Edward tugged at the cuff of his coat, avoiding her gaze. Her swift intake of air told him when she’d put the pieces together.
“You aren’t going to speak for me!”
It took every ounce of his control not to run his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Fiona, be reasonable. At the moment, the only story the newspapers have is of another rally gotten out of control. If I enter the courtroom, tomorrow we’ll both find ourselves on the front page of the gossip section.”
“You…oh…” She clenched her fists. “I should have expected this.” She whirled away from him and toward Rollins. “I assume we’ll be taking your carriage then? Wouldn’t want the illustrious Wildeforde crest to be seen in the wrong part of town.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, miss.” He looked at Edward with a confused expression.
Edward waved his hand. There was no reasoning with her, and showing up to court any later than she already was would certainly not help. “Finley it is, then. On your head be it,sir.”
Fionahmphed and stalked out of the room. Rollins looked to Wildeforde for direction.
“Do not botch this,” Edward said, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.
Rollins frowned. “I’ve never given you a reason to doubt me, Your Grace.”
“And I’ve never felt the need to suggest you might. But if you value your career, Fiona McTavish will not go to jail. Understood?”
Rollins swallowed. “Understood, Your Grace.”
Chapter 6
In the three hours Fiona was gone, Edward had paced every inch of the room. He’d counted the number of books on the bookshelf, all sturdylegal tomes. He’d studied the well-worn leather armchairs, counting the number of metal studs along the edging. And he spent more time than he’d care to admit staring out the window, waiting for his lawyer’s serviceable carriage to pull up out front.
There was no need to worry. Disturbing the peace was a minor infraction. Merely attending a protest rally, even one that had gotten out of control, was not a legitimate cause to send a person to jail. Particularly not when that person was represented by one of the best barristers in London.
But knowing that he did not need to worry was not the same as not worrying. Every inch of him itched to walk into the courtroom, pull the magistrate aside, and have a quiet word to smooth the whole mess over. A quiet word from the Duke of Wildeforde could always put out a fire.
But he had to balance the dangers of Fiona’s going to jail with subjecting his family to ridicule. His family, their happiness, came first. Family always had to come first.
He needed to trust Rollins to manage the situation, even if trusting other people to manage things of importance had never come easily. Particularly not when it came to the people he—his fingers tightened around the window frame—people who mattered. Fiona mattered. They might not ever be able to have a life together, but she still mattered.
A fish out of water dies gasping.
He began to count the windows in the building opposite, alternating between French and German. It was a trick he’d learned from Amelia. A way of occupying the mind.
He couldn’t get past “sechs” before his thoughts drifted back to Fi. Last night he’d been cursed by dreams of her. They’d started out benign—fleeting memories of her laughing, reading, lying on her back and pointing out stars. Images that tugged at his heart, an organ he’d spent years ignoring.
It was the memories that came next that caused his restless, broken sleep—of the crush of her lips, the press of her body against his, the scent of jasmine and honey in her hair as he trailed kisses down her neck. Those memories, which tugged at a place farther down than his chest, were the ones that kept pulling at him, dragging his attention.
Twelve windows on the top floor.
One, deux, drei…
Her hands wrapped into his lapels.
One, deux, drei…
His hands reaching beneath her shirt.
Three, vier, quatre…
By the time the carriage pulled up in front of the offices, the sun was starting to set. Stark shadows thrown by London’s skyline were offset against the radiant oranges and pinks of the sky.
He moved away from the window before Fiona could see him brooding and sat in the armchair with its 284 metal studs, bringing with him a book to make it appear as though he hadn’t been anxiously waiting for them to return.
About a minute later the door opened. Rollins entered first. Sweat beaded across his brow and he looked at Edward the way one might look at a rabid dog.
