Page 117 of Duke of Diamonds
When she arrived at Holden House, the butler admitted her with a deferential bow.
“Her ladyship is in the drawing room, Your Grace,” he said.
Fiona nodded and handed off her gloves. Her footsteps were quiet upon the marble floor as she moved through the familiar halls, the scent of beeswax and polished wood rising to meet her.
As she neared the drawing room, voices carried through the half-open door.
“I heard you went to Craton Manor yesterday,” her father’s voice cut through the stillness. “What business did you have there?”
“Can I not call upon my own daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” Prudence answered. Fiona halted mid-step, every muscle gone taut.
Her mother’s voice held a thread of strain—tightly drawn, unmistakable.
“I shall ask only once,” George said, and there was an edge in his tone that made Fiona’s blood chill. “Did you tell her about the debt? About my seeking aid from Craton?”
A pause. The kind that stretched and snapped at the nerves.
“I told her everything, George.”
The sound that followed was shattering—violent, unmistakable. Glass.
Fiona’s breath hitched as she surged forward, her slippers scuffing against the floor as she burst into the room.
Her mother was crouched by a carved chair, one hand braced against the upholstery, her form trembling. Shards of porcelain littered the floor beside her, glittering like ice.
Fiona dropped to her knees beside her. “Are you trying to kill her with that thing?”
Her voice was sharp with disbelief as she examined her mother for injury.
“I am unhurt, dearest,” Prudence whispered, her breath still shaky. “It missed me. By the grace of God.”
Fiona’s fingers gripped her mother’s arm. Her pulse roared in her ears, the sight of the shattered vase burning behind her eyes.
He could have struck her. He meant to.
“Barely,” Fiona muttered, her gaze fixed on the shattered vase, its jagged edges glinting in the morning light.
A hot fury rose in her chest, swift and unstoppable. She stood abruptly, the motion sharp, and turned to face her father.
“Enough with your monstrosities, Holden.”
He blinked, taken aback. “Holden?” he echoed. “You become Duchess, and now I am no longer your father?”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. Her voice was steady, though her fists clenched at her sides.
“Name me one instance when you ever truly were,” she said. “One moment when you acted as a father to me. Or a husband to your wife.”
His jaw tightened. “The food on your table, the clothes on your back, every party you attended—where do you suppose all of that came from?”
Fiona stepped closer, her chin raised.
“What of respect?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “A man of honor provides for his family, yes—but more than coin and gowns. He gives them dignity. Because they are his reflection, and he their steward. You have never understood that.”
George recoiled slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming with something uncertain.
“Do not preach to me of honor,” he said, though less fiercely than before. “What do you know of such things, you insolent child?”
“Clearly more than you.” Fiona’s breath came fast, and her eyes never left his, not even when his mouth twitched, ready, no doubt, to cast another insult.
