“I do not care,” she whispered.
“You should care. Your reputation—”
“To blazes with my reputation.”
He pulled back slightly, breath unsteady, eyes dark with restrained hunger. “You do not mean that.”
“I mean it entirely.” She held his gaze, allowing him to see the truth there. “I would rather be ruined with you than respectable without you.”
Something flickered across his face—hope, fear, longing, all entwined. “You do not know what you are saying.”
“I know precisely what I am saying.” She cupped his face, her thumbs grazing the shadow along his jaw. “I love you, Christian Hale. I have lived my life by caution and propriety. I am weary of both. If the choice lies between safety without you and scandal with you, then I choose scandal. I choose you.”
He stared at her; breath suspended between them.
Then he rose abruptly, drawing her to her feet with him.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice rough.
“Where?”
“Somewhere private. Somewhere warm.” His eyes burned into hers. “Somewhere I may answer that declaration as it deserves.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You—Are you sure? You were so determined to be proper—”
“I was determined to be worthy of you.” He drew her against him, his arm firm about her waist. “But if you stand in my garden and confess your love, if you choose me in spite of consequence, then I will not insult that courage with further restraint. I am finished fighting this. I am finished fighting us.”
He kissed her again—brief, fierce, and full of promise—before turning and leading her toward the castle.
He offered his arm. She accepted it.
Outwardly, they moved with composure—measured steps, proper distance, nothing that could not be defended as decorous. Inwardly, the air between them felt incendiary.
They passed a gardener, who straightened at once and touched his cap. Christian acknowledged him with a nod, his expression composed. Fiona kept her gaze forward, praying the heat in her cheeks might be attributed to the brisk air rather than the fire still racing through her veins.
Thomas the footman stood near the side entrance. He bowed as they approached. If he noted the tension in Christian’s jaw or the way Fiona’s fingers curled slightly against his sleeve, he was discreet enough not to show it.
Mrs Blackley observed their return from the corridor. Her eyes lingered a fraction longer than usual—sharp, perceptive—but her face remained serenely untroubled.
“Your Grace. Miss Hart.”
“Mrs Blackley,” Christian replied evenly.
Nothing in his tone betrayed the fact that every instinct in him strained toward haste. Nothing in Fiona’s posture revealed that she was counting each step as a test of endurance.
Christian did not turn toward the library.
Nor the study.
He led her up the main staircase and along a corridor she had never seen—the east wing.
His private chambers.
He stopped before a heavy oak door.
“Fiona.” His voice strained slightly. “You must be certain. Once we cross this threshold—”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
