Page 59 of Duke of Diamonds
Isaac stood before her—steady, indifferent—while she unraveled inside.
“You shall not be expected to report to me,” he added, mistaking her silence for concern of another kind. “Nor shall I interfere with your pursuits. I do not require constant companionship, Fiona. I never have.”
Each word, though likely intended as some twisted kindness, felt like another stone laid atop her chest.
She tried to draw breath, but her chest tightened painfully.
“I—I should go now,” she choked out, her voice thin and strained.
She gathered her skirts hastily, stepping aside before he could see the betrayal she could no longer mask.
“You’re right, it’s quite late, and I shouldn’t have come,” she added before she fled the manor.
CHAPTER 20
“Hold still, Fiona, or I shall never get this veil to lie properly,” Hester scolded gently, her fingers adjusting the lace with painstaking precision.
“If it shifts again, I swear I’ll sew it to your curls,” Nancy muttered, squinting as she smoothed another fold.
“You both fuss like nannies,” Fiona said with a laugh that barely masked the tightness in her throat.
“And for good reason,” Anna chimed in, standing back to admire their handiwork. “You’re about to become a Duchess, and we are not letting you face that aisle looking anything less than divine.”
Fiona tried to smile, tried to pretend that the ache in her chest wasn’t spreading. But the truth pressed in like corset stays too tight against her ribs.
I should never have approached Isaac for help in the first place.
The thought refused to be silenced, threading itself through her every breath like a curse. She watched her reflection without truly seeing it, her gown a swathe of ivory silk that shimmered with delicate beading, her veil soft as a whisper.
Too late now.
The choice had been made, sealed in ink and soon in vows.
Hester let out a little gasp as she adjusted the fall of the veil over Fiona’s shoulders. “Oh, you make the most beautiful bride,” she murmured, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.
Nancy came to stand beside her, her expression more composed but no less warm. “The future will be bright, Fiona dear. You must hold onto that.”
As though she had somehow read the disquiet in Fiona’s bones.
Anna took her hand and squeezed it gently. “We’re here for you,” she said. “Today, tomorrow. Always.”
Fiona turned to the three of them, her lips trembling with a smile. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
Their embrace was soft and fierce all at once, a lifeline wrapped in muslin, perfume and tears.
Downstairs, the modest ceremony was already being prepared. True to her wishes—and Isaac’s disposition—the wedding was kept intimate, solemn. Only those closest to them were in attendance.
Her mother, naturally, had lobbied for something grander. “The Duke of Craton and my daughter? The very notion begs for a cathedral,” Prudence had sniffed, but when George had grumbled about appearances and the scandal already left in their wake, she’d relented.
Now she flitted about the drawing room below, rearranging ribbons and lace that had already been arranged, pausing only to shoot anxious glances toward the clock.
Fiona descended the stairs with her father at her side, his arm stiff beneath hers. “This is what comes of choices,” he muttered just before they reached the foyer.
She said nothing. The drawing room had been transformed into a quiet haven. Peonies in pale pinks and whites, adorned every surface. The scent of them filled the air with an aching sweetness. The vicar stood beneath the arched window, beside Lord and Lady Darlington, Isaac’s solicitor, and a handful of family acquaintances.
And there stood Isaac: composed, shoulders squared, mouth unreadable. His gaze met hers as she stepped into the room, and she thought for one breathless moment that perhaps—perhaps there was something there. A warmth. A glimmer.
But if it was, it vanished too quickly to hold. The ceremony was quiet. Words were spoken with gravity. Vows were exchanged with trembling hands—hers, not his. He said each word as though reading from parchment. Yet he did not falter.
