And he looked… entirely different here—focused, intent, but relaxed in a way he hadn’t the night before.
His head lifted sharply, his one good eye finding her in the doorway as the chisel stilled in his hand.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his gaze unwelcoming.
Rosamund blinked, stepping over the threshold. “No. I mean, please, just continue on with what you’re doing.”
That scent of freshly cut wood engulfed her now, stirring the unsettling awareness that she had noticed it on the duke before.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he exhaled—slowly, through his nose—as though conceding something to himself rather than to her.
“Perhaps it isn’t that your father allows you such freedom,” he said at last, his gaze again on the chisel in his hand. “But that you simply take it.”
The words were not quite approval. Not permission.
But neither were they dismissal.
When he turned back to his work, Rosamund took the opportunity to study his domain.
Intricately carved tables and chairs lined the walls, their surfaces gleaming, their edges worked with scrolls and roses. Not a hobby, she realized.A passion.
She drifted closer to the nearest chair and let her fingertips trace one of the carved flowers. The grain was satin-smooth where he’d polished it, the grooves deep and decisive where the chisel had bitten.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended.
The detail was almost delicate—but not at all fragile. Nothing about it felt tentative or ornamental for its own sake. It was strength made precise.
“Stop pawing at it,” he snapped. “You’ll leave oils behind.”
She jerked back, flushing. “Oh—of course. Forgive me, I didn’t realize.”
His chisel stilled for the briefest beat. “It’s pine,” he said, irritation rasping through the words. “Soft wood. It drinks everything into the grain. Touch it too much, and the stain won’t take evenly. You’ll see every mark left behind.”
Crossing her arms in front of her, she added more softly, “You’ve an incredible talent.”
Her gaze lingered on the piece before her. “A chair is a very personal thing, don’t you think? It holds you up when you write, when you read, or eat—or both at the same time.” Rosamund smiled ruefully. “I actually have a favorite chair at home. It’s nothing like this. But it is… sturdy. And comfortable.”
His gaze flicked to the chair he had ordered her not to touch. “That’s what matters, isn’t it?” he said, still working.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rasp of sawdust stirred by the breeze slipping in through the open door.
“I think I’d treasure it,” Rosamund said at last. “People would pay a small fortune for work like this.”
“My work isn’t for sale,” he said, jaw set so firmly the words came out clipped.
“Oh.” She blinked. “Of course. I only meant?—”
He turned then, fixing her with his one dark, assessing eye. “I have no need of funds, Miss Belle. If that’s what you’re implying.”
She was genuinely startled. “Of course not,” she said at once—then paused. He sounded so certain, as though the slight were a familiar one.
He set the chisel down and lifted a brow. “Surely you haven’t gone to all this trouble merely to discuss the market value of furniture.”
“We can discuss whatever interests you,” she said lightly. “Itisyour story, after all.”
His nostrils flared. “Right,” he muttered, as though already regretting the decision.