Chapter 19
“Ido not recall owning quite so much land.”
Alexander leaned back slightly in the chair behind the heavy walnut desk, one hand resting against the open ledger while the other pressed absently against his temple, hoping the simple act of staring at columns of figures might eventually coax his memory into returning.
The study smelled faintly of leather and ink, the tall windows letting in the pale afternoon light, casting long golden rectangles across the carpet and the scattered papers spread over his desk.
Maps of the Rosewood estates lay open before him, inked boundaries tracing through counties he was supposed to know intimately.
The realization that he couldn’t remember carried the same sharp edge of panic it had in the beginning.
In the weeks since the accident, he had learned to compensate for the gaps in his mind with observation and patience, the same careful strategy that had carried him through the ball a few nights earlier.
If a man listened long enough, watched closely enough, and asked the correct questions at the right moments, the world had a way of revealing itself without forcing him to admit what he lacked.
Still, the sheer size of the Rosewood estates was unsettling.
He had spent the better part of the morning studying ledgers and letters from stewards, trying to build a picture of responsibilities that apparently belonged to him whether he remembered them or not.
Tenant rents. Crop rotations. Repairs to tenant cottages in Dorset.
A dispute about drainage in the northern pasture.
It was an entire life written in ink. A life that belonged to him and yet felt curiously distant.
Alexander exhaled slowly and closed the ledger.
“You are a very fortunate fellow,” he muttered under his breath to the silent room. “Though I suspect the fortunate fellow in question might have appreciated leaving instructions.”
He had just reached for the next letter when a discreet knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened a moment later, and the butler stepped inside with his usual composed efficiency. “Your Grace.”
Alexander straightened slightly in his chair. “Yes?”
“There are visitors requesting to see you.”
Alexander’s brows drew together faintly. He had expected a quiet afternoon. “Visitors?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler hesitated just enough for Alexander to notice. “The Duchess’s aunt and uncle have arrived.”
Something in Alexander’s chest tightened.
He did not yet know the full details of Diana’s family history, but he knew enough to understand that the subject of her guardians had never been accompanied by warmth in her voice.
The few times their names had arisen during the past weeks, she had spoken of them with polite distance rather than affection.
Still, politeness required a proper reception.
“I see.” Alexander pushed back his chair and rose from the desk. “Where are they?”
“In the front drawing room, Your Grace. The Duchess is with them.”
Alexander nodded once. “Very well.”
The butler inclined his head and withdrew.
Alexander crossed the room toward the door, adjusting the cuff of his shirt as he went.
His mind had already begun assembling the polite mask that the Duke of Rosewood was expected to wear in such situations.
Whatever Diana’s personal feelings toward these relations might be, the ton maintained very clear expectations about courtesy.
At least, that was the assumption he made as he stepped into the corridor and began making his way toward the staircase.
He had descended perhaps halfway when voices drifted upward from the lower hall.
Alexander slowed.
He recognized Diana’s voice immediately. Even before the words themselves reached him, the sound of strain within it made something sharp and protective rise instinctively in his chest.
“…I assure you there is no need for this visit.”
Her tone was too controlled, but he could tell she was almost breaking by the heavy breathing that accompanied those words.
Alexander stopped just before the turn in the staircase where the hall below would come into view.
A woman’s voice answered her.
“But my dear girl, it is precisely because there is a need that we have come.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened slightly. He remained still, listening.
“You should not trouble the Duke with this,” Diana replied, the effort in her composure becoming more obvious now. “I will speak with him when the time is appropriate.”
The woman made a soft, impatient sound.
“And allow more time to pass without addressing the matter of an heir?” she said sharply. “Diana, you cannot possibly expect us to remain silent when your future is concerned.”
A man’s cold, clipped voice followed. “Nonsense. A husband must be made aware of such matters.”
Alexander felt heat begin to gather slowly in his chest.
“We will not leave,” the man continued firmly, “until we have spoken with him ourselves.”
Diana’s voice dropped.
“Please,” she said quietly. “Do not say anything to him.”
Alexander had heard enough.
The slow burn that had begun somewhere beneath his ribs now surged upward with dangerous speed. Whoever these people were, they had already been asked to leave by the Duchess of Rosewood in her own home, and yet they remained standing there arguing with her as though her authority meant nothing.
He descended the final steps without haste.
The voices stopped when he appeared at the bottom of the staircase as three heads turned toward him.
Diana stood near the doorway of the drawing room, her posture perfectly straight in the way she always held herself when confronted with unpleasant company, yet the tension gathered through her shoulders was unmistakable to him the moment he stepped into the hall.
One of her hands was clasped tightly around the other at her waist, her fingers twisting slightly in the fabric of her gown in a small, unconscious movement that told him far more than the composure on her face ever would.
Across from her stood Esther Ridlington and her husband, Charles Ridlington, Marquess of Cliffhall.
Alexander recognized them at once.
He had met them only once before. Cliffhall was a thin man with a long, narrow face and the careful, calculating eyes of someone who measured every conversation for advantage, while Lady Cliffhall carried herself with rigid confidence.
Her posture was immaculate, her chin slightly raised, her expression composed into something that might pass for concern to an unfamiliar observer.
To Alexander, it looked very much like entitlement.
Esther stood closest to Diana, her gloved hands folded neatly together as though she were delivering a lecture rather than arguing in the entrance hall of another woman’s home, while Cliffhall lingered slightly behind her.
Alexander’s gaze moved over them once, cool and deliberate.
Then he looked at Diana.
She met his eyes, and in that single moment, he saw something there that made the last thin thread of his patience snap without hesitation.
Distress.
It wasn’t obvious, but he had spent enough time watching her lately to recognize the signs she did not show to the world.
The slight tightening around her mouth. The guarded stillness of her shoulders.
The way she held herself too rigidly, as though bracing for something unpleasant she would rather endure alone.
The sight of it sent a slow burn through his chest that spread steadily outward.
Alexander’s voice, when he spoke, remained perfectly calm.
“I believe,” he said slowly, “that my wife has already asked you to leave.”
Silence fell across the room at once.
For a moment, neither of them seemed quite certain how to respond to the interruption. Then Esther recovered first.
“Your Grace,” she said quickly, dipping into a shallow curtsey that managed to appear both polite and faintly irritated at the same time. “How fortunate that you have joined us.”
Alexander did not return the pleasantry. His gaze remained steady.
“Lady Cliffhall,” he said evenly, “the Duchess has requested that you depart.”
Cliffhall cleared his throat behind his wife, shifting his weight slightly as though attempting to soften the moment.
“We meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” he said, spreading his hands with the mild air of a man who believed himself perfectly reasonable. “We merely wished to speak with you regarding an important family matter.”
Alexander took one slow step forward into the drawing room.
The movement was unhurried, yet it carried enough quiet authority that both visitors instinctively shifted their attention fully toward him.
“I do not wish to hear it,” he said, his voice now dangerously calm, “You came to my house to lecture my wife? When she explicitly told you to leave?”
“We came,” Lady Cliffhall replied stiffly, lifting her chin slightly, “because it is our duty to ensure that Diana fulfills her responsibilities.”
Alexander said nothing. He simply looked at her as the silence stretched.
Under the weight of his gaze, Lady Cliffhall’s confidence began to look less like authority and more like stubbornness clinging to its last foothold.
Behind her, Cliffhall shifted faintly, clearing his throat as though he had suddenly become aware that the air in the room had changed.
Alexander’s expression remained perfectly composed. “You will leave this house immediately.”
Cliffhall shifted again, visibly less comfortable now than he had been only moments earlier. He glanced briefly at his wife before attempting a conciliatory tone.
“Your Grace,” he began carefully, “perhaps we could—”
“No.” The single word cut through the air with finality. “You were asked to leave once already by the Duchess,” he said, his tone calm but unmistakably cold. “You ignored her, but you will not ignore me.”