“Well,” she said. “That explains everything rather neatly.”
Fiona looked between them; her expression caught somewhere between astonishment and amusement.
“You engineered this entire thing?” she asked Molly.
Molly flushed. “I only wrote the letter, miss.”
“And a very effective letter it was,” Lady Ashworth said dryly.
Christian looked at Fiona. Fiona looked at Christian.
And despite everything—the deception, the anxiety of the past weeks, the wild journey through the storm—they both began to laugh.
“You are all impossible,” Christian said.
“‘Resourceful,’ more like,” Lady Ashworth replied, rising from her chair and brushing the crumbs from her skirts. “Now,if you will excuse me, I have arrangements to make. Lady Morrison’s ball is tomorrow evening, and I believe the two of you have an announcement to prepare.”
“An announcement?” Fiona’s laughter faded. “You mean—publicly?”
“Of course publicly. You are engaged to a duke, my dear. The ton will expect to hear it from the source.” Lady Ashworth’s smile turned sharp. “And more importantly, they will expect to see him. The Beast of Thornwick emerging from his lair to claim his bride. It will be the scandal of the Season.”
Christian felt his stomach drop.
Lady Morrison’s ball. The event of the Season. Hundreds of people, all of whom had heard the rumours, all of whom were waiting to see whether the stories about him were true.
“I do not know if I can—” he began.
“You can.” Fiona’s hand found his beneath the table, her fingers intertwining with his own. “We can. Together.”
He looked at her. At the determination in her grey eyes, the set of her jaw, the fierce certainty that had carried her through storms both literal and metaphorical.
She believed in him. Even after everything, she believed in him.
The least he could do was try to believe in himself.
“Together,” he agreed.
Lady Ashworth beamed. “Excellent. I shall send word to my modiste immediately. If we are to cause a scandal, we may as well look spectacular while doing it.”
She swept from the room, Molly bobbing a quick curtsey before slipping quietly after her, leaving Christian and Fiona alone with their half-eaten breakfast and the weight of what lay ahead.
“Your aunt is terrifying,” Fiona said after a moment.
“She is a force of nature.” Christian turned her hand over in his, tracing the lines of her palm. “Rather like someone else I know.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth-teller.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Are you certain about this? The ball, the announcement—everything? Once we do this, there will be no going back. We shall be the subject of gossip for months. Years, perhaps.”
“I have been the subject of gossip since I arrived at Thornwick.” Fiona’s voice was steady. “A few more months will not kill me.”
“And if it is worse than you expect? If they are crueller than you imagine?”
“Then I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I am married to the most fascinating man in England.” She smiled.“And you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are married to the most stubborn woman in England. Between us, we should be able to weather anything.”
Christian wanted to argue—wanted to point out all the ways this might go wrong, all the pain and humiliation that might await them, all the reasons a sensible person would run in the opposite direction.
But he was done being sensible. Done letting fear decide his course.
