Page 30 of Duke of Diamonds
“You have a choice,” Isaac said, calm as ever. “The wardrobe would conceal you quite nicely, I should think.” He held her eyes. “Or… you could stay here and be freed.”
Time stopped between them as she allowed his words to settle. Her gaze moved toward the wardrobe, and for a brief moment, she measured the distance and calculated the time—just enough to slip inside unseen.
Yet, she remained rooted. The seconds passed, heavy and deliberate, until at last the door swung open.
Gasps filled the threshold as three stunned faces took in the sight: Fiona seated on the bed, laces undone, eyes swollen from crying—and Isaac seated beside her, his hand still resting lightly on her back.
The murmurs rose, sharp and immediate, but Fiona heard them distantly, as though through water. Her body felt far away. She couldn’t quite tell if her feet were still on the floor.
Fiona could not breathe, could not think. Isaac rose to his feet, placing himself between her and the stunned onlookers. His expression was unreadable, but the quiet authority emanating from him was unmistakable.
“The lady is unwell,” he said calmly, as though announcing the weather. “You will grant her some privacy.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then came a sharp, nasal voice from the doorway. “If she is so unwell, why is she half-undressed?” a lady arched a brow, pointing a gloved hand directly at Fiona. A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by another voice, colder and sharper still. “Men will invent anyexcuse to ruin a woman. And a Duke? They think themselves above consequence.”
Then, reluctantly, a few of the gawkers stepped back, faces pale and stiff with shock. Others lingered longer, greedy for more. Lord Brightwell muttered something under his breath about “utter disgrace,” and Lady Welley’s fan fluttered like a trapped bird as she turned away with a dramatic sigh.
Fiona felt herself shrinking inward, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as her hands clenched. Her father appeared, his face a thundercloud of rage. He took one look at her, disheveled and wide-eyed on the edge of the chaise in the salon, and Isaac standing over her, and Fiona saw something darken in his gaze—something far more dangerous than anger.
“Get up,” George hissed through gritted teeth. Fiona scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling. Isaac stepped aside, but his hand brushed briefly against her elbow—a small, steadying touch that grounded her more than anything else had that night.
George’s glare pinned her where she stood. “We are leaving,” he barked. Prudence, red-faced and wringing her gloved hands, hurried into the room, casting fearful glances between Fiona and the gathering crowd. “Come, dear,” she whispered, reaching for Fiona’s hand.
Fiona allowed herself to be led, feeling numb, a marionette with her strings yanked mercilessly. As they moved through the crowd, the whispers chased them like snapping hounds:“Ruined.” “Disgraceful.” “Poor Prudence—how shall they recover from this?”
She kept her head high, her spine rigid, refusing to let them see her crumble.
CHAPTER 11
“Inever thought I should live to rue the day I ever sired a child!” her father’s voice thundered through the marble hall, rattling the very air. He bore down upon her mother, who shrank back as though the very walls might shelter her. “This is why I always wished for a son. Was that too much to ask, madam?”
Prudence flinched, her gloved hands wringing together, but no reply escaped her lips. She did not need to speak. His fury merely sought a target, and once the initial blow had been dealt, it shifted—as Fiona knew it would.
“Andyou,” her father growled, turning his fury upon her with the swiftness of a striking snake. His face was red, his cravat askew, his eyes bulging as if they could no longer bear the force of his rage. “Are you satisfied now, Fiona? You have succeeded in dragging my name through the mud and smearing my honor before all of society!”
Fiona stiffened, her fingers clenching around the edge of her pelise. She refused to cower, though her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.Stay upright. Stay composed. Do not give him the satisfaction.
“A scandal,” he spat the word as though it burned his tongue, “and with that beast of a Duke, no less! Is that what you have long desired? To throw yourself into the arms of a brute and make yourself a spectacle?”
She drew herself up, her chin lifting in quiet defiance. “I did attempt to tell you, Father,” she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts, “that I care for another.”
George let out a bark of laughter, a cruel, hollow sound that echoed through the hall. “And I heard you, each pitiful time you said it,” he roared, taking a step nearer until she could feel the heat of his fury searing her skin. “I simply did not care.”
Fiona’s breath caught, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.He never cared. He never even pretended to.
“All for the fancy of a silly, sentimental girl!” he shouted. “Your love—your fleeting, childish love—would have withered and died as surely as summer roses in winter. And then where would you have been? Where wouldwehave been?”
He advanced another step, forcing her to retreat until her back struck the cool, unyielding paneled wall.
“You were my only child,” he snarled, “my only bargaining chip.”
Fiona’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her cheeks burned, but not with shame—with fury so sharp she could scarcely breathe past it.
“I am your daughter first, sir,” she cried. “Before I am any man’s bargaining chip!”
The words rang out, a desperate volley against the crushing tide of his scorn. Her chest heaved with the force of her emotion, but George only stared at her as though she were a disappointing ledger entry, a poor investment gone to ruin.
He will never see me. Not as I am. Only as what I failed to be.
