Page 75 of Duke of Diamonds
“I shall not wait,” she murmured, the words spoken aloud simply to hear them. “It is my home now as well.”
And it was. She had signed the register, worn the dress, stood at his side before God and country. Whatever else Isaac thought, Craton Manor was as much hers as it was his.
If he wished to vanish to Scotland without so much as a proper farewell, then he shall return to a house that no longer obeys his rules.
He had drawn close—unbearably close—then turned away without a second glance. And for what? A business trip? During their supposed honeymoon?
It was petty, yes. She would not deny it.
But it was also satisfying.
The very next day, Anna arrived in a flurry of cloak and cheer, her eyes bright as she embraced Fiona.
“Let us wage war on this dreadful upholstery,” she declared with a flourish.
They set up camp in the morning room, bolts of fabric and paper samples sprawled between them, the tea untouched as they argued over color schemes and drapery lengths.
Anna, with her married wisdom and matter-of-fact opinions, proved to be a formidable ally.
“Lilac for the drawing room,” Anna said, holding the sample against the light. “Fresh. Elegant. Not too girlish.”
Fiona tapped her finger against her chin. “Or perhaps the pale blue. It would make the room feel brighter come spring.”
They went back and forth, and at last settled on the blue.
The conversation turned, as it always did, to their absent husbands.
“And the Duke?” Anna asked, brows lifting slightly.
“In Scotland,” Fiona replied, pouring fresh tea. “A business matter, he said. He’ll be away a fortnight.”
The edge in her tone wasn’t bitterness, precisely. But it was something sharp.
Anna’s mouth parted slightly. “On your honeymoon?”
Fiona shrugged, her gaze dropping to the rim of her teacup. “I suppose none of that truly matters. Ours is not the conventional sort of marriage.”
Anna said nothing for a moment. Her eyes softened, sympathy warring with restraint.
Then, quietly, “Give it time, Fiona.”
She let her thoughts wander to the terrace. The way Isaac’s palm had cradled her cheek, gentle and sure, as if he’d meant to claim something. The breath she had held, waiting.
Why offer that closeness only to retreat like a criminal?
A sigh slipped through her lips before she could catch it. The ache had dulled, but it hadn’t vanished.
“Anna, I entered this marriage with no illusions,” she said, smoothing a corner of fabric that didn’t need smoothing. “I knew what it was. What it wasn’t. I made peace with that before the vows were spoken.”
Anna, kneeling beside an armchair and comparing shades of blue, glanced over. She set down the sample in her hand and regarded Fiona quietly.
“But it doesn’t make you any less disappointed or saddened.”
Fiona didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers stilled over a bolt of dusty rose silk.
She’s right. It shouldn’t hurt—but it does.
“No,” she admitted at last.
