Chapter 2
GETTING PERMISSION
After stepping into the dining hall, which could have easily sat thirty—or more—Rosamund unfastened her cloak and allowed the housekeeper to slip it from her shoulders.
Without it, she was exposed, vulnerable. And with the duke’s one eye focused on her, she had to resist the urge to shrink behind the high-backed chair at the end of the table.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around her front.
Of course, he saw. Everyone always did. The plump girl. Freckles scattered across her bosom where her gown clung too tightly, no matter how many times she tried altering the seams.
But unlike most men, his eye did not linger on her chest. Well, not for long.
And he was waiting. Waiting for her to sit first.
Providing her with a single clue that he was not all beastly.
She lowered herself into the seat adjacent to his and endured an uncomfortable silence while dinner was brought in.
And the quality of the food, well, it was almost distracting enough to erase the tension.
The duke’s staff had prepared a literal feast: roast pheasant, braised carrots glistening, warm bread, a crock of salted butter, and a tureen of soup that was still steaming.
The duke unfolded his napkin with brisk efficiency, settled it across his knee, and began to eat without ceremony.
Rosamund took a moment to study him.
The scar—long and unmistakable—was simply that. A mark, not a monstrosity. It did not ruin his face; it only made it harder.
Her gaze shifted, cataloging what remained: the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow of dark stubble, firm lips…
Her pulse stumbled and she lowered her eyes at once.
“Coming here was reckless,” he said, tone flat as he tore off a piece of the bread.
Rosamund licked her lips. “It’s not that long of a ride, and… we’ve always been free to move about the village as we please.”
His brow, the one over his good eye, arched. “We?”
“Me and my sisters,” she said with a touch of pride.
“No brothers?” Where normally one might express curiosity, his voice dripped with disdain.
“Well.” She shifted in her chair. “Yes. Just one.”
“A child, then.”
“No, he’s the eldest.”
“Then he is a fool,” the duke snapped, “to allow his sister to gallivant across the countryside without escort. Nearly as great a fool as your father must be, for setting such a poor example.”
Rosamund stiffened. “You don’t know anything about my father. Besides, we look after ourselves just fine, thank you very much.”
The duke gave a mocking laugh, shaking his head. “Your parents are raising chaos, Miss Belle.”
“My father raised us to be independent.” Even if their mother had not.
“So independent that he approves of one of his daughters wandering into the den of the beastly duke?”
“The den of the Duke of Bexley. But, yes, he would. He… he does, actually,” she said. “He’s the one who gave me the task, after all.”
Now he looked at her, really looked. “Task?”
She nodded, choosing her words carefully. Because her father’s death was known far and wide. Mention of the will, or any details about their unusual family, could give her away.
“Papa… has given each of us—my sisters and I—something to accomplish, something personal.”
“So, what precisely is this task, then? To write of my tragic tale?”
“Not specifically. Writing your tale is my choice. But… I am to publish something under my own name.”
"You’ve published your work before, then?”
"A few times, yes. But I’ve always used a pseudonym—Robert Belle.” She grimaced. “My father’s wi—My father insists that I do this one as Rosamund.”
The duke watched her for a moment before asking, “And if you don’t complete this task?”
I lose my inheritance. The contents of which still remained a mystery, seeing as that knowledge was also to be withheld until she met Papa’s terms. But she didn’t say any of that.
She shrugged. “I… disappoint him. I suppose.”
The duke gave a bark of laughter, sharp and humorless. “Ridiculous.”
Her spoon clinked against the bowl as she leaned forward. “It is not. My father, he simply wants what’s best for me. And whether you realize it or not, that will also prove best for you.”
“Ha!” His laughter cut like a blade. “And what the blazes do I have to gain by allowing you to invade my privacy?”
“Your privacy has already been invaded, Your Grace, but with speculation, and… dangerous rumors. I simply wish to clear all that up. I simply wish to put an end to the—”
“Legend of the monster?” He was shaking his head now, one corner of his mouth lifted in disbelief. But then he leaned forward, all but sneering. “But what if those dangerous rumors are true?”
“Well, are they?”
The duke stared down at his plate.
“It should bother you, what people have been saying.” she persisted. “They judge you for a situation they have no understanding of, spread complete fabrications.”
“They’ll say what they like regardless.” His voice came out flat.
“Won’t you just let me try?” That young man–the boy–she remembered. He didn’t deserve to be so isolated, to be forced into exile.
His hand drifted once again up to his eye patch, brushing along the fabric in a slow, almost mindless motion. The moment he seemed to realize what he was doing, he stopped. “Why don’t you find some other pathetic fellow that needs saving?”
“I don’t want to find some other fellow. I want to save you.”
He shook his head, blinking, as though she were an enigma too absurd to unravel—and returned to eating.
For over a full minute the only sound was the scrape of his knife against porcelain.
As if he’d already decided.
As if his answer was no.
“I shall return every day until you say yes,” Rosamund threatened.
“Every day? You think yourself stubborn enough to outlast me?”
“I don’t think I am, I know it.”
His response was little more than a growl.
Beneath the table, a wet nose bumped her skirts. Rosamund peeked down to see the hound’s mournful eyes gazing up at her, pleading and... expectant. And there was already a little smear of sauce dotting the whiskers around his mouth.
Had the duke been sneaking morsels to his dog this whole time?
She smiled into her spoon.
Ah, yes. She could outlast this duke.
The girl was infuriating.
Bright as a flame and stubborn as iron, she was no feather-headed beauty. No—she was curves and color and conviction, and when she stepped fully into the dining room’s light, he felt the jolt of her anew.
Her hair caught it first. Golden-red, braided loosely, the thick plait drawn forward to rest against her chest. Against the soft swell of her bosom.
His gaze went there before he could stop it.
He looked away at once.
Almost at once.
It was disturbingly easy to imagine tugging on that braid, and then unravelling, watching it spill over her shoulders, burying his hands in that fire.
Julian forced his attention back to her face.
A predictable lapse. The consequence of too much solitude, of a life pared down to familiarity and routine.
Any man might falter under such conditions, let alone one such as he.
And yet—sparring with her across the table, trading words—he became aware of something far more troubling.
She was not conventionally beautiful. But she was so very… present.
The dining room itself seemed altered by her.
Alive.
That was the problem.
This house had been his refuge, shrouded, from the neglected guest chambers to this very room. Within these walls, his will was obeyed. The patterns of his day to day existence ensured the closest thing to peace that he would ever know.
She did not fit the pattern.
Therefore, he could not allow it.
He could not allow her.
Julian cut another bite of tart. Before he could raise it to his mouth, a dark shape slid along the floor.
“Sable,” he warned.
The cat ignored him.
With deliberate grace, she leapt into Miss Belle’s lap and curled there, purring as though she had claimed a throne. Miss Belle startled, then laughed softly, her hand lowering without hesitation to scratch behind the cat’s ears.
Julian scowled. “Down, Sable.”
Miss Belle’s hand stilled. “No. She’s sweet. I love animals.”
Mrs. Wetherby, gathering plates with brisk efficiency, snorted. “Sweet, is she? That cat’s a demon. Took a piece out of me this morning.” She held out her hand, scratches still livid against her skin.
Miss Belle winced. “I wouldn’t assume she meant harm,” she said gently. “Animals react when they’re frightened.”
Sable’s lamp-bright eyes slid closed as Miss Belle resumed stroking her sleek head, fingers gentle but firm. “Perhaps you startled her. Or she thought you were playing. She only needs a little patience.”
“Or a muzzle,” Mrs. Wetherby muttered.
Julian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Sable’s teeth and claws serve their purpose. Keeps the mice out of the kitchen.”
“Lucky for her,” his housekeeper returned, without heat.
At Miss Belle's feet, Angus settled with a sigh, chin resting against her slipper. Sable lay heavy and content in her lap, as though she had always belonged there.
Traitors. Both of them.
He did not like how easily she fit here. How readily his creatures yielded to her touch.
How the house—his sanctuary—responded to her presence as though it had been waiting.
Her brightness was an intrusion of false promise.
For a split second, his hand twitched to overturn the table. To clear the room. To restore his blessed silence.
Julian shoved back from the table instead, the chair legs shrieking across the floor.
For a heartbeat, he nearly spoke—nearly ordered her to leave at once—but Mrs. Wetherby was right. He could not send her back into the dark.
“Mrs. Wetherby will show you to your room,” he said, the words dragged from him like teeth.
Then he left. Damn near fled.
Why the devil hadn’t he just sent her to the nearest inn? By God, he could have just as easily had Finch escort her back to the village.
Had his faculties been clouded by…
Lust? No. He would never act on that. Not with her. Not with anyone.
Loneliness, then?
Julian swore under his breath.
Blast it all. And damn his one good eye—he truly was pathetic.