Christian began to open Thornwick to the world—carefully, selectively, but unmistakably. He accepted invitations from neighbouring families, attending dinners and gatherings that he would have refused without question a year ago. He received callers at the castle, hosting small parties that showcased both his newfound willingness to engage and his wife’s considerable talents as a hostess.
It was not easy for him. Fiona could see the tension in his shoulders as he entered a crowded room, the way his jaw tightened when he felt eyes upon him. But he did it anyway, because she was beside him, and together they could face anything.
“You are getting better at this,” she observed one evening, after a particularly successful dinner party had concluded. “The small talk, I mean. You hardly glowered at anyone tonight.”
“I do not glower.”
“You absolutely glower. You have a very specific glower for people who ask impertinent questions about your birthmark.”
“That is not a glower. That is a warning.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Whatever you say, my love.”
The guests who visited Thornwick left with revised opinions of the infamous Beast. He was reserved, certainly, and not given to excessive charm. But he was also intelligent, thoughtful, andclearly devoted to his wife. The love story that had scandalised the ton began to take on a different cast in the retelling—less scandal, more romance.
“They are turning it into quite the tale now,” Lady Ashworth reported during one of her summer visits. “Something out of a gothic novel, apparently. A brooding hero in his lonely castle, redeemed by love. Society is very fond of that sort of thing.”
“Are they?” Christian did not sound particularly interested.
“They are. You are no longer a monster who corrupted an innocent girl. You are a tragic hero who was rescued—quite poetically—by the devotion of his wife.” Lady Ashworth smiled with satisfaction. “A far more flattering version, I should think.”
“I think I should prefer they simply leave us in peace.”
“That would be dull, and society is rarely dull for long.” His aunt patted his hand briskly. “Now—where is my great-niece or great-nephew? I have brought gifts.”
Her gaze drifted pointedly to Fiona’s midsection, which—despite her best efforts—had begun to show a very suspicious roundness.
Fiona felt warmth rise to her cheeks. “We have not made any announcement yet.”
“My dear, you hardly need one. Anyone with eyes can see that you are positively radiant.” Lady Ashworth beamed. “I am to be a great-aunt at last. It is high time.”
The pregnancy was confirmed by the local physician a week later.
Fiona had suspected for some time—her monthly courses had ceased, her appetite had changed, and she had developed an inexplicable aversion to the smell of kippers—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way that suspicion could not.
She was going to have a baby. Christian’s baby. Their child.
She found him in the library, poring over estate accounts with the concentration of a man trying to distract himself from nervous anticipation. He looked up when she entered, and she saw the question in his eyes—the hope, the fear, the desperate need to know.
“Well?” he asked.
She smiled. “You are to be a father.”
For a moment, he did not move. Did not breathe. His face went through a series of expressions—shock, disbelief, wonder—before settling on something that looked very much like terror.
“A father,” he repeated.
“A father.” She crossed the room and took his hands in hers. “Are you well?”
“I do not know.” His voice was hoarse. “I am—Fiona, what if—”
“What if what?”
“What if the child bears the birthmark?” The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded. “What if I have passed on this—this curse—to an innocent child? What if they suffer as I suffered, are rejected as I was rejected—”
“Then we shall love them all the same.” Fiona squeezed his hands. “We shall raise them to know that they are beautiful, exactly as they are. We shall surround them with so much love that the world’s cruelty cannot reach them.” She lifted one of his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “That was your dream, Christian. Do you remember? At the ruined chapel. You told me of the children we might have, and how we would raise them without shame.”
“I remember.” His voice faltered. “But dreaming of such things and living them are different things.”
