Page 13 of Duke of Diamonds
The very picture of displeasure.
His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with muscle. He looked up as she entered, surprise flickering across his face—and vanishing just as quickly.
The butler closed the door behind her, sealing them in silence.
“What,” the duke said at last, voice low and rough as gravel, “could possibly bring you to my door at such an hour?”
Fiona lifted her chin a fraction. She had expected this. Anticipated it, even.
“We danced at the ball yesterday,” she replied. “That makes us something more than strangers, I should think.”
He did not move. Did not speak. His gaze, dark and unflinching, remained fixed on her.
She swallowed once. “I beg your pardon for the lateness of the hour, Your Grace. But I require your help.”
At that, his brow lowered just enough to suggest skepticism rather than anger.
“This is your idea of seeking assistance?” he said, his tone clipped. “Alone. At night. At a man’s house?”
Fiona flushed.He is not wrong.But she kept her posture straight, her voice steady.
“No one else would help me. And I believe you might.”
He said nothing, waiting. She pressed on, the words tumbling faster now.
“I am betrothed. Unwillingly. And I have exhausted every proper avenue to end the arrangement. My parents will not listen. Myfriends cannot be asked to intervene. But you, Your Grace…” Her hands clenched tighter in front of her. “You have the power to.”
The duke’s expression didn’t shift, not even by degrees.
“And why should I involve myself in such a domestic inconvenience?” he asked, his voice dry.
“I have no one else to turn to.”
It was the truth, plain and painful. And her shoulders sagged ever so slightly beneath the weight of it.
He studied her. “And what would you have me do, precisely?” he asked.
Before she could answer, he added, “Do you wish for me to ruin you?”
The question hit her like a slap.
“Oh—heavens, no!” she exclaimed, recoiling a step. “That is not— I did not mean?—”
He remained unruffled. She, by contrast, felt her pulse thudding in her ears.
“A scandal would destroy my family. I only wish for a broken engagement. Nothing more.”
“And how do you intend for me to assist in that without inciting one?” he asked, folding his arms as he leaned against the desk.
Fiona’s gaze darted—briefly, traitorously—to his forearms. She forced it back up to his face.
“I thought… if you were to feign interest in me,” she said, wincing slightly at how absurd it sounded aloud, “it might give my parents cause to dissolve the betrothal. They would believe another match possible. Preferable, even.”
She drew a breath. “But we must make it convincing. We must appear as if we are… in love.”
He did not move. He did not speak.
The silence stretched.
