Julian’s gaze returned to her face.
She was trouble, of that he had no doubt.
“I thank you. If you’ll allow me a moment—” She stood upstraighter suddenly, glancing toward the window. “I need to check on Daffodil, my horse?—”
“Mrs. Wetherby,” Julian barked toward the open door. “Have Finch take the mare to the stables.”
Mrs. Wetherby hesitated. “It’s nigh on dark, Your Grace. Shall I have a room prepared as well?”
Both he and his housekeeper knew those chambers had been closed for years.
“I am beyond grateful.” The minx bit her bottom lip.
The forest was no place for a young woman to be alone, at nighttime or otherwise.
Hell and damnation.
“It’s not as though I can send her to be eaten by the wolves…”
Mrs. Wetherby scowled but Miss Belle brightened. “Does that mean you’ll let me tell your story?”
His mouth twisted. “It means I don’t want your death on my conscience. Nothing more.”
In truth, there was nothing left to tell.
He turned on his heel and moved toward the door.
When she didn’t immediately follow, he glanced over his shoulder. “Well? Are you coming?”
GETTING PERMISSION
After stepping into the dining hall, which could have easily sat thirty—or more—Rosamund unfastened her cloak and allowed the housekeeper to slip it from her shoulders.
Without it, she was exposed, vulnerable. And with the duke’s one eye focused on her, she had to resist the urge to shrink behind the high-backed chair at the end of the table.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around her front.
Of course, he saw. Everyone always did. The plump girl. Freckles scattered across her bosom where her gown clung too tightly, no matter how many times she tried altering the seams.
But unlike most men, his eye did not linger on her chest. Well, not for long.
And he was waiting. Waiting for her to sit first.
Providing her with a single clue that he was not all beastly.
She lowered herself into the seat adjacent to his and endured an uncomfortable silence while dinner was brought in.
And the quality of the food, well, it was almost distracting enough to erase the tension.
The duke’s staff had prepared a literal feast: roast pheasant, braisedcarrots glistening, warm bread, a crock of salted butter, and a tureen of soup that was still steaming.
The duke unfolded his napkin with brisk efficiency, settled it across his knee, and began to eat without ceremony.
Rosamund took a moment to study him.
The scar—long and unmistakable—was simply that. A mark, not a monstrosity. It did not ruin his face; it only made it harder.
Her gaze shifted, cataloging what remained: the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow of dark stubble, firm lips…