And yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel any kind of enthusiasm at the prospect of perhaps having found the perfect future duchess. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything at all.
The strains of a waltz started. He sighed. Lady Luella had demanded a waltz and until Fiona was safely gone, he would have to placate her. She was at the edge of the dance floor, watching him. Waiting expectantly. But in between them was Fiona, approaching quickly. She was white as a ghost, her face stricken.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as she got close.
She didn’t break stride. “Come with me.”
Confused, concerned, he followed her as she tore out of the ballroom. Upon reaching the foyer, she growled as she eyed the many servants and guests present, and then turned down the corridor.
“Fi!” He grabbed her arm. “Where are we going?”
“An empty room,” she said. Her voice was so urgent and so full of hurt and anger and disbelief that he snapped into bodyguard mode, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her to safety. “Fourth door on the left,” he said. “It’s Macklebury’s library.”
Fiona opened the door, waited as he passed her, and then slammed it shut behind them.
He took her by the shoulder with one hand, the other coming to her cheek, searching her face for a clue as to what was wrong. “What happened? Are you well?” He would pulverize whoever hurt her.
“I ken.” Her voice cracked as she said it.
“You know what?”
She raised a hand to cover his, pressing it into her cheek. “About your cousin. About the viscountess. That’s the real reason, isn’t it? Why you broke things off?”
Fuck.This wasn’t how he wanted her to find out. He hadn’t ever wanted her to find out. He dropped his hands and turned away, raking his fingers through his hair. Guilt, fear, regret—they all warred through him. He should have told her earlier. He should have told her when he broke off their engagement. She’d had a right to know the true reason he’d left.
But she was so good, so amazingly self-assured. Back then, he’d worried that if he told her, she wouldn’t accept it.
“Good God, Ed. Did ye really think that would be me?”
His concern was clearly well-placed. She could not fathom the depths of the cruelty she’d be subjected to. She would have approached it with her usual energy, and she would have been crushed. “You don’t know this world. It looks all sugar and sparkle, but parts of it are vicious and cruel. Had we married, you would not have been safe.”
She threw her hands up in disbelief. “Safe? From cruel comments? From being ostracized and ignored? I have been thrown out of my home, traveled the length of England with only a kitchen knife to protect me, and had to barricade myself against drunk and ill-intentioned men. And you were worried some scornful comments might harm me?”
She didn’t understand, the way he’d known she wouldn’t. “You say it like it’s nothing, but the love of Graham’s lifedied. I would rather have broken your heart than stopped it.”
She sagged back against the door. The furious energy drained from her expression, leaving quiet, solemn examination. She watched him for a long moment. He could see thoughts ticking over, but he had no idea what they were. Eventually, she asked, “Why did ye go back to London that week?”
He leaned on the chaise that sat opposite the fireplace. “To break the news to my mother that I was about to marry someone wholly unsuitable to be a duchess.”
She swallowed. “Ye were willing to live through the scandal, despite what it would cost yer family?”
“To have you? Yes.”
She looked away. The tears in her eyes reflected the flames from the fireplace. And he waited, silently, for her verdict.
At last, she nodded. Then, faster than his mind could process, she crossed to him, took his face in both hands roughly, and kissed him.
It was like he’d been wandering a desert for five years and had now found himself home. He drank her in, his thirst for her insatiable. He pressed at her lips with his tongue—wanting more, needing more—and with a groan she opened for him.
The taste of her, the way her tongue met his with equal fervor, the need with which she pressed her fingers into the back of his head, holding him to her—it made his cock stiffen, straining against the fall of his breeches.
Without breaking their kiss, he stood, one arm wrapped around her, grabbing her arse in his hand and pulling her hard against his groin. The other hand snaked up her spine, over her neck, to where it found the edge of her wig.
Desperate fingers sought and removed the pins that held the wig in place, tossing them carelessly on the floor. The wig came next, dislodged as his hand sank into her silken-soft curls. “Oh, God, Fi,” he murmured, breaking their kiss in order to rest his head against hers and inhale deeply.
He’d missed the scent of her, that sweet jasmine and honey that had haunted him every time he’d walked through the wrong garden or past the wrong flower stall.
With her here, he breathed in deep. He’d never thought they would have another moment like this. Never thought she’d once again be in his arms. This was where she belonged. This was where everything made sense.
