Rather than peppering the duke with more questions, however, Rosamund rode in silence today, listening as the land came awake—the birds, the wind, the steady sound of hooves.
The land surrounding Ironwood Manor, she had to admit, was some of the most peaceful she’d ever known.
Which made the unsettled feeling in her chest all the more irritating.
The duke, by contrast, seemed wholly unaffected, riding with purpose, his gaze fixed on the line of trees ahead.
As they neared the forest’s edge, something thudded lightly against the back of his saddle when Merlin adjusted his stride. The sound drew her eye.
Rosamund eased Daffodil back a fraction, just long enough to study the unfamiliar bundle lashed behind him. Partially visible beneath the leather flap was the end of an oiled cloth, the unmistakable handle of a mallet—and then, unmistakably, the haft of an axe.
She urged Daffodil forward again until they rode abreast.
“What will we be doing today?” she asked.
He glanced over, then ahead again. “Thought I’d show you one of the estate’s greatest assets.”
Rosamund’s gaze followed his to the trees rising in the distance, tall and close-set.
What would her sisters say if they knew what she was doing today?
Riding into a forest.
Alone with the Duke of Bexley.
Glancing back again, her mouth twitched despite itself.
Who was bringing an axe.
The duke, seeming to sense her scrutiny, flicked a quick look to the bundle behind his saddle, then back to her face.
“I should clarify,” he said dryly, “before you decide you’ve made a terrible miscalculation.”
She lifted a brow.
“I’m going to cut wood for a project I’m working on,” he continued. “Nothing more sinister than that, I assure you.”
Rosamund laughed softly, the sound surprising even her.
“I never thought it was,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you, you know. In case you hadn’t realized by now.”
His mouth curved faintly at that.
They rode on toward the trees until the path narrowed, where the duke brought Merlin to a halt and dismounted. “We’ll leave the horses here.”
From her seat on Daffodil, Rosamund watched as he unstrapped his tools with practiced ease, unexpectedly struck by the quiet elegance of his hands.
“It shouldn’t take long,” he added. “You’re welcome to bring your writing while I work, if you like.”
Nodding, Rosamund dismounted, and then slipped a few folded pages into the pocket of her cloak, where a pencil already lived. Old habit. Then she followed him beneath the canopy, the air cooling as the forest closed around them.
Rather than stride ahead, he placed a hand at her back—light, assured—and steered her gently into the woods.
“So what are we looking for?” Her voice came out a little breathless.
“Beechwood.”
She nodded, aware somehow that even more than yesterday, she was no longer merely observing his work, but being quietly invited into it.