The kindness undid her more than Charles’ anger had.
“I didn’t mean…” Rosamund whispered. “It was the letter Father left. I was only trying to… “
Wallace stepped out of the shadows and handed over Rosamund’s cloak.
Felicia draped it gently around Rosamund’s shoulders, fastening it with steady fingers.
“Explain later,” she said softly. “For now, you just need to come with me.”
Rosamund twisted slightly, looking back over her shoulder.
She couldn’t allow Charles to demand that Julian marry her! She needed him to understand, she needed them both to understand. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to her?
“But I–”
“I know, Rosa, But trust me, it’s best to sort this out later.”
Julian had dismissed her. As though the time they’d spent together meant nothing. As thoughshewere nothing.
Wallace held the door open.
“Rosamund,” Felicia said quietly, but firmly, patience understandably dwindling.
And Rosamund, who had forced her way into the duke’s manor, who had ridden across the county to do so, found she had no strength left to defy this.
She allowed herself to be led across the foyer. Past the servants pretending not to stare and through the open door.
Her brother’s carriage waited, the driver jolting into action at the sight of them, quick to pull the door open, perfectly courteous.
Body moving almost of its own accord, Rosamund slowly climbed inside, hesitating only once, at the step. But Felicia, who was right behind her, put one hand on her back and then followed her up and in.
The door shut with a hollow thud.
And as they waited for Charles to come out, Rosamund pressed her hand to her mouth and felt it fully.
Not anger, not even fear, but defeat.
Utter. Absolute. Defeat.
RETURN TO FENMERE PARK
When they arrived at Fenmere Park, it was just before dawn.
The sky was the color of old ash, the manor looming pale and solemn.
This house had always meant warmth to her. Safety. Noise. Her sisters’ laughter echoing down corridors.
This morning, it didn’t feel like home. It felt… wrong.
Without looking at her, Charles handed her down from the carriage and ordered her to her room. Felicia squeezed her hand and then whispered something encouraging. Rosamund couldn’t make out what.
It didn’t matter.
The steps up the staircase felt longer than she remembered.
Her hand slid along the banister, polished smooth by years of Harrington hands. As a child she had raced down these stairs. As a girl she had lingered on them.
She knew every nick in the wood, every shallow groove worn by time.