“You would marry me,” she said slowly, “to preserve my reputation?”
“I would marry you because I love you.” He took her hands in his, holding them tightly. “I would marry you because the thought of losing you is unbearable. Because you are the first person who has ever looked at me and seen something worth loving—and I cannot imagine the rest of my life without you in it.”
“But I thought you never meant to marry.”
“I thought that before I met you.” He raised her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You have altered everything, Fiona. For the first time in my life, I believe I might deserve happiness. That I might even be capable of giving it. That what I once thought a curse is nothing more than a part of me—a part you have taught me not to fear.”
The tears slipped down her cheeks despite her efforts to contain them. He brushed them away with gentle fingers, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
“Marry me,” he said again. “Not because society demands it. Not because your mother is afraid. Marry me because you love me—because you wish to spend your life with me. Because you cannot imagine a future without me any more than I can imagine one without you.”
“Yes.”
The word escaped before she could consider it.
“Yes,” she repeated, a breathless laugh breaking through her tears. “Yes, I will marry you. Yes to all of it, Christian. Yes.”
He kissed her then—deep and fervent—and she clung to him as though he were the only steady thing in a suddenly shifting world.
When at last they parted, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I ought to do this properly,” he murmured. “A formal proposal. A speech worthy of the occasion.”
“I do not require any of that.”
“I know.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “But I should like to give it to you nonetheless.” He drew back, resolve settling over his features. “I will write to your father today. Request a formal meeting. We shall proceed in the proper manner.”
“My father may refuse. You read my mother’s letter—he is furious.”
“Then I shall go to London myself and make my case.” He squared his shoulders, looking every inch the formidable duke he was meant to be. “I will not allow your family—or anyone else—to stand between us. You have agreed to be my wife, Fiona Hart, and I intend to make that promise a reality as swiftly as possible.”
She smiled up at him, her heart so full it almost ached.
“You are very formidable when you are determined.”
“I have never before possessed anything worth fighting for.” He kissed her once more, more gently this time. “Now I do.”
***
The remainder of the day passed in a haze of happiness and planning.
Christian retreated to his study to compose the letter to her father—a task which, judging by the occasional muttered imprecation that drifted through the closed door, proved more difficult than he had anticipated. Fiona, for her part, wandered the castle in a kind of daze, scarcely able to believe what had happened.
She was engaged.
To a duke.
To the man she loved.
It felt like something lifted from one of Molly’s circulating-library romances, and she kept waiting for the inevitable reversal—the moment when fate would snatch the happiness away, when some complication would arise that could not be overcome.
But none came.
There was only the steady rhythm of her heart and the warmth that filled her whenever she remembered Christian’s expression as he had asked her to marry him.
She found Molly in her chamber, mending a torn hem with her usual brisk efficiency.
“I am engaged,” Fiona announced.
