“I’ll never mind.” He took her hand in his, trying to ignore the frisson that shot through him as his hand cupped hers. Her skin was soft, but he could feel a scattering of small ridges on the backs of her hands. Her fingers were scarred, some rose pink from recent burns, others a white so pale they almost blended in with her skin, only the slight sheen of them indicating past accidents.
He tamped down the urge to press them to his lips. Instead, as gently as he could, he fastened the buttons over her bandage, leaving the outer one open so as to not press the knot into her wrist. He took her jacket and held it out for her as she slid awkwardly into it.
She winced as she pulled her left arm through, and his eyes closed in fellow feeling. When they opened, she’d turned—still within the circle of his arms—and faced him, her own eyes clouded as though she too felt the bond between them, once strong then shattered, now intensified beyond what it ever had been.
He couldn’t help graze a hand along her cheek, and as she leaned into his palm, his heart thudded and his cock hardened and his other hand reached for her waist.
The jinglejangle of the front door sounded. Fiona colored and stepped back, putting a good foot between them. The loss of her nearness chilled him. He cleared his throat to mask the awkward moment.
“Here.” He reached out for the cravat that hung around her neck, but she waved him off.
“Let’s just leave it undone,” she said. “It’s a bit roguish, don’t you think?”
It was a valiant attempt to change the mood, so he played along. “Incredibly roguish. I might have to beat the ladies away from you.”
She snorted, the least ladylike noise a woman could make, yet the sound made him smile. As they exited the modiste’s, Edward’s carriage was still waiting outside. “You can go back to the house, Swinton. McTavish and I will walk.”
Chapter 15
Staring at her reflection in the oversized mirror that hung in her guest dressing room, Fiona tucked a stray hair under her wig. Wilde and his siblings would have already gathered in the billiards room, but Fiona was dragging her feet.
What had come over her? She’d never discussed her journey from Scotland to Abingdale with anyone. Her father hadn’t bothered to ask how she’d gotten there, and when John had enquired years later, she’d glossed over it. It was done and dusted. Nothing was going to change her experiences of those weeks, and sharing them would only result in criticism or pity. She didn’t want either.
Which was why telling Edward the truth of those days had been an unexpected choice for her to make. An unconscious one too. Something she hadn’t realized she was doing until the words were out. In that moment, she’d felt inexplicably safe.
His reaction had been just as unexpected. If you’d asked her beforehand, she’d have suggested he’d call her foolish or stubborn or damnably arrogant to think she could have gone on such a perilous journey on her own.
But he seemed to have understood that she’d had no choice. He hadn’t criticized her or smothered her with pity. He’d simply expressed empathy and care—even when she’d described how perilous some moments had been. His voice had steeled, and for a moment she’d expected to witness the wrath of the duke.
Instead, she’d witnessed the Edward she remembered: kind, curious, sensitive. Someone who listened rather than dictated. But there had been more to it. There was something about the self-assurance of the duke that made her feel secure—so secure, she’d almost kissed him again.
She sighed and tugged on the bottom edge of her waistcoat. It was so much easier to engage with him when anger fueled her, but she couldn’t honestly say she was angry anymore.
Confused? Yes. She didn’t understand why today’s Edward, the one that seemed to genuinely care for her, would have broken their relationship off so abruptly. But angry? No. That emotion had burned out.
She buffed her shoes with a bit of spit and a handkerchief until they shone. Tonight, she would do her best to make friendly, polite conversation. When Charlotte and William were otherwise occupied, she would find a moment to thank Edward for all he’d done for her since he’d sprung her from jail, and she would let him know that she’d forgiven him for everything that came beforehand.
And what could come next? It was daft to even consider anything other than them going their separate ways after the trial. He did not want her as his duchess and she didn’t want to be one, because she was an independent, intelligent woman.
But not wanting to be a duchess didn’t preclude her from wantinghim. As much as the logical part of her brain resisted, the illogical organ in her chest was drawn to him.
***
The hammering of her heart increased as she walked down the hall connecting the two wings. Just to the side of the open door, she paused, willing herself to get her nerves under control. That’s when she heard Charlotte.
“So, that’s what I want to do,” Charlotte said. “I want to volunteer at Miss Marcham’s school for underprivileged women. I can teach them deportment and help them transition into real jobs. They could be nannies or housemaids, maybe even lady’s maids if they have the skills.”
Fiona smiled. The plan was bold. A young woman of thetonspending her time with that part of society was unheard of. Charlotte clearly had her brother’s confidence. It must come with being part of royalty—wealth, power, assurance. Charlotte was using that privilege to subvert the establishment that gave it to her. How impressive.
Fiona was about to walk in and congratulate the youngest Stirling sibling, perhaps offer some help with the strategy, when Edward’s firm voice stopped her.
“No.”
“But Ned—”
“It’s out of the question. While it’s a kind and well-intentioned thought, it’s not appropriate for a young lady to have such close dealings with the masses. There are more fitting ways for you to spend your time.”
“But no one is championing these women and someone must.”
