.” Fiona’s voice remained calm. “It has endured worse.”
“Worse? What could possibly be worse than this?” He gestured sharply toward the newspapers scattered across the side table. “My daughter, embracing a man before half the ton—a man with whom she has been residing, unchaperoned, for weeks—”
“I was not unchaperoned. Molly was—”
“Molly is a maid, not a lady of standing.” His father cut her off sharply. “Her presence at Thornwick Castle could hardly satisfy society when you spent nearly a month beneath the roof of an unmarried gentleman.” His voice rose with each word. “Doyou deny it? Do you deny that you compromised yourself under his roof?”
Fiona felt Christian stiffen beside her. His hand tightened around hers; she could sense the anger gathering in him—anger at her father’s accusations, and at himself for having placed her in such a position.
“I deny nothing,” she said quietly. “I remained at Thornwick because I was injured and the roads were impassable. I remained because I fell in love. And I intend to marry the Duke of Thornwick, Father, whether you approve or not.”
“Marry him?” Her mother’s cry rose again. “You cannot marry him! He is—he is—”
“He is what, Mother?” Fiona asked sharply. “A duke? A wealthy man? A peer of the realm? What precisely is your objection?”
“He is a monster!” The word burst from her mother with desperate conviction. “Everyone says so. The birthmark, the seclusion, the rumours—they say he is cursed, Fiona. They say—”
“They say a great many things.” Christian’s voice cut cleanly through her mother’s agitation. “Most of them are untrue. The rest are exaggerations. But none of them alters the simple fact that I love your daughter, Lady Hart. I love her more deeply than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I mean to spend the rest of my days ensuring her happiness.”
Silence fell.
Fiona’s mother stared at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Her father’s jaw worked as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Lady Ashworth sipped her tea with evident composure.
“You love her,” her father said at last, disbelief heavy in his voice. “You profess to love her, and yet you kept her at your castle for weeks—ruining her reputation, destroying her prospects of a respectable match—”
“I attempted to send her away.” Christian’s voice roughened slightly. “I attempted to spare her precisely this—the gossip, the scandal, the judgement of those who look at my face and presume to know my character. But she refused to go. She refused to abandon me, even when I gave her every reason to do so.”
“Because I love him.” Fiona stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Christian and her parents. “I love him, Father. Not in spite of who he is, but because of it. He is the kindest and most honourable man I have ever known. He has endured more cruelty than you can imagine, and yet his heart remains generous and steadfast. I will not apologise for loving him. I will not apologise for choosing him. And I will not permit you to speak of him as though he were something shameful.”
Her father opened his mouth—to argue, no doubt—but her mother spoke first.
“You truly love him?” she asked softly. “This is not merely—this is not simply an attempt to make the best of an unfortunate situation?”
“There is nothing unfortunate in it, Mother.” Fiona’s voice gentled. “Except perhaps the manner in which the news became public. I would have wished to tell you myself before the whole of London heard of it. But yes—I love him. And he loves me. Is that not what every mother hopes for her daughter?”
Her mother looked at Christian—truly looked at him, perhaps for the first time. At his towering height and broad shoulders, at the dark hair falling untidily over his brow, at the severity of his features softened now by sincerity. Her gaze lingered on the edge of the birthmark visible above his collar.
