Page 118 of The Scarred Duke's Claimed Bride
That evening, after dinner, they retired to their chambers for what had become their nightly ritual.
Fiona settled into the armchair beside the fire. Christian knelt before her, his back to her, his dark hair falling loose about his shoulders. She lifted the silver-backed brush and began to draw it through the heavy waves; her strokes slow and unhurried.
“Tell me about your day,” she said, as she always did.
And he did. He spoke of the estate matters that had occupied his morning, of a letter from Lady Ashworth full of gossip and sharp observations, and of the quiet hour he had spent in the nursery simply watching Edward breathe, marvelling at the miracle of his small existence.
“I never thought I should be good at this,” he admitted. “Being a father. I had no example to follow—my own father was cold at best, cruel at worst. I feared I might repeat his mistakes.”
“Christian.” Fiona set aside the brush and turned him gently to face her. “You are not your father. You never will be. The very fact that you strive to do better proves how different you are.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.” She held his face between her hands. “I have watched you with Edward. I have seen how you hold him, how you speak to him, how your whole face changes when he smiles at you. That is not a man harming his child. That is a man who loves his son with his entire heart.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears. “What if it is still not enough?”
“It will be.” She kissed his forehead. “Love is enough when it is real. And yours is the truest love I have ever known.”
He pulled her into his arms then, holding her tightly, and she felt the tension slowly leave him.
“I do not know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured into her hair.
“You carried me through a storm,” she said with a small smile. “That was an excellent beginning.”
He laughed—that warm sound she treasured—and drew back to look at her.
“Come to bed,” he said softly. “I should like to hold you.”
“Only hold me?”
“To begin with.” His smile turned mischievous. “We shall see what follows.”
She laughed and allowed him to lead her to the great canopied bed where they had spent so many nights learning one another, loving one another, building a life neither had once believed possible.
They made love slowly, reverently, with the ease of two people who knew each other perfectly. And afterwards, tangled together in the sheets, Fiona traced the familiar lines of his birthmark and thought about how far they had come.
A year ago, she had been a scandalous houseguest. Now she was a wife, a mother, a duchess—and happier than she had ever dreamt possible.
“What are you thinking?” Christian asked drowsily.
“That I am very fortunate.”
“Strange,” he murmured. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
She smiled and nestled closer, feeling his arms tighten around her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.” He kissed her hair. “My beautiful, stubborn, impossible wife.”
Outside, the stars wheeled silently overhead. The sea murmured against the cliffs. And somewhere in the nursery, a child slept peacefully, dreaming of a life filled with love.
The Beast of Thornwick had been tamed.
Or so the world liked to say. In truth, he had never been a beast at all—only a man who wished to be understood, and who at last was.
The End