And yet, the duke did.
Earlier that day, when she had gone in search of him, she had managed to remain just one step behind. One minute he had been meeting with a tenant, the next conferring with a steward, then walkingthe boundary of a field with a ledger tucked beneath his arm. Each time she arrived, he had already moved on—present everywhere, and nowhere long enough to be caught.
It was precisely the sort of work she wished to document—proof of competence, of care.
And yet, he had contrived to keep her from it.
It had not looked like idleness. Nor had it looked like neglect.
If anything, it had looked deliberate.
Blasted man.
And she knew—because no one was that busy—that his empty seat at yet another meal was a choice.
She hadn’t been lying, though, when she’d complimented his cook’s skills, and so she forced herself to appreciate the flavors, to pretend she could not feel the silence pressing in on her nor the watchful eyes of the footmen where they stood like sentries at each door. But with every course, her patience thinned.
He had made his irritation quite clear the previous afternoon, but her time here was limited. It was the duke himself who had only given her three days to come up with her story—and now he was wasting them.
By the time dessert arrived—a golden treacle tart, the sugar crust glistening—she could contain her vexation no longer.
She pushed the plate away untouched, her temper bubbling over, and then tossed her napkin onto the table.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
She rose at once, offered Finch a brief apology—enough to startle him—and swept from the dining room, skirts whispering with purpose.
The corridors were long and dim, but she did not hesitate. Mrs. Wetherby had shown her which door led to the duke’s study, if only so she might avoid it.
Light glowed beneath the threshold.
A fire.
She’d provided reason enough to write the article. A very good reason, in fact.
The whispers had shifted over time. Not weakness, precisely—but something worse in the eyes of society. That the Duke of Bexley wasunstable. That a man so altered could not be trusted with power, no matter how august the title.
Rosamund had read the words in her mother’s letters, and even worse, in the documents she’d discovered on her brother’s desk. “He does not appear... He leaves matters unattended... One wonders how long Parliament will tolerate it.”
And that was the danger.
He would be bothered one way or another—by her questions now, or later by men with authority and far less patience.
Rosamund set her jaw.
She could already see the story taking shape—not an excuse, not a defense, but an alternate narrative. One that acknowledged absence without mistaking it for neglect. That showed a man managing quietly, deliberately, in ways that did not announce themselves.
If only he would allow her to gather the information needed.
She did not pause to knock.
She pushed the door open.
The duke sat at a small table before the hearth, his head bent over a plate, fork halfway to his mouth. He stilled as the door struck the wall.
Rosamund took in the scene in a single glance.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, exasperation slipping through despite herself, “but I was told you were too busy to dine. I cannot help noticing that this appears not to be true. If you wish me to convey the nature of your character, in order to protectall that is yours,Your Grace, you are eventually going to have to allow me to witness it.”