“Christian—”
“I know.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “I know what you are going to say—that their opinions do not matter, that we have each other and that is enough. And you are right—you are always right—but that does not mean I am not afraid.”
“Good.” She kissed his fingertip before pushing his hand gently aside. “Fear means you care. Fear means this matters to you. I do not want a man who faces the world with arrogant indifference; I want a man who is terrified and does it anyway.”
“And if I falter?”
“Then I shall hold you up.” She took his hands in hers, gripping them firmly. “We face it together, Christian. Whatever comes—the gossip, the scandal, our relatives—we meet it side by side. That is what marriage means.”
He stared at her, this extraordinary woman who had crashed into his life during a storm and refused to leave, no matter how determined he had been to drive her away. She was fierce and stubborn and far too good for him, and he loved her more than he had ever loved anything.
“How did I become so fortunate?” he asked quietly.
“You rescued me from a wrecked carriage during a storm. I should say that must count somewhat in your favour.”
Despite everything, he laughed.
A knock at the door interrupted whatever he might have said next. Lady Ashworth’s voice came through the wood, dry and faintly amused.
“If you two are quite finished with your reunion, breakfast is being served downstairs. And I believe there are one or two matters we ought to discuss.”
Christian and Fiona exchanged a look.
“We should probably—” she began.
“Yes.” He reluctantly released her and stepped back. “Though I warn you, my aunt will be insufferable about this.”
Fiona smiled. “Good. You deserve a little humbling.”
She was right about that too.
Lady Ashworth was waiting for them in the breakfast room, seated at the head of the table with a cup of tea and an expression of barely concealed triumph.
“Ah,” she said as they entered. “The prodigal nephew returns—and looking rather worse for wear, I must say.”
“Aunt.” Christian inclined his head stiffly. “You are looking well.”
“I am looking smug, which is not quite the same thing.” She gestured to the chairs on either side of her. “Sit. Eat. Then you may explain how you came to appear on my doorstep at dawn looking like something the cat dragged in.”
They sat. A footman appeared with fresh tea and toast, and Christian realised with sudden clarity that he was ravenous. He had not eaten since leaving Thornwick and had barely drunk any water.
The food before him seemed almost miraculous.
He had eaten three pieces of toast before Lady Ashworth cleared her throat.
“The letter,” she said. “The one that brought you here. May I see it?”
Christian reached into his coat pocket—still damp from the journey—and produced the folded paper. He handed it across the table, watching his aunt’s face as she read.
Her expression did not change.
“Interesting,” she said at last, setting the letter down. “Very interesting indeed.”
“Do you know who wrote it?”
“I have my suspicions.” Lady Ashworth lifted her teacup thoughtfully. “The hand is disguised, but the sentiment is… familiar. And there are only a handful of people in this house who knew enough of Miss Hart’s situation to compose such a message.”
A small movement came from the doorway.
