“We shall go to Lady Ashworth,” she said at last. “Christian’s aunt. He once told me she is the only member of his family still living who ever treated him with kindness. Perhaps she can—perhaps she will know what ought to be done.”
It was a fragile hope, scarcely more than a whisper. But it was all she had.
And for now, it would have to be enough.
Chapter Seventeen
The first day, Christian did not leave his chambers.
He sat in the armchair by the cold fireplace—the same chair where Fiona had brushed his hair. The servants knocked from time to time, bringing trays of food and making discreet enquiries after his comfort. He dismissed them all.
He was not hungry. He was not tired. He was not anything, really, except empty.
The emptiness was a relief, in its way. It was better than the agony that waited at the edges of his consciousness, the grief that lurked like a predator in the shadows of his mind. As long as he stayed empty, stayed numb, he could survive. He could sit in this chair and breathe in and out and not think about the way she had looked at him from the carriage window, her face wet with tears, her eyes full of a sorrow that matched his own.
He could not think about that. If he thought about that, he would shatter.
So he sat, and he stared, and he let the hours crawl past like wounded animals.
Night fell. The room grew dark. He did not light a candle.
In the darkness, with no distractions to occupy his mind, the memories came.
Fiona storming his study with a fireplace poker, offering him an apology with all the fierce sincerity of a woman who refused to let pride stand in the way of what was right. Fiona touching his birthmark for the first time, her fingers gentle, her eyes full of wonder rather than revulsion. Fiona in his arms, in his bed, in his heart—laughing, arguing, loving him with a ferocity that should have been impossible.
Fiona walking away from him, her spine rigid, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
What we have shared is not so easily undone.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, but the memories would not stop. They poured through him like water through a broken dam, each one a fresh wound, each one a reminder of what he had thrown away.
He had done the right thing. He had to believe that. He had protected her from the scandal that would have consumed her, from the cruelty of a society that would never accept her as the wife of the Beast of Thornwick. He had set her free to find a better life, a better man, a future that did not include hiding in a crumbling castle with a monster who did not deserve her.
He had done the right thing.
So why did it feel like dying?
The second day, Mrs Blackley forced her way into his chambers.
She came armed with a tea tray and an expression of grim determination, and she did not flinch when Christian snarled at her to leave. She simply set the tray on the table beside his chair and stood before him, hands on hips, looking for all the world like a governess confronting a recalcitrant child.
“You ought to eat something, Your Grace.”
“I have no appetite.”
“That may be so,” she replied calmly, pouring a cup of tea, “but appetite is not always the point.” She placed the cup in his hands before he could refuse it. “Miss Hart would not wish to hear that you had neglected yourself in this fashion.”
The sound of Fiona’s name struck him like a blow.
“Do not speak of her.”
Mrs Blackley’s brows drew together slightly. “And why should I not, Your Grace? Because the subject is uncomfortable?” Her tone sharpened, though she did not raise her voice. “I daresay it ought to be.”
“You forget yourself—”
“Perhaps,” she said evenly. “But I have served this family for thirty years, and I have earned the right to speak plainly when it is needed.”
She folded her hands before her and continued.
