Chapter 1 #2
Rosamund rose. Her limbs protested after the long wait, but she smoothed her cloak and faced him all the same.
“We have met before. A long time ago, Your Grace,” she said. “I am Miss Rosamund Belle.”
She held his gaze.
“I am a writer, and I’ve come here so that I can tell your story.”
Tell his story?
Julian Cavendish, Duke of Bexley, fixed his scowl on the chit perched so primly in his drawing room. The very sight of her unsettled him.
A visitor. When had he last endured one? Years, perhaps longer. Long enough that he’d grown used to silence as company—if silence could be called the scrape of chisel on oak; his hound, Argus’s steady snore; and Sable’s furtive prowl.
Those sounds belonged.
A woman’s voice did not.
And yet, here she was.
And… she looked familiar.
“I don’t imagine you remember me,” she said suddenly, tugging at the thought in his skull.
He arched a brow.
But she only smiled, seemingly unintimidated, though her fingers worried at the buttons on her cloak.
“We met in Hallows Bridge. I was ten years old. You must have been about six and ten at the time. We were in the mercantile. You were buying a tin of comfits. I wanted one, but I hadn’t a farthing.
And you…” She tilted her head, and the copper-colored tail of a braid slipped forward over her shoulder, catching the last traces of sunlight.
“…You paid for one and pressed it into my hand. You didn’t have to do that. ”
The freckles.
Ah, yes. That unraveled something.
The blurred memory of a plump, red-haired child standing alone, books clutched to her chest, wide eyes lifted toward him in silent hope. A memory so distant he might have dismissed it—except the freckles had endured.
They dusted her nose. Spanned her cheeks. A scatter of warm gold across pale skin.
His gaze dropped—unintentionally—lower.
A few disappeared beneath the edge of her cloak.
The thought arrived unbidden.
Did they continue—
No.
Julian shifted his stance, jaw tightening as he dragged his attention back to her face. He had no business wondering at the geography of this woman’s skin.
He folded his arms across his chest, brandishing his scowl like a weapon.
She was not deterred. “You were kind, and in spite of what everyone says, I know you are not a—”
“A beast?”
At last she fell silent, though not for long.
“Exactly.” She held his stare without flinching, fixed on his one visible eye.
She obviously lacked even an ounce of self preservation, because she continued right on. “And I don’t think it’s fair that you’ve been judged so harshly. With nothing to back it up but rumors. That is why I’m here.”
He barked a mirthless laugh, well-worn bitterness tightening around his heart. “Ah, of course! And you’re going to set them all straight, are you? A word of advice, Miss Bower—”
“Belle. I am Miss Rosamund Belle.”
Her name hardly mattered. “People don’t care about the truth. They believe what they want to believe.” If she thought otherwise, then perhaps she hadn’t matured much from that helpless little girl after all.
His hand brushed unconsciously at the edge of his patch.
Behind even the most vicious of rumors, there almost always existed a seed of truth.
Julian stepped closer, closing the distance until she was forced to tilt her chin back to meet his gaze. This move unsettled most people—made them shrink, apologize, retreat.
She did none of those things. She held her ground. To be quite fair, she was taller than most ladies he’d met, and wasn’t particularly delicate either.
But she was still a woman.
Julian halted, just short of outright impropriety. “If you came seeking the gallant boy who bought you a sweet, you’ve wasted your journey.”
She still did not turn away. And her attention… It made Julian’s skin itch.
He knew the stories she referred to all too well. Stories about a one-eyed duke—an unpredictable monster.
All of it…
True.
There was nothing else to tell.
The door creaked open then, and Mrs. Wetherby, his housekeeper, swept in. Her sharp gaze flicked between them. “Dinner is served, Your Grace. Shall I set a place for your… guest?”
Julian frowned.
He did not entertain visitors and Mrs. Wetherby damn well knew that.
And yet…
“Where is her escort?” he asked his housekeeper. “Surely she didn’t arrive without protection? A companion?”
“Indeed she did, Your Grace.”
He swung his gaze back to his intruder. “Surely not?”
“I am not a child, Your Grace.” Her gaze finally left his. “I am grateful for your hospitality, ma’am, for which I accept.”
Oh…
Hell.
She was either mad or incredibly brave.
Or perhaps a little of both.
And something about that… intrigued him.
But also…
He wasn’t so monstrous that he’d send a vulnerable woman into the darkness. With that thought, he allowed his gaze to trail over her almost ruthlessly. And that cloak she wore draped over her shoulders? It did little to conceal the generous lines of her figure.
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 up straighter 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?”