He turned.
He wore a dark riding coat, sharply fitted to his powerful frame, and Hessians with a fine veil of dust clinging to the leather.
He had dressed with intention.
He had travelled with urgency.
And he looked… resolute.
And just behind him, positioned with quiet dignity near the hearth?—
A chair. Constructed of unfinished pine, its lines were elegant but sturdy, free of unnecessary ornament save for the carved rosebuds winding along the crest rail.
A… gift? For her?
She squashed the foolish thought, though no other plausible explanation came to mind.
“Why have you come?” she managed.
His jaw flexed once.
“I…” He glanced briefly at the offending piece of furniture. “I brought you a chair.”
She blinked.
“You came all this way to deliver a chair?”
The faintest color rose along his collar. “Yes.”
Despite herself, warmth unfurled low in her stomach. His presence did that. The sheer, impossible nearness of him. That scent of wood she’d learned to crave.
And the quiet intensity in his gaze.
He reached absently to adjust his cravat, and she caught the slightest tremor in his hands.
“To thank you,” he added. “For the article.”
She inclined her head thoughtfully. “I told you I would write it.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“What were you discussing with my brother?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Primarily you.”
“And?” she pressed, though her pulse had begun to hammer in her ears.
“And,” he said slowly, stepping toward her, “he has granted my request to speak to you directly.”
For a moment, her thoughts scattered.
That meant?—
Her sisters had been wrong about the duke’s intentions. Surely. Although…
Men did not seek such permissions lightly. Not after hours shut away in a study.