Page 9 of Duke of Diamonds
“But Isawhim,” Fiona said, desperation creeping into her voice as her composure threatened to unravel. “In the gardens. Last night. At the ball. He was—he was with her. There was no mistaking what I witnessed.”
Her father’s jaw tightened. His expression turned stony, immovable.
“You have already wasted two full seasons since your debut,” he snapped, his tone growing more severe. “I will not permit you to waste another. Nor shall I continue to expend my time or fortune indulging your whims.”
Fiona opened her mouth to speak once more, to defend herself, to plead for reason, but her mother’s hand came to rest atop hers.
It was not a comfort, but a warning.
Prudence’s grip was firm, her expression composed, her voice silent—but her eyes said everything.Do not push him further.
The protest withered in Fiona’s throat.
She swallowed it, along with her pride and what little strength she had left.
The rest of the meal unfolded in excruciating silence, each clink of silverware like a bell tolling at her execution. Her appetite was long gone; her food remained untouched, the scent of it turning her stomach.
When she finally rose from the table, her limbs felt heavy, her head clouded with helpless frustration. She wandered the halls like a ghost, aimless and numb, pausing in the drawing room only to find no comfort there.
Eventually, she turned toward the one place in the house that did not feel like a prison. The greenhouse.
As she stepped inside, the warmth of it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. The scent of damp earth, of herbs and florals, filled her lungs. Here, among the budding greenery and soft light, the world could be quiet. Here, she could pretend she had not just been dismissed like a troublesome servant.
Here, at least, she was notentirelypowerless.
Fiona had always found solace in the art of tea.
There was something meditative about selecting the right leaves, combining herbs she had grown with care, coaxing out subtle flavors through precise brewing. She took pride in cultivating her own blends—lavender and mint for clarity, chamomile with rose for comfort. Even the more exotic herbs, sent from distant relatives or purchased discreetly through trusted vendors, had found their way into her collection. Here in the greenhouse, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and fragrant steam, she could breathe.
Her hands were just steadying a porcelain teacup when the soft rustle of silk interrupted the stillness.
She turned—and there stood her mother.
Prudence Pierce was not known for venturing into the greenhouse. It was too humid, too unrefined. And yet thereshe was, framed by ivy and morning light, her expression unreadable.
Fiona set the cup down with a quiet clink, bracing herself.
“I know you do not believe me either, Mama, but I?—”
“I believe you,” Prudence said.
The interruption was so unexpected that Fiona froze. Her eyes met her mother’s, searching. And what she saw was even more disarming than the words had been.
Truth.
“I beg your pardon?” Fiona asked softly.
Her mother stepped forward, folding her gloved hands before her as though she too needed something to hold on to.
“You see,” she began slowly, “it is not uncommon for a man to seek... comfort elsewhere. Even after marriage.”
Fiona’s breath caught in her throat.
“Especiallyafter marriage,” Prudence corrected, her voice more resigned now. “And I am afraid that is not reason enough to call off an engagement—least of all one to the Earl of Canterlack.”
“But Mama?—”
“What matters,” her mother said firmly, pressing on, “is that wherever he goes, whatever he does, and with whomever he does it, your position as his wife, as his primary companion, remains unchanged. That is what matters. That is your right. And your duty.”
