“You will take care of her?” she asked quietly. “You will treat her kindly?”
“I shall treat her as the treasure she is.” Christian’s voice was steady. “Every day of our marriage, I shall endeavour to ensure her happiness. I shall give her a home, a family, and a life filled with affection. And should I ever fail in that duty, I fully expect her to remind me of the promise I make today.”
“He speaks the truth, Mother.” Fiona returned to his side and took his hand once more. “I know it is not the future you imagined for me. I know it is not the safe, conventional match you hoped I might make. But it is the life I have chosen. And I have never been more certain of anything.”
Another long silence followed.
Then, slowly, her mother nodded.
“Very well.” Her voice trembled, but there was resolution in it. “If this is truly your wish—if you are quite certain—then I suppose I must accept it.”
“Helena!” her father exclaimed. “You cannot simply—”
“I can, and I shall.” She rose from the settee and drew herself up with unexpected dignity. “Our daughter is to be a duchess, Reginald. Whatever scandal may attach to the match, that fact remains. And if we wish to retain any place in her life—to see our grandchildren, to remain her family—then we must accept her choice.”
Her father’s face moved through anger, frustration, and something very near despair. At last, the tension seemed to drain from him.
“You will regret this,” he said heavily. “Both of you. Society will never truly accept—”
“Society accepted us last evening,” Fiona replied gently. “Not every individual, perhaps—but enough. And those who do not accept us are not worth troubling ourselves over.”
“She is quite right, you know.” Lady Ashworth finally spoke, setting down her teacup with calm finality. “I have navigated society for rather longer than any of you, and I assure you—scandal fades. Gossip finds new prey. What endures is the strength of the marriage itself.” She smiled. “And I have rarely seen two people so determined upon one another.”
Fiona’s father looked from Lady Ashworth to Fiona to Christian, and finally back to his wife. He seemed suddenly older.
“I do not approve,” he said at last. “Let that be understood. But neither will I stand in your way.”
“Thank you, Father.” Fiona stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “That is all I ask.”
He did not return the gesture, but neither did he withdraw.
It was, Fiona supposed, as much as she could hope for.
***
The rest of the morning was consumed by practical matters.
Lady Ashworth took charge, as Lady Ashworth always did, summoning solicitors and sending messages and managing the thousand details that accompanied a ducal engagement. Fiona’s parents, somewhat subdued after the morning’s confrontation, were sent home with firm assurances that the wedding would take place at Thornwick in a fortnight—and that their presence would be expected.
By early afternoon, Fiona and Christian finally found themselves alone.
They had retreated to Lady Ashworth’s small library—a cosy room lined with books and warmed by a fire—and were sitting together on the settee, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. The chaos of the morning seemed very far away.
“That went rather better than I expected,” Christian said quietly.
“You set your expectations very low.”
“When it comes to my reception by the wider world?” He brushed a kiss against her hair. “Extremely low. But your mother relented in the end. That counts for something.”
“My mother has always been more yielding than my father. She values happiness over strict propriety, though she would never say so outright.” Fiona sighed softly. “My father will take longer. He may never fully accept you.”
“I can live with that.” Christian’s voice was calm. “So long as I have you, the rest matters very little.”
“You make it sound dangerously simple.”
“It is simple.” He tilted her chin upward until their eyes met. “I meant every word I said to them, Fiona. I intend to spend the rest of my life making you happy. I will—”
She silenced him with a kiss.
