Chapter Twelve
“Absolutely not.”
Christian’s voice was flat and final—the voice of a man who had made his decision and did not intend to be moved.
Fiona, who had faced that voice before and prevailed, was not deterred.
“You cannot hide in this castle forever,” she said, settling into the chair across from his desk with an air of determined patience. “You have tenants who know you chiefly through letters and your steward. Merchants who supply your household and have never met you in person. An entire village that has spent years whispering about the Beast of Thornwick without ever encountering the man himself.”
“And I see no reason to alter that arrangement.”
“The reason is me.” She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “I am going to be your wife, Christian. Presumably. Eventually. And I refuse to spend the rest of my life sequestered in this castle because you are afraid of what people might think when they see you.”
“I am not afraid—”
“You are terrified. And that is understandable.” Her voice softened. “But you cannot let the terror win. Not anymore. Not when we have come so far.”
He was silent, his jaw working. She could see the struggle behind his eyes—the desire to please her battling the old, familiar dread of exposure, of judgement, of the cruelty he had learned to expect beyond these walls.
“The village is small,” she continued. “A few shops, a church, an inn. We need not stay long. We can walk through, show our faces, let them see that the Duke is a man like any other—”
“I am not a man like any other.” His voice was bitter. “That is precisely the problem.”
“You are exactly like any other in all the ways that matter. You are kind and intelligent and capable of great love. The birthmark does not change that. It has never changed that.” She reached across the desk and took his hand. “Come to the village with me, Christian. Let them see that the man they have imagined is not the man you truly are.”
He looked down at their joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm.
“And if they see exactly what they expect to see?” he asked quietly. “If they stare and whisper and turn away in disgust?”
“Then we will leave, and we will not return until you wish to.” She squeezed his hand. “But we will have tried. We will have given them the opportunity to surprise us.”
“I do not like surprises.”
“I know. But the world can occasionally be kinder than we expect.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sighed.
“One hour,” he said. “We go for one hour, and then we return.”
Fiona smiled.
“That is all I ask.”
***
The carriage ride to the village took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes during which Christian’s tension mounted steadily, his shoulders growing more rigid with every passing mile. He sat across from Fiona with his hands fisted on his knees, staring out the window at the passing countryside as though it were an approaching enemy. Molly rode quietly near the door, attending her mistress as propriety required.
“Breathe,” Fiona said gently.
“I am breathing.”
“You are holding your breath and then gasping. That is not the same thing.” She moved beside him, taking one of his clenched hands and easing it open, threading her fingers through his. “Tell me about the village.”
“Thornwick,” he said. “Like the castle. It grew up around the estate centuries ago. Most of the villagers are tenants, or descended from tenants, or work for merchants who supply the household.”
“So they depend on you.”
