“A solution?”
“They hoped it would fade. The birthmark. That it was some temporary affliction that would vanish with time.” His laugh held no humour. “When it became clear that it would not, they turned their hopes to concealment. High collars, careful tailoring, a lifetime of hiding. Physicians were summoned. Charlatans as well—anyone who claimed a cure. I endured poultices, tinctures, and one particularly memorable treatment involving leeches. None of it worked. Nothing ever did.”
Fiona’s heart ached. She tried to imagine him as a child—small and frightened, subjected to painful remedies by adults who regarded his very existence as a defect to be corrected.
“How old were you,” she asked softly, “when the treatments stopped?”
“Twelve. That was when my father died—a riding accident, sudden and quite final—and I became the duke.” Christian’s voice was steady, almost distant, as though he spoke of another boy’s life rather than his own. “After that, my mother removed herself to the dower house. She did not withdraw from me entirely, but… she struggled. For a long while, she could scarcely bear to look at the mark without flinching. I think she hated herself for it.”
“She was afraid?” Fiona asked gently.
“Yes. And ashamed of that fear.” He drew a quiet breath. “My father had made it clear what he thought of me, and she lived under the weight of that judgement for years. When he died, she tried—truly she did—to mend what had been broken between us. She visited. Sat with me. Forced herself to meet my eyes even when it pained her. But grief and guilt had worn her thin, and there were days when the effort was more than she could manage.”
Christian’s mouth curved faintly, though the expression held more weariness than amusement.
“Yes. I believe that now. As a boy, I could not understand it. I thought her distance meant disappointment—that I was a constant reminder of what my father believed she had failed to give him. But she was grieving, and trying, in her own imperfect way, to love a son the world had taught her to fear.”
He stopped walking then and turned to face Fiona.
“I tell you this not to invite pity,” he said quietly, “but because you deserve to know the history of the man you are about to marry. The wounds that shaped him.”
“I know what I am marrying.”
She lifted her hands and cupped his face, feeling the rough warmth of stubble beneath her palms.
“I am marrying a man who survived cruelty without allowing it to harden his heart. A man who built a life in spite of everything that tried to diminish him. A man who learned kindness even when kindness was not always easy to find.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I give you exactly the credit you deserve.”
She rose on her toes and kissed him—softly, tenderly, a promise rather than a demand.
“Your past does not frighten me, Christian,” she murmured. “It only makes me love you more.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. For a moment, they remained there, wrapped in mist and silence, two souls holding one another against the long shadow of the past.
Then he took her hand and led her onward, toward the chapel.
The ruin emerged from the mist like something out of a fairy tale.
It had once been a small church, Fiona realised—a single nave, a crumbling bell tower, walls that had once been stout stone but were now more ivy than masonry. The roof had long since collapsed, leaving the interior open to the pale sky, and wildflowers pushed bravely through the cracks in the flagstones.
“It was built in the twelfth century,” Christian said as he guided her through the gap where the door had once stood. “A chapel for the family. But the Hales of that era were not especially devout, and it gradually fell into neglect. By the time I was born, it was already a ruin.”
“It is beautiful.”
Fiona turned slowly, taking in the fallen stones, the wildflowers, the soft light filtering through the mist.
“It feels… peaceful. As though the world cannot quite reach this place.”
“That is exactly how it felt to me as a boy.”
He settled upon a fallen pillar and patted the space beside him in invitation.
“I used to imagine that if I remained here long enough, I might become invisible. That the stone would absorb me, and I would become part of the ruin. Then no one would ever be forced to look at me again.”
Fiona’s shoulder pressed against his. “And now? What do you imagine when you come here?”
