Molly looked up, unsurprised. “I had wondered when you meant to tell me.”
“You knew?”
“Miss, the entire household knows. His Grace has been smiling all morning—properly smiling, with his teeth and everything—and you have been drifting about the corridors like a lady who has received very good news indeed.” Molly set aside her needlework and rose to embrace her. “I am glad for you, miss. Truly. He is a good man, for all his brooding.”
“He is.” Fiona hugged her maid tightly. “He is the best man I have ever known.”
“And a handsome one too, once you grow accustomed to the size of him.”
“Molly!”
“What? It is true.” Molly stepped back, grinning. “Now then—have you given any thought to what you will wear for the wedding? If we are to make you a duchess, we must do it properly.”
They spent the next hour discussing fabrics and lace, flowers and venues—all the practical matters Fiona had never imagined considering for herself. She had long assumed she would remain unmarried: the spinster aunt, the sensible daughter, the woman who managed everyone else’s romantic adventures while having none of her own.
To be planning a wedding of her own felt strangely unreal.
Yet it was her life. Her choice. Her future.
And she intended to embrace it fully.
***
That evening, they dined together in the small breakfast room—now pressed into service for intimate dinners, since neither of them could bear the formality of the great dining hall. Christian was quieter than usual, a slight furrow between his brows that suggested the letter to her father had not progressed well.
“What troubles you?” Fiona asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand.
He sighed and set down his fork. “I have written seventeen drafts of that blasted letter, and none of them will do. Each sounds either abject or insufferably proud. I cannot seem to strike the proper tone.”
“What are you attempting to say?”
“That I love you. That I wish to marry you. That I know my reputation is hardly what any father would desire for his child, but that I will spend the rest of my life devoted to your happiness.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It sounds simple enough when I say it to you. On paper, however, the words become stiff and formal—as though I were proposing a business arrangement rather than a marriage.”
Fiona considered this.
“Perhaps that is because you are writing to my father, whom you have never met. You are attempting to persuade a stranger of your worth.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop.” She squeezed his hand. “Stop trying to persuade him, and simply tell him the truth. Tell him what you told me this morning—that you love me, that you never expected to love anyone, that you intend to spend every day of our marriage striving to deserve me. My father is not a warm man, but he is not unreasonable. He will respond to honesty far better than to carefully composed rhetoric.”
Christian was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“You are right,” he said. “You are almost always right. It is extremely vexing.”
“You will grow accustomed to it.”
“I look forward to the attempt.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “For the next fifty years, at least.”
***
They retired early that evening—to his chambers, which had gradually become theirs without either of them ever remarking upon the change. Fiona lay in his arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Are you frightened?” she asked softly. “Of what lies ahead?”
“Terrified.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “But not of marrying you. That is the only part that does not trouble me. It is everything else—your family, society, the scrutiny that will follow us. I have spent years avoiding the world. The thought of stepping back into it, even for you, is… daunting.”
“You will not be alone. I will be beside you. At every ball, every dinner party, every whispered conversation behind fans. I will be there, reminding you that you are loved.”
