Yet Rosamund was acutely aware that his fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than required before he drew back.
“I’m… fine,” she said. And then, “thank you.”
The horses moved on. The path opened ahead.
But Rosamund felt a faint little tilt.
She was unaccustomed to being… steadied. To being… protected.
“Are you hungry?”
The question startled her from her thoughts, which had wandered into territory she had no intention of examining too closely.
“Oh—yes.”
As they drew up beneath a cluster of elms, she remembered that she had, in fact, rushed through breakfast more than she’d realized. Her stomach gave a small, unmistakable rumble—of ordinary hunger, layered beneath the far less sensible flutter from earlier.
Julian produced bread, cheese, and fruit from his saddlebag, setting it out with efficient care.
“Mrs. Wetherby’s doing,” he said.
“I shall thank her profusely,” Rosamund replied, already reaching for an apple.
They ate without ceremony, and after a moment, she gestured vaguely toward the land—the work, the steady rhythm of the morning. “This,” she said, “is exactly what I needed to see.”
He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “And?”
“And I see why they trust you.”
Rather than drawing up with pride, something in his posture loosened. Relief?
They gathered the napkins and the few remaining scraps in companionable silence, the air between them markedly easier than it had been before.
“Tomorrow,” he said, as though it were already settled, “we’ll ride south.”
Rosamund smiled, warmth blooming quietly in her chest. Had he forgotten that he had granted her only three days?
It would be sensible, she told herself, to accept the extension without comment. More time meant more observation, more understanding—everything she had come for. It would make her work stronger. Truer.
And if it also meant she need not contemplate leaving just yet—need not measure the day by how soon it would end—then that was merely a fortunate coincidence.
Nothing more.
“At sunrise?”
He inclined his head. “And you’re certain I needn’t expect a concerned father or brother to come looking for you, Miss Belle?”
“Quite, Your Grace,” Rosamund replied. Charles had most likely not even noticed her absence.
The lie, however, made her wince inside.
Because whatever this was—this growing regard—it could not follow her beyond these grounds. She would leave. And if they met again, he would discover who her brother was, who her father had been.
And although her reasons for coming were genuine, the person he’d led her to believe she was did not really exist.
BENEATH THE TREES
The next morning dawned cool and quiet as they began their ride south.