He would do what honor required.
But before that?—
Before anything?—
Lady Rosamund Harrington would look him in the eye and admit that he might be many things.
But to her?—
By God?—
He was not dull.
And with that, he was already striding for the door.
DELIVERY, DELIVERANCE
The article had been published for less than a day, and already, according to her sisters, it had performed its duty admirably.
The Duke of Bexley, it seemed, was no longer a volatile menace lurking in the wilds of a dilapidated country estate. He was, instead, a man of industry. A steward of moderate habits. A patron of widows. A craftsman of sturdy chairs.
In short?—
A bore.
“They’re almost bereft,” Eugenia added dryly. “Imagine. A duke who reads ledgers and carves furniture.”
Rosamund closed her trunk with more force than necessary. “Good,” she said.
Because that had been the objective.
Respectability restored. Rumors starved. And now?—
Charles had fulfilled his part. He had allowed his name to stand beside Bexley’s in quiet endorsement.
Which meant she must fulfill hers.
London awaited.
Hermotherawaited.
Rosamund swiped at her eyes, and then smoothed her hands down the front of her dress.
The only thing left to fix now was… her broken heart. This wasn’t the distant ache of girlish admiration, nor the quiet disappointment she’d felt when he’d gone to war.
This was something far more ruthless.
It was the absence of the scent of wood shavings clinging to his coat. The loss of that single, assessing stare that seemed to see straight through her. The rough, frustrated sounds he made when she challenged him too boldly. The way Ironwood Manor—isolated, imperfect—had somehow come to feel like home. Like she had always been a part of it.
There, though unwelcome at first, she had not felt excessive or inconvenient. She had felt… as though she belonged.
With him.
She had loved Julian.
The thought struck clean and merciless.I love him.
And now…