Dinner was a quiet affair—just the two of them seated at one end of the long dining table, attended by footmen who had clearly been instructed to perfect the art of invisibility. They spoke of trifles: books, places they hoped one day to see, childhood memories that were more ridiculous than painful.
Christian recounted the time he had attempted to teach himself to swim in the estate pond and had been hauled out—half-drowned and festooned in weeds—by a gardener who hadlooked less alarmed than inconvenienced. Fiona confessed to sustaining Adelaide’s belief in garden fairies for three entire summers through increasingly elaborate contrivances involving bells, carefully arranged footprints in flowerbeds, and forged notes written in minuscule script.
By the time the apple tart was served, Fiona’s cheeks ached from smiling.
“I cannot recall laughing so much,” Christian said quietly, watching her across the table. “I am not certain I ever have.”
“Then we shall have to remedy that.”
“We shall.” His expression softened. “I mean to spend a lifetime doing so.”
The words lingered between them—an almost-promise neither pressed, though both felt it settle.
“Come,” she said at last, rising. “You owe me your hair.”
He laughed and offered his arm. “I am a man of honour, Miss Hart.”
“I should hope so, Your Grace.”
They walked together to his chambers, where a fire had been lit and the curtains drawn against the night. The room felt different now—no longer a stranger’s space, but somewhere familiar, somewhere that held memories of pleasure and intimacy and whispered confessions in the dark.
Fiona retrieved the silver-backed brush and settled into the armchair near the hearth.
“Kneel,” she instructed gently.
He arched a brow.
“Kneel,” she repeated, fighting a smile. “Unless you prefer I climb upon the table.”
A flicker—something deeper—passed through his expression. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself before her.
Even thus, he was formidable—broad shoulders nearly brushing her knees. But there was something in the posture—something trusting—that made her breath soften.
She reached for the tie that held his queue in place and tugged it loose. His hair spilt free, a dark cascade that fell past his shoulders and tumbled forward around his face. She ran her fingers through it experimentally, feeling the weight of it, the texture—coarser than it looked, with a tendency to tangle that explained his daily struggles.
“When did you last have it trimmed?” she asked.
“I could not say. The barber in the village prefers to avoid me.”
“Then I shall have to acquire scissors.”
“You intend to manage my grooming entirely?”
“Clearly you require assistance.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
She worked patiently, beginning at the ends, smoothing and untwisting. The only sounds were the brush, the fire, and his gradually slowing breath.
At some point, his forehead came to rest lightly against her knee.
“Christian?” she asked softly, brush in hand. “Are you all right?”
“It has been a long time,” he said, voice lower now, “since anyone touched me with care.”
Her strokes gentled further.
“That is precisely why I wished to.”
