“It’s nae of your concern.” Because it wasn’t. He had no claim on her. He’d made that clear five years ago when he ended their betrothal in aletter.
He cocked his head—it was a minuscule movement that carried more censure than physics would warrant.
“It’s business. You wouldn’t want to sully your pretty gloves with it.”
“Your business is my business, remember? I have a ten percent stake in whatever you’re up to.”
Aye. She remembered.
Last year, when Lord Karstark announced he was evicting all the tenants on his land to make way for better hunting grounds, she’d been forced to turn to the only other significant landholder in the area for help.
Edward—or rather—the Duke of Wildeforde.
Asking him to provide land and homes for the twenty-three families that had been displaced had been the single most humiliating moment of her life. While she may have been compelled to plead with him, she would not accept charity, so she’d made it a business deal, despite knowing he would have leased the land gladly.
He would provide land for new homes to house all those who had been booted from Karstark farms—including her and her father—for a ten percent share in her work. Ten percent that would come off the top of her earnings because she refused to tell her business partners, Benedict and John. They would do something good and noble like insist on the business covering it.
And she wasn’t about to let anyone fight her battles.
“Then if you must know, I’m seeking a distributor for my matches.”
“Why isn’t Asterly doing it? Why is he risking your safety by sending you to London on your own? Curse it, Fi. Do you know what could have happened to you in there?” Edward’s voice grew progressively louder.
“Nothing happened. I am perfectly well. I’m here because they’remymatches. They’re my idea, my work, and I’ll be the one to sell them.” That sounded boastful even to her. So she shot the arrow she hoped would land. “And because he’s with his wife, who is expecting their bairn any day now.”
“Amelia’s with child?” For a fleeting second, the disapproval on his face morphed into surprise and then…thoughtfulness. As though he was picturing the life that might have been had Amelia not exposed his family to scandal. Had he not ended his engagement with her as a result.
That carelessly shot arrow rebounded and lodged in her chest.
Fiona had had no knowledge of Edward’s title, or his long-standing engagement to Amelia. He’d simply beenEdward, just call me Edward.
So when he’d talked of a life together, she’d believed him. She’d pictured growing old together in a small cottage not far from her current home. They would each go to work during the day and come home in the evenings where they would sit around the fire and read to each other.
Learning he was the Duke of Wildeforde had crushed that dream. Hearing that he was choosing to honor a commitment to a faceless young woman had been all the proof she needed that their love affair had been naught but a lie.
Her eyes burned hot.
“That must make Amelia happy,” he murmured, though she couldn’t tell if he realized he’d said it out loud.
“Aye. It does. They’re very happy.” And she was happy for them, even if their unexpected marriage sometimes made Fiona question her decision to forgo a relationship and focus on her work.
Edward shook his head, his eyes focusing. On her. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing dressed like…that.” He waved a hand in her direction.
“You didn’t mind me wearing breeches five years ago. You couldn’t keep your hands off them.” Those brief weeks had been a frenzy of hot kisses, wandering tongues, and roaming touches that never crossedtheline but explored every inch of it. Her blood had been on fire and her skin aflame with need.
“Wearing men’s clothing in your factory is one thing, perhaps even sensible given the environment,” he said grudgingly. “But such costumes in London is another thing entirely.”
The comment burned. “I couldn’t very well attend the protest in a dress. You may nae have noticed, shielded behind your title and money in Mayfair, but tensions are high. The people are angry. It isn’t safe to be a woman in a mad crowd. I’m nae an idiot.”
She rocked in her seat as the carriage hit a deep pothole, reaching to the window frame to steady herself.
He raised an eyebrow, the arrogance in that tiniest of gestures making her skin sizzle. “Not an idiot? That is very much up for debate.” His tone remained measured, but his lips thinned a fraction and the hand he rested on his thigh curled slightly. “Attending that protest was incredibly foolish. You placed yourself at enormous risk for what? To listen to talk of overthrowing the crown? You should be more levelheaded.”
Fiona bristled at his censure. He was so used to those beneath him—practically everyone but the king—being eager to obey. Well, not her. Not today.
“I should do as you say, I take it? Your word is law. Except, you forget—I’m the only one who knows your word is useless.” Fiona shifted in her seat, slouching a little, taking her legs wide. A direct mimicking of Edward’s body language. “‘Fi,’” she said in a slightly deepened, roughened voice. “‘I want to marry you. I want it to be me and you for the rest of our lives. I have to go to London to sort out some business, but when I get back, we’re going to have a life together.’”
Fiona swallowed the ball that had formed in her throat before continuing. “Do those words sound familiar?”
