And for now, it was enough.
Chapter Ten
The rain returned on their fifth day of bliss.
It came softly at first—a gentle patter against the windows, a greying of the morning light—and then with increasing determination, until the world beyond Thornwick’s walls dissolved into a curtain of silver and mist. The gardens vanished. The cliffs disappeared. Even the sea, usually so insistent in its presence, faded to a distant murmur beneath the steady drumming of rain.
Fiona stood at the window of the yellow parlour, a cup of tea cooling between her hands, and watched the water thread down the glass.
“We could go for a walk anyway,” she said, though her tone suggested she did not entirely mean it.
“We could.” Christian’s voice came from somewhere behind her. “Or we could remain where it is warm and dry and discover other ways to occupy ourselves.”
“What sort of ways?”
“I have a few ideas.”
She turned.
He sat upon the settee with deliberate composure, one arm resting along its back, long legs stretched before him. Therewas something different in the ease of his posture, in the quiet confidence of his gaze.
Not long ago, he would have held himself more rigidly, as though the weight of the world sat squarely upon his shoulders. Now the tension had softened. The armour remained—but it no longer seemed welded to him.
She wondered if she had anything to do with that.
Or perhaps she had merely given him permission to lay some of it aside.
“What sort of ideas?” she asked, crossing the room and settling beside him.
“Well.” He shifted slightly on the settee, considering her. “I thought I might sketch you.”
Fiona blinked. “Sketch me?”
“I used to draw when I was younger. Before I persuaded myself it was a frivolous pursuit unworthy of a duke.” His tone remained light, though she caught the thread of uncertainty beneath it. “My tutors once claimed I possessed a little talent. I thought I might discover whether any of it remains.”
“You wish to draw me?”
“I do.” His gaze lingered on her face with quiet attentiveness. “I should like to capture you on paper, so that I may look at you even when you are not sitting across from me. Is that terribly sentimental?”
“It is extremely sentimental.” She smiled. “I approve entirely.”
“Then you will sit for me?”
“On one condition.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Which is?”
“When you are finished, I shall draw you in return.”
A flicker crossed his expression—uncertainty, perhaps, or the old instinctive hesitation. She understood immediately: he was thinking of the birthmark, of how it might appear rendered in charcoal, of seeing himself through her eyes.
“You need not—” he began.
“I want to.” She reached across the small table between them and briefly touched his hand. “I want to draw you, Christian. All of you. Will you allow it?”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
