Stupid. Thoughtless. Selfish.Just like his father.
He’d broken both their hearts to keep her safe, to keep her away from London and yet, here she was.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He dragged in a deep breath, wresting his thoughts under control. Fiona was at Asterly’s town house. His mother was at one of their country estates. There was no good reason for them to come in contact. Edward would fix this blasted nuisance charge tomorrow and send her back to Abingdale. Asterly could come to town himself to sell these matches.
He needed a distraction, something to stop him from going to Fiona, bundling her into a carriage, and sending her out of London—or worse, going to her, bundling her into his arms, and kissing her senseless.
He reached for the package that sat square in the middle of his desk, neatly wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. His steward at Dunlochlan trusted no one and nothing, but particularly not the mail coach. His monthly report could have floated from the coast of Aberdeen to the River Thames and it still would have arrived secure and dry.
As he lifted the packet, he saw a delicate letter beneath with thin, spidery writing on the front.
His mother’s handwriting. The reminder he needed that there was no escaping his life. His path had been laid out for him since birth, and trying to alter it would only hurt the people he loved most. Snarling internally, he slid the letter opener beneath the wax and unfolded the paper.
The briefest of salutations.
The usual reminder about his responsibilities as head of the family.
A terse notification that she was unwell and would be in the country for another few weeks.
And a list.
Six. Six women who would each make a suitable duchess, each of them without the slightest hint of scandal attached to her name. Because, as his mother was constantly reminding him, after the year they’d spent hosing down the scandal of his broken engagement to Amelia, he needed a lady who was above reproach.
That each of them was either dull as dishwater or as prickly as a thorn bush was not relevant. It was his duty to repair the Wildeforde name, and choosing an appropriate Duchess of Wildeforde was imperative, regardless of whether every mealtime moving forward was heavy with stilted conversation. His own feelings didn’t matter. As long as she exceeded society’s expectations, then she would do.
Lady Luella Tarlington
Lady Anne Livingston
Lady Emma Clifford
Lady Agatha Dormer
Lady Henrietta Hastings
Lady Catherine Kenworthy
Six women. Highborn, gently bred, well-spoken, mild in temperament, pliable, and completely above reproach. As unlike Fiona as it was possible to get.
He’d resigned himself to the need to marry this season. With any luck, his sister’s coming out would attract enough attention that his hunt for a wife would go unnoticed.
But the appearance of Fiona…complicated things. It made it harder to focus on what he needed to achieve—marriage to a lady who would be beloved by his society.
Fi was a damned spitfire with more opinions than were useful in a woman. There was nothing mild about her. Everything she did, she did to the extreme—work, study, love. She was stubborn, immovable, and impassioned, and if he let himself spend too much time with her, there was every chance he’d weaken and toss decades’ worth of reputation management to the wind.
That carriage ride had been hell. Those searing green eyes pinning him down, eviscerating him with their fury and intelligence. The licks of flame-colored hair escaping from under her wig. It had taken every inch of self-control he had not to reach across the space between them and pull her into his arms. He wanted to yell at her and devour her in equal measure.
Instead, he needed to do as the Duke of Wildeforde should. So he took a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write his own list, because like hell was he acquiescing to his mother’s demands.
But no names came to him.
He put the sheet aside. He would get Fiona free from the debacleshe’d put herself in and send her away. Once she was out of his mind, he could do what needed to be done: find a perfectly respectable woman to marry, one who didn’t drive him crazy, so he could finally put an end to this whole marriage business.
Chapter 5
Fiona sat in the outer room of the patent office, waiting for Mr. Jones to call her in. She smoothed the fabric of her skirts. The dress was the best one she owned; the one she wore to church on a Sunday and the occasional dinner.
