Page 81 of Duke of Diamonds
Her mother’s eyes lit. “Oh, look at you, child. A duchess with a household of her own. I could not be more proud.”
Fiona smiled faintly, raising her cup.Proud of the duchess, not the daughter.
Still, it warmed something within her to see her mother happy.
“We hosted the Earl of Bamford the other day,” Prudence said, reaching for a biscuit. “And your father—well, he could not stop speaking of his dear son-in-law, the Duke of Craton.”
Fiona paused, the rim of her teacup brushing her lip but not quite making it there.
“He may not have shown it,” her mother continued, with a hopeful smile, “but he is terribly proud of your union, Fiona.”
The knot returned.
Proud? That man does not know the meaning of the word. Not when it comes to me.
Her hands settled the cup back in its saucer. “Aren’t you tired, Mama?”
“Of what?”
Her mother looked truly perplexed, her brows raised as though Fiona had just asked her why the sky was blue.
“Of attaching such importance to your image and stature in society. Of wanting to climb higher still.”
Prudence’s lips parted, but Fiona did not wait.
“You stood by while Father tore into me, shamed me, controlled every corner of my life—and all because of my relationship with Craton. Youknowwhat he said to me, how he made me feel. And now—” she gave a small, bitter laugh “—now you sit there speaking of his pride?”
She stood, too restless to sit still, and crossed to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingers as she touched the pane. Her voice was lower now. “Have you two no shame, Mama?”
The air seemed to still.
“I know I am no longer under this roof, but I am still your daughter. And I amstillbeing used as a mark of distinction.” She turned back. “I have become something to boast about. A duchess to be paraded, proof of your place in society. Nothing more.”
Prudence drew back slightly, her teacup poised in midair, her shoulders taut.
“But Fiona, dear, we are simply proud parents. Of course your welfare comes first. We care about you—you know that.”
“No, Mother,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “My welfare has never come first. Not to him. And not truly to you, either.”
She stepped closer now, something pressing and desperate behind her gaze.
“To Father, I’ve always been a bargaining chip. And that is what I still am, it seems.” Her voice faltered, lips parting as though the next words would come easily.
But they didn’t.
“And to you…” She swallowed hard. “To you, I don’t know what I am.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full—of pain, of love, of the unbearable uncertainty between mother and daughter.
“Fiona, dear…” Prudence trailed off. Her hands, usually so precise, trembled slightly as she set down her cup.
She had no rebuttal. Because there was none.
Fiona adjusted her gloves as she stepped out of the carriage onto Bond Street. The past few days had blurred together, thick withplaster dust, the scent of paint, and the tap of hammers echoing through the halls. The renovations had done their part to keep her distracted, for which she was quietly grateful.
But today, there was a restlessness beneath her skin.
I wish he were here.
