Helena Hart
Fiona read the letter twice, then set it upon the table with hands that trembled only slightly.
“Fiona.” Christian’s voice was sharp with concern. He had risen from his chair and crossed to her side, one hand closing around hers. “What has happened? What does it say?”
She handed him the letter without a word.
He read it in silence, his expression darkening line by line. When he finished, he laid the paper down with deliberate care, as though he did not entirely trust himself not to tear it in two.
“Your mother,” he said after a moment, “writes with considerable severity.”
“She has reason.” Fiona was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “From her perspective, I have behaved very badly indeed.”
“You have done nothing that warrants such harsh judgement.”
“Not intentionally. But I have certainly done something unorthodox. My mother has spent her life following the rules—doing what was expected, ensuring that her family remained above reproach. And now her sensible, practical daughter has thrown all of that aside for—what was it she wrote?—the idle fancies of a circulating-library romance.”
“You have thrown nothing aside. You have chosen—”
“I know what I have chosen.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I do not regret it, Christian. Not for a moment. But that does not mean there will be no consequences.”
He fell silent, his jaw tightening, his hand still clasping hers. She saw the familiar shadows gathering behind his eyes—the guilt, the reflexive self-reproach that rose whenever the world threatened to wound her on his account.
“This is my doing,” he said at last. “I ought to have sent you away. The moment the roads cleared, I should have insisted.”
“I chose to stay.”
“You should never have been placed in such a position to begin with.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “I knew what people would say. I knew what it might cost you—and still I let you stay. Because I was selfish—because I wanted—”
“Because you loved me.” She rose and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Because I loved you. Because we found something rare, and neither of us wished to lose it. That is not selfishness, Christian. That is courage.”
“Your mother would disagree.”
“My mother has never been in love. She married my father because it was expected of her—because he was suitable, because her parents arranged it, and she did not know how to refuse. She has never felt what I feel when I look at you. She cannot understand it, because she has never known it.”
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her touch.
“What do you wish to do?” he asked quietly.
It was the right question—the one that acknowledged her choice, her right to determine her own course. She loved him for asking it, even as she dreaded the answer.
“I do not know,” she admitted. “If I remain here, the scandal grows. If I leave, I lose you. Neither prospect seems bearable.”
“There is another possibility.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He opened his eyes, and she saw something there that made her breath catch—hope and fear intertwined so closely she could scarcely distinguish them.
“I could marry you.”
The words seemed to settle in the air between them, enormous and impossible. Fiona stared at him, her thoughts momentarily deserted.
“Christian—”
“I know it is not what you imagined. I know I am not—” He broke off, swallowing. “I am not the husband any woman would choose if she possessed other options. But I could give you respectability. My name, my protection. The gossip would not vanish, but it would change. You would not be a ruined woman—you would be a duchess. And I…” His voice faltered. “I would have the privilege of spending my life attempting to deserve you.”
Fiona’s eyes burned. She blinked quickly, though the tears refused to be denied.
