He could not. The thought itself was intolerable.
He did not want a life without her.
He wanted Fiona.
He wanted her laughter in the halls, her quick temper and sharper wit, the way she looked at him as though the birthmark he had been taught to despise was nothing more than another part of the man she loved.
He wanted the future they had imagined together—wildflowers in the chapel ruins, children racing through the gardens, her voice calling his name across the wind-swept cliffs.
He wanted all of it.
And he knew, with a clarity that left no room for doubt, that the only way to have it was to go to her.
Every morning, he woke with the same resolve.
Today, he would do it. He would order the carriage, ride to London, discover where she was staying, and beg her forgiveness. He would kneel before her if necessary—before all of society, if it came to that—and declare his love in terms that could not be mistaken.
Every morning, he believed himself ready.
And every day, something held him back.
Fear, mostly. The old, familiar terror that had ruled his life for eight-and-twenty years.
What if she had already begun to forget him?
What if the weeks apart had given her the distance to see clearly what he had always believed—that she deserved better than him?
What if he arrived in London only to find her walking in Hyde Park on the arm of some handsome, untroubled gentleman—someone without scars, without shadows, without the long history of pain that seemed to cling to Christian Hale wherever he went?
The thought hollowed him out.
So, he stayed at Thornwick. He ate his meals and attended his duties and told himself that he was preparing, gathering his strength, working up to the grand gesture that would win her back.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
He was still hiding. Still running. Still letting fear make his decisions for him.
And he hated himself for it.
The letter arrived on a grey Tuesday morning, delivered with the rest of the post on a silver salver.
Christian almost did not open it. The handwriting was unfamiliar—feminine, elegant, clearly educated—and he assumed it was another piece of society correspondence, some invitation to an event he would never attend from a hostess who was either very brave or very foolish to extend it.
But something made him break the seal anyway. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the vague, irrational hope that it might somehow be connected to Fiona.
He unfolded the letter and began to read.
Your Grace,
I hope you will pardon the liberty I take in addressing you. We have not had the honour of a formal introduction, though I have heard a great deal of you from a common acquaintance—Miss Fiona Hart.
Christian’s heart stuttered.
I write first to express my thanks for the kindness you extended to Miss Hart following her unfortunate accident earlier this year. She speaks of her stay at Thornwick Castle with the greatest gratitude, and I understand that you took considerable care to ensure her comfort and safety during her recovery. Such attentions are not easily forgotten, and I thought it only proper that you should know they are sincerely appreciated.
I also wished to assure you that Miss Hart is in good health. She is presently residing with your aunt, Lady Ashworth, and has been received in society with all the grace and composure that one might expect of a lady of her character. While there has been some unkind speculation regarding the circumstances of her stay in Yorkshire, the matter has not proved so damaging as many feared, and there is every reason to believe that she will make an excellent match before the Season concludes.
Christian’s blood ran cold.
