He would find a way to mend what he had broken—to reclaim what he had thrown aside—to become, at last, the man Fiona had always believed him capable of being.
For the first time in his life, he would choose courage.
That night, Mrs Blackley found him in the kitchen.
He was sitting at the servants’ table, eating a bowl of stew with the single-minded focus of a man who had not had a proper meal in weeks. His hair was still wild, his beard still unkempt, his clothes still dishevelled—but there was something different in his expression. Something that looked almost like determination.
“Your Grace.” Mrs Blackley’s voice was carefully neutral. “You are eating.”
“I am.”
“May I enquire what prompted this sudden return of appetite?”
Christian set down his spoon and looked at her.
“I very nearly did something unforgivable today,” he said quietly. “Something that would have wounded every person who has ever cared for me. Something that would have confirmed, once and for all, that I am precisely what the world has always believed me to be.”
Mrs Blackley’s face lost what little colour it possessed. “Your Grace—”
“I did not do it.” He lifted a hand gently to forestall her. “I stopped myself. Because I remembered what she said. What she asked of me.” He drew in a steady breath. “She asked me to be brave. She asked me to fight. And I have been far too occupied with my own misery to do either.”
“And now?”
“Now…” He glanced down at the bowl before him—the plain, hearty stew the cook had prepared for the servants’ supper. “Now I shall finish this meal. Tomorrow I shall bathe, shave, and present myself as a civilised human being once more. And after that…”
He paused.
“After that, I shall discover how I might persuade her to forgive me.”
Mrs Blackley’s eyes shone faintly. “You truly mean it?”
“I do.” He met her gaze, and for the first time in many days, there was something steady and resolute in his expression. “I have spent most of my life being afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of love, afraid of hope itself. But I find I am far more afraid of a life without her. Far more afraid of spending the rest of my days wondering what might have been.”
“And what will you do, Your Grace?”
Christian lifted his spoon again and resumed eating.
“I have not yet determined that,” he said between bites. “But I intend to find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lady Ashworth’s townhouse on Curzon Street was everything Thornwick Castle was not: bright, elegant, immaculately maintained, and filled with the constant bustle of a household that entertained frequently and well. The walls were papered in cheerful stripes, the furniture was fashionably modern, and fresh flowers appeared in every room as though by magic.
Fiona hated it.
Not Lady Ashworth herself—the woman had proven unexpectedly kind, taking in her nephew’s scandalous houseguest without a word of reproach and installing her in a pretty guest chamber with instructions to rest and recover from her “ordeal.” But the brightness grated on Fiona’s nerves, the elegance felt oppressive, and the constant parade of callers and cards and social obligations made her want to scream.
She missed the gloom of Thornwick. She missed the drafty corridors and the creaking floorboards and the water stain shaped like a rabbit. She missed the yellow parlour with its faded silk and antique furniture.
She missed Christian.
Three weeks had passed since Fiona’s arrival in London.
Three weeks of polite conversation and careful evasion, of smiling when required and ignoring the whispers that trailed behind her like shadows.
Lady Ashworth had done everything within her considerable power to shield her. Within days of Fiona’s arrival, the older woman had quietly begun circulating a particular version of events through the drawing rooms of Mayfair—one that suggested long-standing acquaintance between the Ashworth and Hart families, and implied that Fiona’s extended stay at Thornwick had been undertaken under Lady Ashworth’s tacit knowledge and approval.
It was not, strictly speaking, true.
