“I am not suggesting that you marry Lord Weston tomorrow. I am merely suggesting that you allow yourself to consider the possibility of other futures. That you cease treating your time in London as a sentence to be endured and begin regarding it as an opportunity.”
Fiona set down her toast.
“And if I do not wish for other futures?” she asked quietly. “If I wish only for Christian?”
“Then you may find yourself waiting a very long time.” Lady Ashworth’s voice was gentle but resolute. “I love my nephew. I have loved him always—even when the rest of the family chose not to see him. But I also know him. I know his fears, his wounds, and his seemingly inexhaustible capacity for convincing himself that he does not deserve happiness.”
She sighed faintly.
“He may find his courage. He may come to you. But he may just as easily persuade himself that you are better off without him and spend the rest of his life alone in that draughty castle, mourning a happiness he was too afraid to claim.”
“That is a bleak assessment.”
“It is an honest one.” Lady Ashworth reached across the table and took Fiona’s hand. “I am not asking you to abandon hope. I am asking you to protect yourself. Leave the door open to happiness—even if it arrives from an unexpected direction.”
Fiona looked down at their joined hands. Lady Ashworth’s fingers were warm, her grip steady and reassuring. She meant well. Fiona knew that. She was attempting to help, in her practical, clear-sighted way.
But she did not understand.
She could not understand.
“I will receive Lord Weston,” Fiona said at last. “I will dance with him at the next ball, and make polite conversation, and behave precisely as society expects. But I will not pretend that my heart is available, because it is not. It belongs to Christian. It will always belong to Christian. No amount of practical advice will alter that.”
Lady Ashworth sighed.
“You are every bit as stubborn as he is.”
“Perhaps that is why we suit each other.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Ashworth released her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Very well. Receive Lord Weston. Dance with him. And try, at least, to keep an open mind. Life does not always unfold as we expect, Fiona—and happiness is sometimes found where we had not thought to seek it.”
Fiona inclined her head and returned to her toast.
She did not believe happiness would find her elsewhere.
She believed in Christian.
And she would wait for him for as long as she could bear it.
***
Lord Weston, as it transpired, was precisely as Lady Ashworth had described: agreeable and genuinely interested in Fiona as a person rather than a scandal.
He called the following afternoon, and Fiona received him in Lady Ashworth’s drawing room with all the composure her upbringing required. He was a handsome man—not striking, perhaps, but pleasant, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. He spoke of books and travel and politics, enquired after her opinions, and listened attentively to her replies. Not once did he mention the Duke of Thornwick or the rumours that clung to her stay at his estate.
It was, Fiona had to admit, refreshing.
“You seem distant, Miss Hart,” Lord Weston observed at one point, tilting his head slightly in mild enquiry. “I hope I have not said something to give offence.”
“Not at all.” Fiona forced a small smile. “I am merely… somewhat preoccupied. Pray forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. We all suffer moments of distraction.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I hope you know that you may speak freely with me. Whatever concerns weigh upon you, I should be honoured to help lighten them.”
It was a kind offer. A generous one. The sort of offer that, under different circumstances, might have stirred the faintest flutter of interest.
Instead, she felt only a dull ache.
“You are very kind, Lord Weston. But some burdens cannot easily be shared.”
