“But Daffodil?—”
“Go to my carriage,” he bit out. “Now.” He spoke in his ducal tone.
The one he used in London. In Parliament. In rooms full of men who obeyed without question.
It reduced her, in a heartbeat, to a wayward child.
And yet she did not move.
“This is not what you think. It’s about father’s will. He left a task for me… In the envelope,” she insisted, breathless. “The duke was simply?—”
“You needn’t finish that sentence,” he cut in. “I assure you, I understand perfectly.”
Julian stiffened.
“Outside.Now,Rosamund.”
But she couldn’t… So she looked over to Julian, to the man who had held her. To the man who had kissed her, touched her. The man who, only moments before, had been… under her skirts!
“Julian…” For an instant, she thought she saw something soften. She thought he’d what, defend her?
“Your Grace,” Charles said coldly, “You and I will have words.”
The implication hung heavy in the air.
“No,” she said quickly. “There is nothing to discuss. This was my doing. I came here. I?—”
Charles did not look at her.
Julian did. And whatever softness she thought she’d glimpsed had vanished.
His expression twisted, and his mouth turned up, smirking.
“Run along,LadyRosamund,” he said lightly, her title edged with mockery. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Lady Rosamund.
Not Miss Belle.
Not Rosamund.
Lady.
It was as though he had decided—in that instant—to despise her.
She blinked.
Stepped back. Another step.
Swallowed the sob that threatened to escape, and then turned.
And as the door closed behind her, she nearly collided with Felicia.
Her sister-in-law had been waiting in the foyer, tall and composed, dark hair drawn back neatly, holding Rosamund’s satchel in one gloved hand.
In her quiet assessment, Rosamund saw more compassion than she deserved.
“I have sent one of the outriders for Daffodil,” Felicia said calmly. “She will be seen to. So you mustn’t worry.”