She had not mentioned the kisses. The stolen moments. The way her heart raced every time Christian entered a room.
Some truths were better left unwritten.
“Thank you, Mrs Blackley.” Fiona took the letter with steady hands, waiting until the housekeeper had departed before breaking the seal.
My Dearest Fiona,
Your letter has occasioned no small degree of agitation within this household. Your mother is quite persuaded you have been carried off by wolves (pray tell me, are there wolves in Yorkshire? I cannot bring it to mind), while Adelaide appears far more captivated by the existence of a duke than concerned for your personal safety. She has prevailed upon me no fewer than seven times to inquire whether the Duke of Thornwick is handsome, and whether he might be persuaded to attend Lady Morrison’s ball next month.
I have informed her that dukes are not in the habit of frequenting provincial balls, and that your description of His Grace suggests a gentleman more inclined to solitude than society. This intelligence has done nothing whatsoever to moderate her enthusiasm. You are well acquainted with Adelaide’s disposition.
As for your continued residence at Thornwick, I confess myself uncertain. You have ever been the sensible one, my dear—measured in judgement and deliberate in action. You are not given to impulsive decisions. I cannot help but wonder what circumstance could persuade an unmarried lady to remain beneath the roof of an unmarried gentleman, however honourable his conduct or generous his hospitality.
I do not accuse you of impropriety. I know your character too well for that. Yet I entreat you to reflect carefully upon the course you are pursuing, and upon the consequences that may attend it. The Duke of Thornwick may be a recluse, but he remains a duke; and rumour, once set in motion, travelswith alarming speed—even from the most remote corners of the kingdom. A lady’s reputation, once compromised, is not easily restored.
Write again soon and inform me of your intentions. I confess I am anxious for you, my dear girl—more than you may suppose.
Your ever affectionate aunt,
Prudence
Fiona read the letter twice, then set it aside with a sigh.
Her aunt was right, of course. She was behaving imprudently—recklessly, even—so unlike the measured, sensible woman she had always prided herself on being. Before Thornwick, she had possessed a plan as orderly as a ledger: assist Adelaide in securing a suitable match, return to Suffolk, resume her quiet role as the family’s dependable spinster and discreet architect of other people’s happiness.
Now she was lingering in a duke’s castle, surrendering her heart to a man who called himself a beast, and contemplating a future she had never once permitted herself to imagine.
What was she about?
She did not know.
And that uncertainty unsettled her more than any scandal could. For the first time in her life, Fiona Hart was proceeding without calculation—guided not by reason, but by feeling. The loss of control was both intoxicating and deeply unnerving.
“You look troubled.”
She startled at the voice.
Christian stood in the doorway, observing her with that steady, searching gaze she had come to know too well. He was dressed more informally than usual—no coat, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his cravat loosened just enough to reveal the hollowat his throat. His hair was tied back, though a few rebellious strands had escaped. There was ink upon his right hand.
He looked, she thought with a sudden, disarming certainty, devastatingly handsome.
And wholly unaware of it.
“A letter from my aunt.” She indicated the paper beside her. “She is uneasy about my prolonged stay.”
Something passed across his features—guilt, perhaps. Or concern. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him, and moved toward the window as though bracing himself against the light.
“She is justified,” he said evenly. “Your presence here is… unconventional. People will speak.”
“They invariably do. I have never found it particularly profitable to shape my life around their chatter.”
“That is easily said when one has not been the object of their malice.” He turned toward her then, and she saw it—the old wound beneath the composure. Years of whispers. Of glances that lingered too long. Of polite avoidance. “I have. I know the cost.”
“Christian—”
“I ought not to have asked you to remain.” The words emerged roughly. “It was selfish. I wanted—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “What I wanted is immaterial.What matters is that your reputation stands in peril, and I have no right to hazard it.”
Fiona rose from her chair, setting aside the book of poetry. “Do you regret asking me?”
