Page 73 of Duke of Diamonds
“He died when I was fifteen,” he said, and nothing more.
The set of his shoulders, the sudden stillness that took hold of him, told her the matter was closed. She nodded faintly and did not press him further. Some doors were best left unopened until he was ready.
She looked out at the night again, thinking the conversation had reached its end, when he stirred beside her, his next words breaking the quiet
“Was your father the one who struck you, Fiona?”
She blinked, the question catching her unprepared. It was not cruel. It was not even abrupt. But it was unexpected.
Her breath caught slightly before she responded. “He was not always so violent,” she said, managing a faint laugh that died far too quickly. “I suppose I must have provoked him too much this time.”
She turned to him with a crooked smile, attempting to disarm the memory with levity.
But he did not smile. He didn’t even blink.
His gaze held hers, unwavering and strangely still.
“I disagree,” he said. “No man has a right to lay a finger on you, Fiona. And you did not deserve the scorn he gave you. You did not deserve any of it. You should never have had to endure that.”
The words startled her—not because of their volume, but because of how deliberately he looked at her when he said them, as though the truth had long been settled in his mind.
Her throat tightened.You see more than I wish to show.
His hands moved, slowly and deliberately, until they reached her face, cupping it with the gentlest pressure. His touch was warm, steady, and completely unexpected.
“You’re safe now, Fiona,” he said. Her breath caught.“ You’re safe with me.”
Her own hands rose as if summoned by something unseen, covering his. Her fingertips brushed the backs of his fingers, unsure, but unwilling to let the moment pass without anchoring it somehow.
One of his thumbs brushed along the curve of her lower lip, soft as breath. She stilled. Her body thrummed with heat, every nerve straining toward the closeness between them.
His gaze lingered on her mouth. She felt it more than she saw it.
And when he began to lean in, her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. Her lips parted just slightly, the barest invitation.
But nothing came.
He pulled away.
So swiftly, so completely, that she felt the absence of him like wind snatching a flame.
“You should return to bed,” he said, already rising.
Her lashes lifted slowly. She watched as he stepped back, his movements too brisk, too pointed.
“Goodnight, Fiona.”
And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the house, leaving her alone beneath the stars. She remained where she sat, the chill of the stone returning to her skin now that his warmth had gone.
By morning, the drawing room was empty.
Again.
She crossed to the table, forcing her thoughts into order, but before she could settle, the butler appeared with an envelope in hand.
“A note, ma’am.”
Her brows lifted. It was addressed in a strong, neat hand. She unfolded it and read:
