His shoulders went rigid. “Yes.”
“How… how did it happen?”
“Shrapnel,” he said flatly. “An explosion.”
Without looking at her, he resumed his work. “Ask your next question, Miss Belle.”
She hesitated, then ventured carefully, “Was it worse,” she asked simply, “to return than to leave?”
His breath left him in a sharp exhale. “Not interested in the names of my tutors?” he sent her a sideways glance, one that told her he knew exactly what she’d been doing.
“I thought,” she said quietly, “I thought it would be easier this way…”
“Easier for whom?” But he didn’t wait for her answer.
“And yes, Miss Belle, it was… worse.”
With that, he rose, turning his back, adding the piece of wood he’d finished working on to a pile of similar ones.
When he took his place again, she wet her lips.
If she meant to write his story, to know why he’d hidden away at hisestate for so long, she could not shy away. “Did you do work like this before?”
His chisel bit into the wood, and there was a crunch as a larger piece broke off. No answer.
Rosamund pressed on. “Before your injury?”
The tool slipped from his hand, clattering against the bench, and he straightened slowly, rising to his full height, the air between them suddenly sharp. His gaze locked on hers, his visible eye dark and merciless, and for a heartbeat she was certain he regretted letting her into his home at all.
“I said you could write your damned story,” he ground out. His voice was rough. Low.Dangerous. “I did not give you permission to invade every corner of my life.”
“But I?—”
“Out.”He jabbed a finger toward the door, leaving no room for her to argue.
Rosamund’s spine prickled with a combination of nerves and irritation, his harsh tone something she was not used to, but she inclined her head. “As you wish.” She scooted around him, back toward the threshold. She’d have expected he might be angry when she asked about his return.
Although. That’s not what her story would be about. She needed to let them know who he was now, and obviously, part of that was his work.
His talent. His ethics…
So…
She was going to have to be persistent. Because to tell his story, she would, indeed, have to invade every corner, whether he liked it or not. And one day—she lifted her chin at the thought—he’d thank her for it.
DINNER FOR ONE
Rosamund smoothed her skirts as she took her place at the long dining table, determined to meet the evening with civility. Footmen moved with quiet precision, setting before her a tureen of herb-scented soup, followed by platters of roasted lamb, buttered carrots, and warm bread still steaming from the oven.
There was no sign of the duke.
Only one place had been laid—hers—just as it had been for every meal save the first night, the night she’d arrived at the estate.
She told herself she did not mind. The meal was exquisite, finer than anything she would have been served at home. Still, it felt strange to dine alone at a table meant for many.
At home, her sisters and a few brothers-in-law would have filled at least half the chairs, voices overlapping, news and complaints traded freely. Even after Papa’s death, meals had remained a noisy, stubbornly communal affair.
People were not meant to eat alone.