But Lady Ashworth possessed both confidence and social authority, and in London society those qualities often proved more persuasive than the truth. If she claimed familiarity with both her nephew’s character and Miss Hart’s, and declared their conduct entirely proper, many people were inclined—if not to believe her entirely—at least to repeat the story rather than the uglier alternatives.
It had helped.
Not entirely, of course. The whispers still followed Fiona wherever she went.
Fiona heard them all.
She pretended she did not.
Her parents had been informed of her whereabouts, and her mother had descended upon Curzon Street within days—full of tears, reproaches, and urgent demands that Fiona return home at once. There had been a scene in Lady Ashworth’s drawing room: Lady Hart weeping and scolding in equal measure, Lady Ashworth receiving the storm with unruffled composure, and Fiona herself sitting silent between them.
At last, a compromise had been reached.
Fiona would remain in London for the Season under Lady Ashworth’s protection. Appearances would be maintained. Invitations accepted. Suitable gentlemen introduced.
In time—so her mother firmly believed—a respectable marriage might yet repair the damage done to her reputation.
It was a sensible arrangement.
A practical one.
The sort of solution Fiona herself might once have proposed.
She despised it.
But she submitted to it, partly because she had not the strength left to argue, and partly because some small, stubborn corner of her heart still clung to hope.
Hope that Christian would come for her.
That he would find the courage she had begged of him. That one morning, he would appear on Lady Ashworth’s doorstep—hair disordered, eyes fierce with determination—and demand the future they had both once dreamt of.
But he did not come.
Days turned into weeks. The Season was now fully underway, and Fiona found herself swept up in the whirlwind of balls and soirées and afternoon calls that constituted polite society. She danced with eligible gentlemen and made small talk with their mothers and smiled until her face ached. She wore beautiful gowns and styled her hair in fashionable arrangements and pretended to be the respectable young lady her family wanted her to be.
And every night, alone in her pretty guest chamber, she took out Christian’s handkerchief and pressed it to her face and wept.
“You have an admirer.”
Lady Ashworth made the announcement over breakfast one morning, her tone carefully neutral, though her eyes were sharp with observation. She was a handsome woman in her late fifties, with Christian’s dark hair and strong features—though without the birthmark that had so shaped his life. She had been kind to Fiona—genuinely kind, not merely polite—but she was also perceptive enough to see what Fiona was attempting to conceal.
“I have several admirers, according to the gossip columns.” Fiona did not look up from her toast. “Most of them appear to be chiefly interested in scandal.”
“This one is different.” Lady Ashworth slid a calling card across the table. “Lord Weston. Third son of the Marquess ofHartington. Six-and-twenty, agreeable in manner, possessed of a comfortable fortune, and—by all accounts—a genuinely decent young man.”
Fiona glanced at the card without interest. “And why, precisely, should I concern myself with Lord Weston?”
“Because he has called three times this week, each time asking particularly for you. Because he danced with you twice at Lady Morrison’s ball and spent the entire evening enquiring after your opinions rather than staring at your décolletage. Because he appears to be a gentleman who sees you as something more than a scandal to be stared at.”
“How refreshing.”
“Fiona.” Lady Ashworth’s voice sharpened slightly. “I understand that your affections are otherwise engaged. I understand that you are waiting for my nephew to remember that he possesses a spine. But I must speak plainly: Christian may never come. He has spent his entire life retreating from love, and there is no guarantee he will cease doing so now.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Lady Ashworth regarded her steadily. “Because from where I sit, you appear to be a young woman who has placed her life in abeyance in the expectation that a miracle will occur.”
She leaned forward, her expression softening.
