“It appears, Rosa, that your journey to London will be postponed," she said. “At least until Charles has concluded his conversation with the Duke… of Bexley.”
The faintest sparkle lit her eyes.
It had not taken Imogen long to fashion Rosamund’s hair into something softer, more becoming. Nor had it taken long for Rosamund to exchange her traveling gown for one less… resigned.
And as they waited, Rosamund’s sisters took turns slipping downstairs under increasingly flimsy pretenses.
A misplaced ribbon. A forgotten book. An urgent need for lemonade.
Aside from the occasional rise in male voices drifting from Charles’s study, none returned to report anything of substance.
“They are not shouting,” Josephine reported at one point, as though this were promising.
“They are also not laughing,” Eugenia countered.
Time dragged.
Every creak of the floorboards. Every footstep in the corridor. Every murmur from below sent her nerves pulling tight as wire.
By the time Felicity finally returned, Rosamund’s composure felt as fragile as spun glass.
“The Duke of Bexley wishes to see you.”
Her sisters erupted, but Rosamund rose carefully, determined to appear serene.
“He has been closeted with Charles for nearly two hours,” Josephine whispered. “Men do not converse that long unless something momentous is occurring.”
“They do,” Eugenia replied. “They smoke. And glare. And discuss honor.”
“And settlements,” Imogen added, waggling her eyebrows.
At which point, Rosamund helplessly endured a round of premature embraces.
“For heaven’s sake,” she murmured. “It’s only a visit. Charles, no doubt, is going to demand I formally apologize for lying to him.”
Did they truly imagine she stood on the brink of an engagement? After all that had transpired?
She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands, however, before making her way downstairs.
There, Charles met her outside the study door. He did not look angry. He looked… thoughtful.
Which only unsettled her more.
“What is it?” she asked quietly.
Charles held her gaze for a long moment, then he shook his head once.
“I suppose,” he said, stepping aside, “that is entirely up to you.”
“Up to me…?”
Her brother answered, simply, with a nod.
Rosamund drew one steadying breath and crossed the threshold.
THE HONORABLE THING
The Duke of Bexley stood near the window, broad shoulders framed by the late afternoon light.