Page 72 of Duke of Diamonds
His lips quirked, just slightly.
And just like that, she saw it. Not the Duke. Not the solemn man she had been forced to marry. But a boy who had hidden from governesses and found comfort in the stars. A man with a heart. With memories. With wounds.
He is not what I thought.
“Well, you may be disappointed to learn that its days as your hiding spot are numbered,” Fiona said, her lips curving as she leaned back on her palms. “Not since I have discovered it too. I believe I shall claim it henceforth as my sanctuary.”
His brow lifted with a feigned solemnity. “My, then I shall begin to prepare my strongest defenses against your siege—now that you have so tactlessly declared your intentions.”
He chuckled, and the sound—deep and warm—rippled through the quiet. She felt it rather than heard it, a gentle vibration in the air between them, and she could not help but notice how it stirred something soft and absurdly pleased within her.
You laugh, and I forget to be cross with you.
She exhaled slowly, allowing her shoulders to settle as a sense of ease crept in. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and Fiona decided it was as good a time as any.
“There is something I’ve been meaning to discuss,” she began, choosing her words with care. “I thought it might be worthwhile to consider a few improvements to the house. Some small renovations. Nothing drastic.”
No response.
She turned slightly toward him. “I do believe it would do well for your image—particularly when we begin to entertain guests.”
He stiffened beside her. When he turned to her, his expression was no longer open.
“And what makes you think I give a morsel of regard about my image?”
The words struck harder than she expected.
Fiona recoiled, just a touch. Her spine straightened, her fingers curled against the folds of her robe.
That was not warranted.
A silence followed, heavy and awkward. Then he cleared his throat, his voice lower this time.
“That was uncalled for,” he said. “Forgive me.”
She gave a small nod, though the air around them had shifted again. The peace from moments earlier receded like the tide, leaving behind only damp sand and unearthed stones.
He is unpredictable,she thought.A man composed of quiet storms.
They sat in silence until he finally spoke.
“The late Duke was a man consumed by appearances. Obsessed with how he was seen. He built his life on that image. But behind it, he ignored everything else. His pride mattered more than his people. More than his family.”
His voice had flattened into what was closer to resignation than bitterness. Still, Fiona heard the strain beneath it, the quiet years folded between every word.
“I do not wish to be like my father, Fiona.” Isaac shifted his gaze away from her, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the terrace’s edge. “I do not wish to place my image above my responsibilities. Above the people I care for.”
She stared at him, caught off guard by the rawness of his admission. Her hands, which had settled in her lap, now tightened slightly into the folds of her robe.
There it is again,she thought,that glimpse of the man beneath the layers. The man who feels more than he lets on.
There was a reason for the way he carried himself, the way he shouldered so much without asking for help. And now she saw it with piercing clarity. It was not pride, but fear. Not vanity, but memory.
A moment passed before she found her voice again.
“What was he like?” she asked, cautiously. “Your father.”
His expression shuttered.
