Edward flicked a look toward Fiona, full of guilt and apprehension.
Charlotte continued to tick off her fingers. “She needs to be agreeable. The last person we need to join the family is someone always in the mood for an argument.”
William nodded. “Oh yes, I concur. None of these overly progressive types who can’t seem to get through a meal without harping on about the plight of one unfortunate or another.”
Fiona drew in a long breath, preparing to deliver William an education. Edward stepped in before she could begin her lecture on the necessity of “progressive types.”
“That’s entirely inappropriate,” he said. “And demonstrates a remarkable lack of empathy for those we have a moral obligation to support.”
William cocked his head, looking at his brother with his brows furrowed. “So youwantto marry someone divisive?”
Edward closed his eyes and rubbed the spot between his brows. “I didn’t say that. I simply said that there wasn’t anything wrong with a woman who has such ideas.”
Oh. How comforting. The Duke of Wildeforde tolerated women with opinions.
“Then we can be agreed,” said Charlotte. “Such women are perfectly acceptable in society but not as a duchess.”
She could keep her tongue no longer. “What of intelligence? So far Edward’s wife needs to be pretty, amiable, able to plan a menu, and not have any radical ideas. She sounds awfully insipid. Should she have a mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” William said with not a hint of sarcasm as he shook his head.
“No,” Charlotte said, tapping her cheek. “I agree with Finley. Ned’s wife should have a brain. What say you, Edward?”
Edward’s eyes were cold flint. “Yes,” he bit out. “I would like my wife to have a brain.”
Charlotte clapped her hands. “Then we are agreed. Edward’s wife is to be pretty, social, and have intelligence so long as she doesn’t apply it to anything controversial.”
“Hear! Hear!” William raised his snifter in mock toast. With a grim smile, Fiona filled her glass again and knocked it back. Dinner was shaping up to be delightful.
***
Edward knocked on Fiona’s bedroom door, his chest tight, dreading the conversation that was about to happen.
“Who is it?” Her tone was clipped and angry. No doubt she knew exactly who it was.
“It’s me.” He wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to open the door. Tonight’s dinner had been brutal. Charlotte and William simply hadn’t let go with their matrimonial teasing.
While Charlotte seemed genuinely determined to find him a wife, William had used the opportunity to get whatever jabs in he could.
Neither of them knew that the person they were most likely hurting wasn’t him. It hadn’t ended until he had lost his composure entirely, yelling at them to mind their own blasted business and be quiet when he said to be quiet.
Dinner had been relatively silent after that and he chose not to attend afterward while Charlotte continued with Fiona’s dancing lessons.
“I want to apologize,” he called, resting his forehead on the door, his arms braced against the frame on either side of it. He should have put a stop to the conversation much, much earlier. He should never have allowed her to be in that situation.
The door opened and he straightened. Fiona was looking at him with an expression he hadn’t seen before—part hurt, part confusion. Her usual self-assurance had vanished. This was the face he’d never seen, yet had still haunted him. Her feelings were writ clear across her face, and five years ago, she would have had the same expression. She’d had no warning then, and no warning tonight either.
While she still wore the breeches and shirt of Finley, she’d removed the wig, her long red hair cascading across her shoulders. Her cravat had been discarded and the collar of her shirt hung open, exposing the gentle curve of her neck and the hollow at her throat. She stared at him, waiting.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt small and inconsequential; three syllables couldn’t adequately convey the anguish and remorse he felt. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the muscles there rock hard.
After a minute of steady examination, she quirked her lips and stepped back from the doorway, opening it a fraction farther. “For someone obsessed with not creating scandal, you certainly show up at my bedroom door on a regular basis.”
Scandal was the last thing on his mind. Nothing he’d been through following his father’s death had felt as gut-wrenching as this.
“I just want to see that you’re well.” He entered. The last time he’d been in her rooms, it had been with a purpose. He’d had food to deliver and medicine to administer. He’d been able to tell himself that he was exactly where he ought to be—overseeing the well-being of a guest. Now he stood, with nothing in hand, uncertain of his place.
She closed the door behind him and strode to the chair, which had been returned to its place by the dresser, and cleared the coat, jacket, and waistcoat that hung over its back. “I’m fine,” she said, tossing the clothes in a heap by the corner. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
