After several breaths, she shifted back—only slightly—allowing herself the smallest release of tension. It held fast, unmoved by herpresence. With an exhale, she clasped her gloved hands in her lap, willing her breathing to steady.
What madness had driven her here? Any other woman would have turned back at the mere sight of Ironwood Manor—at the sight of the housekeeper’s scowl.
She would not turn back so easily.
Publish something under your own name, Rosa. Make it meaningful. Make a difference in the world.
She was her father’s daughter, and she had a task to complete.
And unlike women who armed themselves with parasols and ribbons, Rosamund was not the sort to require companions or the usual protections. What good would it do to pretend otherwise? She was not delicate, not easily overcome.
In truth, there was a certain freedom in it. Men did not leer at what they did not notice. And as their old governess was fond of saying whenever one of them complained: If a lady could not be admired, she could at least be effective.
Rosamund was nothing if not effective.
So rather than sit there trembling in her half-boots, she used the time to rehearse—calmly, methodically—what she would say when the duke finally deigned to acknowledge his guest.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Minutes turned to hours, the quiet broken only by her own measured breathing. She did not shift, did not fidget. She had not come all this way to be undone by discomfort or doubt.
Still, the room offered no mercy. No fire stirred in the hearth. No candle burned. As the light faded, shadows gathered in unfamiliar corners, and the air seemed to cool around her resolve. Waiting was one thing. Waiting in the dark—in a strange house, in a stranger’s domain—was another.
Perhaps she would have to return another day.
The thought had scarcely formed when footsteps sounded in the corridor. Unhurried, as though time itself bent to his pace.
The footsteps stopped.
The door opened, and the Duke of Bexley entered with a single candle in hand.
Behind him padded a great hound, tail loose and untroubled, followed by a lean black cat that traced the edge of the room as though it already claimed it.
It was as though she did not exist.
Rather than acknowledge her presence, he crossed the room, then bent to touch the flame to the waiting kindling.
Fire caught with a soft rush, and in its soft glow, pieces of him came into view.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. One eye hidden beneath a dark patch, the scar beneath it carving sharply down his cheek.
Her heart gave an inconvenient stutter, but she did not look away.
His black hair was tied back at his nape, though a single strand had escaped to brush his temple. He wore no jacket, no waistcoat—only a plain linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with muscle and hands marked by work.
Her gaze caught there—on long fingers dusted faintly with sawdust, on the trace of woodsmoke clinging to him, sharp and real.
This was not the refined boy she remembered. Nor was he the grotesque creature whispered about back in Hallows Bridge.
The sleek black shadow detached itself from the duke, paused, and regarded Rosamund with bright, assessing eyes. Then—without hesitation—it leapt lightly into her lap and settled there, curling as though it had always belonged.
Only then did he turn.
His visible eye fixed on her.