It was soft; the kiss of two people who had fought through fire and emerged on the other side. When she pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion.
“A fortnight,” she said. “In a fortnight I shall be your wife.”
“My wife.” He spoke the words slowly, as though savouring them. “My duchess. My partner in everything.”
“In everything,” she agreed. “Even scandalising the ton, it seems.”
He laughed—that warm, unguarded sound she had come to love—and drew her closer.
“I suspect we shall provide them with conversation for years to come.”
“Good.” She settled comfortably against his chest. “Society could do with a little excitement.”
***
The fortnight that followed was a whirlwind.
There were fittings and consultations and an endless stream of callers, some curious, some congratulatory, some barely concealing their desire to witness the scandal firsthand. There were gifts and cards and invitations that Lady Ashworth sorted through with ruthless efficiency, accepting some and declining others based on criteria Fiona did not entirely understand.
And there was Christian.
He remained at Lady Ashworth’s townhouse, propriety be damned, unwilling to let Fiona out of his sight for longer than absolutely necessary. He accompanied her on morning walks and afternoon drives. He sat beside her during tedious meetings with solicitors and modistes. He held her hand through it all, a steady presence in the chaos, a reminder of why she was doing this.
One evening, a few days before they were to depart for Thornwick, they found themselves alone in the garden again. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, and the air smelled of spring flowers and promise.
“I received a call today,” Christian said. “From Lord Weston.”
Fiona went still. “Did you?”
“He came to offer his congratulations. And, I suspect, to take the measure of the gentleman who has displaced him.” A faint, wry smile touched Christian’s mouth. “He is a good man. I can understand why my aunt believed he might suit you.”
“He might have suited me—once.” Fiona turned to face him fully. “But I never felt for him what I feel for you. Not even the smallest part of it.”
“I know.” He took her hands in his. “Still, I thought you should know—he bore no ill will. He wished us both every happiness, and I believe he meant it. Not every man carries defeat with bitterness.”
“He was not defeated,” she said softly. “He simply never had a chance.” She squeezed his hands. “My heart was already yours, Christian. It has been yours since the moment you carried me through that storm.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle.
“In four days, you will be my wife.”
“In four days, you will be my husband.”
“Are you ready?”
She thought of everything that had led them here—the accident upon the cliff road, the weeks at Thornwick, the anguish of their separation and the wonder of finding one another again. The ball, the scandal, the quiet work of shaping a future together.
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said.
He smiled—one of those rare, unguarded smiles that transformed his face—and drew her into his arms.
“Nor have I.”
They stood together in the fading light, holding one another and imagining the life that lay before them.
In four days, they would begin it.
Together.
