The kitchen yielded its share of quiet truths—how His Grace had seen to the distribution of meat and bread through the worst of the winter, no name attached, no credit sought. The footmen proved even more forthcoming. Once Finch stopped fretting over her imminent departure, he admitted that when his parents’ roof collapsed beneath heavy snow, it was the duke who paid for the repairs—privately, and without expectation.
Wallace spoke last, lowering his voice as he told her about Angus—the great, lumbering hound found half-dead from a beating and nursed back to strength by the duke himself.
Rosamund absorbed it all, then asked simply, “Where is he?”
Before Wallace could answer, a presence filled the space behind her.
The air shifted. Heat raced along her spine.
“Funny, I’ve been meaning to ask the same of you. More specifically—why the devil are you still here?”
A hand closed around her arm—not rough, but firm enough to turn her—and she found herself facing him
The duke loomed over her, somehow even taller than she remembered, and the sight of that black patch, combined with the rigid line of his jaw, struck with unexpected force.
For a fleeting instant, she understood.
It would be easy—too easy—to mistake him for something dangerous. Unable to be contained. Out of control.
His visible eye burned into hers.
He did not look pleased.
Not in the slightest.
CHATTER
“I—” Rosamund glanced toward the footman, but Wallace had—wisely, no doubt—already made himself scarce.
So it was just Rosamand and the Duke of Bexley.
Alone.
“I am still here because I wasn’t finished,” she said quietly.
“Youweren’t finished?” His mouth tightened. “I allowed you a night under my roof, Miss Belle. And for that courtesy, you overstay your welcome—harassing my staff, prying for secrets?”
“I am not looking for secrets,” Rosamund said at once. “I am looking for what ought to be known already. Information that might change… certain people’s opinions of you.”
His laugh was short and humorless. “I stopped chasing good opinions a long time ago.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s precisely the problem.”
He turned away, voice rising as he barked toward the corridor. “Wallace! Bring Miss Belle's horse around.Now.”
Rosamund did not move.
“You will leave,” he continued, not looking at her. “Seeing as you cannot be trusted to do so of your own accord, I will have you escorted from the estate.”
“Stop. Wait. Just… hear me out.”
A pause. And then, “You have one minute.”
She chose her next words with care. “If it were only the village, I would not trouble you further. But… It isn’t only Hallow’s Bridge that’s talking.”
He stilled and finally turned back to face her. “Speak plainly.”
“It’s just that,” Rosamund said evenly, “There are… discussions being had–in Westminster Hall. About your fitness to manage your estates.”