“Christian—”
“I allowed myself to believe, for the first time, that I might deserve something better than solitude.” His voice had grown rougher now. “But your father’s letter is a useful reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“Of what the world sees when it looks at me.”
Fiona’s heart clenched.
“Do not say that.”
“A man who lured an innocent woman into ruin,” he continued quietly. “A man who corrupted her reputation and cut her off from her family. A man selfish enough to keep her beside him despite knowing the price she will pay.”
“That is not what happened.”
“Is it not?”
She seized his arm.
“And so your solution is what? To surrender to their opinion?”
“To prevent it from becoming the truth.”
Her breath caught.
“What do you mean?”
Christian met her eyes then, and the pain she saw there struck deeper than anger ever could.
“I mean that perhaps we should end this,” he said. “Before the damage becomes permanent.”
The words hung between them, sharp and impossible.
“No,” Fiona said at once.
“It would be the sensible course.”
“I do not want the sensible course.”
“You deserve better than a lifetime of whispers.”
“I deserve the life I choose.”
Christian shook his head faintly.
“You think this is bravery. But it may simply be youth.”
“And you think this is nobility,” she shot back, “but it is cowardice.”
His expression tightened.
“You would be free to return to London. Your father would forgive you in time. The scandal would fade if it were not sealed by marriage.”
“And what of you?” she demanded.
“I have survived worse.”
“That is not an answer.”
