Why the devil hadn’t he just sent her to the nearest inn? By God, he could have just as easily had Finch escort her back to the village.
Had his faculties been clouded by…
Lust? No. He would never act on that. Not with her. Not with anyone.
Loneliness, then?
Julian swore under his breath.
Blast it all. And damn his one good eye—he truly was pathetic.
RESEARCH
The room she had been given was clean, though there was no disguising its long neglect. The curtains were faded, the wallpaper yellowed at the edges, and the fire grate bore more rust than polish. Yet someone had seen to her comfort all the same. The hearth had been lit, the linens freshly changed, and when she woke the next morning, the washbasin had been filled, the pitcher cool and beaded with moisture in the early light.
Sitting up, Rosamund realized she had slept more soundly than she ought to have.
She’d half expected to be disturbed by a ghoulish outburst, as rumors foretold—sleeping under the roof of the so-called Beastly Duke. But there had been nothing. No raised voices. No sudden sounds. Only stillness.
After washing her face and dabbing at her temples with rosewater, she turned—and paused.
Her spare gown, the one she’d packed in her satchel and strapped to Daffodil’s saddle, lay neatly folded across the chair.
Someone must have fetched it—either late the night before or in the early hours of the morning. Considerate. Kind.
The thought lingered.
It said something that his people were so attentive, didn’t it? One might surmise it was done out of fear of being banished, or of punishment.
Rosamund surmised it to be out of loyalty.
Because she’d seen it in his housekeeper. That, and affection.
And upon imagining affection, as she dressed, she resolved to check on her mare, who had carried her faithfully all this way. Even if just to say good morning.
Descending the curving staircase, she encountered Mrs. Wetherby coming up, a ledger clutched in one capable hand.
“Good morning,” Rosamund said, unable to keep the cheer from her voice. “Might you direct me to the stables? I should like to see my horse.”
The housekeeper paused, her gaze sharpening almost cautiously. “You’re leaving before you’ve broken your fast?”
Rosamund blinked, as though the idea had not occurred to her. “Oh—no. Certainly not.” She smiled. “Daffodil is my responsibility. I only wish to bid her good morning, and ensure she’s as content with her accommodations as I am.”
The housekeeper studied her a moment longer.
“Finch will have seen to the mare,” she said. “But the stables are out the rear—use the front entrance and then follow the path around back.”
Rosamund thanked her and went at once.
The stable yard was quiet, the morning cool and bright. Daffodil lifted her head the moment Rosamund stepped inside, ears pricking forward.
The familiarity of her soft nicker was a comfort Rosamund hadn’t realized she needed.
She laughed under her breath and crossed the space quickly, pressing her forehead to the mare’s warm neck.
“Well,” she murmured, rubbing along the familiar curve of muscle. “You look none the worse for wear.”
Satisfied—and genuinely looking forward to whatever the duke’s cook might have prepared—she lingered only long enough to offer a carrot and a whispered promise before returning to the house.