Rosamund frowned, genuinely puzzled now. “I’m not here seeking a husband,” she said. Surely, he hadn’t just called her pretty?
“Good,” he said flatly. “Because I don’t play games.”
That sobered her.
She drew herself up, meeting his gaze squarely. “Nor do I,” she said. “I want to write this story. Nothing more.”
And yet, inside, her heart was racing. No one had ever looked at her like that, as though she were…
But she hadn’t time to decide what it meant.
Mrs. Wetherby appeared at the doorway, Rosamund’s bags in hand. “Miss Belle's mare is saddled and waiting outside, Your Grace.”
For a heartbeat, Rosamund was certain he would change his mind. That this would be the moment he sent her away.
But instead he said, “Return Miss Belle's belongings to the guest chambers, Mrs. Wetherby. Our… guest will be staying on after all.”
Mrs. Wetherby’s brows shot up, but then she immediately scooped up Rosamund’s belongings once again and disappeared around the corner.
“Three days, Miss Belle,” the duke said again. “You stay under my roof on my terms. After that, you leave.”
She opened her mouth to thank him, but her throat had gone dry.
He held her gaze. “Do not make me regret this.”
Then he pivoted on his heel and strode away, long steps carrying him down the corridor and out of sight.
Where he was going, Rosamund had no idea.
But, now that she had permission, she was determined to find out.
THE CRAFTSMAN
Once her bags were returned and Tilly arrived with a tray of tea, Rosamund allowed herself a moment’s pause.
The tea was bracing, the scone warm and crumbly beneath her fingers, the preserves sharp with fruit. When she had finished, it was time to get to work.
Which meant asking the duke more questions.
The only trouble was, she would have to find him first.
She began by exploring the manor—quiet corridors, unused sitting rooms, staircases that led nowhere in particular—taking note of what was lived in and what had been abandoned. When that proved fruitless, she sought out one of the more helpful of her newly-made acquaintances.
Finch was in the stables, mucking out one of the stalls.
He hesitated when she asked, then tipped his head toward the gardens. “The workshop, miss. Beyond the hedges.” After a pause, he added, “Though he don’t care to be disturbed when he’s working.”
Which, of course, only sharpened her curiosity.
Rosamund thanked him and followed the gravel path as it wound through bright blooms, neatly clipped shrubs, and the broad shadows cast by old maples—already arranging her first question in her mind.
Today, she’d ask questions to lay the foundation. Come to know him a little. She’d begin by asking about his childhood. His parents. His schooling. Do what she could to soften him up.
If that was even possible.
When the scent of sawdust reached her—and the steady tap of steel against wood—she approached a hidden outbuilding quietly, and then peered inside.
The duke stood at a workbench, sleeves rolled high, broad shoulders bent as he drove a chisel into a slender length of wood. The leg or arm of a chair, perhaps? The rhythmic scraping filled the room, mingling with the quiet swish of loose shavings falling at his boots.