Fi turned to look at her friend. Amelia’s curls were perfectly set. Despite her condition, she dressed in the height of fashion. She spoke perfectly. She ran her household with the same military precision with which she ran the firm. She had been theton’s diamond, raised to a life ruling the aristocracy. “Ye spent years training to be Edward’s duchess. How much of that time was spent playing the pianoforte and embroidering cushions? Would you go back to that life?”
Amelia put both hands around her belly protectively. “No. But to be fair to Edward, I probably would have been perfectly happy had that remained my future. I didn’t know any other kind of life existed.”
Fi crossed to where Amelia sat and knelt, so their eyes were level. “But I do! And that’s the point. How could I possibly become a society matron who plans dinner parties and arranges flowers when I could have a career?”
Amelia reached out a hand and cupped Fiona’s cheek. “Remind me to bring you some geraniums and touch-me-nots tomorrow.”
“Why? What does that mean in your language of flowers, my disdain for which is another reason why I cannae be alady?”
Amelia’s caress became a pat. A forceful one. “That I’m getting impatient with your stupidity.”
“What?” Fiona asked, rubbing her cheek. It hadn’t actually hurt physically, but the insult had certainly stung.
“I think you’re making up excuses—pitiable ones at that. If you don’t want to arrange flowers, pay someone to do it. Mrs. Phillips is more than capable of planning a dinner menu on her own, and I doubt very much that Edward has ever suggested you play an instrument.”
Fiona recoiled from the inconvenient truth in those words. “He may nae have suggested an instrument, but he did say I would no longer be working,” she said defensively.
If she had thought the eye roll Amelia gave her earlier was dismissive, it was nothing compared to the eye roll Amelia gave now at the news of her ex-fiancé’s comment.
“Well, men say a lot of imbecilic things that are simply better to ignore. The truth is, you’re both going to have to compromise. It’s not going to be easy. But it’s doable. And I know you already know that.” Amelia grasped Fiona’s hands. “So, what’s the truth, Fi? Why did you really leave London?”
Fiona thought back to that night, to the realization that the archbishop was already there. That she had no choice but to marry Edward. “He took control of my life. I didnae even have a choice. He forced me to marry him when I’d already said no.”
Amelia released her. “Pish.You were in control of every event that put you in that room. What you experienced was not powerlessness; it was consequences.”
“Oof.” Amelia’s censure felt like a blow to the midsection. This was why she’d chosen to hide in her office rather than visit her friend at home.
Amelia continued. “One might say that it was Edward who was left with no choice. That he had to marry you, despite how it would make you feel about him, or he had to watch the woman he loved hang.”
“Stop,” Fiona whispered. “Please stop.” She put a hand to her mouth to keep the sobs within. There was nothing she could do about the tears, though.
Amelia’s expression immediately shifted to concern. She stroked Fi’s hair gently. “What is it, sweetheart? What made you leave London?”
“He does nae love me,” she said through sobs. “He told me so. He said he did nae want to marry me. I lied to him. I ruined his good name. I betrayed him. How could I stay there and see him every day, knowing the damage I’d done? I’m not strong enough to endure a daily reminder of the love that I’d lost. I cannae bear to be left again.”
Amelia pulled Fiona’s head to her lap and let her cry. “Well, then. That is a pickle.”
***
“Well, haven’t you bollocksed it all up?”
Edward looked up from the glass of scotch that was sitting in the middle of his ledgers. He hadn’t noticed the room darken around him, but only weak light came through the open windows.
Slowly, his eyes focused on the figure standing in his doorway—tall, with the typical Stirling family black hair and blue eyes. Not William, though. That realization still hurt even through the numbing layers of drink.
“Cousin. When did you get here?”
Graham Dunburton’s expression was filled with pity. “I’ve been standing here for five minutes.” He strode forward and dropped this morning’s copy ofThe Timeson the desk. The headline readDUCHESS OF DECEPTION.
Edward stared at it for a long moment before picking it up and tossing it into the basket under his desk. It had been almost a week since Fiona had appeared before the magistrate, and the gossip whirlwind was not yet running out of steam.
Soon, the press would get tired of printing only the facts and would supplement their stories with biting commentary “from sources close to the Wildeforde family.” Simmons had already had an influx of unsolicited applicants for service roles, despite not advertising any vacancies. No doubt these people saw a chance to better their lives by selling out his.
“Here, join me for a drink,” Edward said. He pushed his own glass toward Graham, then thought better of it and stood, balance slightly askew, and retrieved another glass from the shelf.
“You don’t drink,” Graham replied, looking at him with an arched brow.
“Correction. Ididn’tdrink.” He tipped the empty glass in his cousin’s direction. “But now that I’ve got no reputation to protect, I figured I might as well start.”
