Indeed, it is partly on that account that I venture to write to you today. Lord Weston, the third son of the Marquess ofHartington, has of late shown Miss Hart a marked degree of attention. He is a gentleman of excellent character and comfortable fortune, and it is widely believed that he intends to make a formal declaration of his intentions within the fortnight.
Miss Hart has not yet accepted him, of course, though I see little reason she should refuse. Lord Weston possesses every quality that might recommend a man to a prudent young lady—kindness of disposition, respectable connections, and a future of undeniable security. A match between them would, I imagine, do much to quiet whatever unfortunate rumours have arisen.
I thought it right that you should hear of these developments. Miss Hart speaks of you with such warmth that I cannot but suppose you hold her in some esteem, and I would be sorry if news of her engagement were to reach you first through the gossip of society rather than by a more direct hand.
I remain, Your Grace,
Your obedient servant,
A Friend
Christian read the letter three times.
Then he read it a fourth time, his hands shaking so badly that the paper trembled.
Lord Weston. A formal declaration. Within the fortnight.
Fiona was going to marry someone else.
She had said she would wait. She had promised, on the morning of her departure, that she would be there if he found his courage. She had told him she would never stop hoping.
But she was going to marry someone else.
Something inside Christian cracked.
It was not anger—not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal, a howl of anguish that rose from the very core of his being.
She was slipping away. The woman he loved, the only person who had ever truly seen him, was about to pledge herself to another man.
And he was sitting here, in his drafty castle, doing nothing.
You have the power to make a different choice,her voice echoed in his memory.You just refuse to use it.
She was right. She had always been right. He had let fear dictate his every decision, had convinced himself thatnoble suffering was somehow superior to messy happiness, had pushed away the only woman who had ever loved him because he was too terrified to believe he deserved her.
And now he was about to lose her forever.
No.
The word rose up from somewhere deep inside him, fierce and absolute.
No. He would not let this happen. He would not sit here and watch his future slip away while some pleasant, uncomplicated lord claimed the woman who should be his.
He was done hiding. Done running. Done letting the voices in his head tell him he was worthless.
Fiona had asked him to be brave. She had begged him to fight for them. And he had failed her, again and again, because the fear was easier than the fight.
Not anymore.
Christian stood so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor behind him. He strode to the door and yanked it open, nearly colliding with Mrs Blackley, who was passing in the corridor with an armload of linens.
“Your Grace!” The housekeeper stumbled back, her eyes wide. “Is something—”
“Ready my carriage.” His voice was rough, urgent. “I am going to London.”
“London? But Your Grace, the weather—the roads—”
“I do not care about the weather. I do not care about the roads. I need to leave within the hour.”
