Mrs Blackley stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face.
“I am very glad to hear it, Your Grace.”
She hurried away, leaving Christian standing in the corridor with his heart pounding and his mind racing.
He was going to London. He was going to find Fiona. He was going to get down on his knees and beg her to forgive him for being the world’s greatest fool.
And if Lord Weston had already proposed—if she had already accepted—
He could not think about that. He would not think about that. He would focus on the journey ahead, on the words he would say when he saw her, on the future he was finally, finally ready to fight for.
Please,he thought, as he strode toward his chambers to pack.Please let me not be too late.
***
The storm began an hour into the journey.
It came out of nowhere—one moment the sky was grey but calm, the next it was a churning mass of black clouds, rain hammering against the carriage windows with a violence that reminded Christian of the night Fiona had arrived at Thornwick.
The night he had carried her through the darkness and changed both their lives forever.
He should have taken it as a sign. Should have ordered the driver to stop, to wait out the storm, to proceed with caution. The roads were treacherous in weather like this; the very cliff road where he had found her was notorious for accidents in high winds.
But Christian could not wait. Every moment of delay was a moment closer to losing her, a moment in which Lord Weston might be sliding a ring onto her finger and claiming her forever.
“Drive on,” he called to the coachman through the small window. “Never mind the storm. Only get me to London.”
The coachman shouted something back—a protest, perhaps, or a warning—but Christian could not hear it over the wind. He sat back against the seat and stared out at the rain-lashed darkness, his jaw set, his hands clenched in his lap.
He would reach London by morning. He would go to his aunt’s townhouse—and he would demand to see Fiona.
And then...
He did not know what would happen then. He did not know what he would say, how he would explain himself, how he could possibly make up for the weeks of silence and suffering he had caused.
All he knew was that he had to try.
The carriage made good time despite the weather.
They stopped twice to change horses, Christian pacing the inn yards like a restless sentinel while the ostlers worked with practised speed. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He spoke little, save to thank the men for their efforts and to press coins into their hands, urging them to make what haste they could without overtaxing themselves or the horses.
Dawn was breaking over London when they finally clattered through the city streets, the storm having blown itself out somewhere in the small hours of the night. The sky was pale and washed-clean, the cobblestones gleaming with rain, and the early morning light gave everything a strange, dreamlike quality.
Christian directed the driver to Curzon Street, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
What if she was not there? What if she was at Lord Weston’s townhouse, accepting his proposal at this very moment? What if he had come all this way only to discover that he was, as he had always feared, too late?
The carriage stopped in front of a handsome townhouse with green-painted shutters and a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Christian did not wait for the footman; he threwopen the carriage door and leapt down to the pavement, striding up the steps with a purpose that left no room for hesitation.
He raised his hand to knock—and the door swung open.
Lady Ashworth stood in the entrance hall, still in her dressing gown, her hair in a long silver braid over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him: wild-haired, unshaven, still wearing the clothes he had thrown on at Thornwick nearly twenty-four hours ago.
“Christian.” Her voice was a mixture of shock and something that sounded almost like relief. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”
“Where is she?” He stepped past his aunt into the hall, his gaze darting about as though he might discover Fiona behind the nearest door. “Where is Fiona? I must see her. I must—”
“Christian.” Lady Ashworth caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Christian, look at me.”
