Chapter 4
CHATTER
“I—” Rosamund glanced toward the footman, but Wallace had—wisely, no doubt—already made himself scarce.
So it was just Rosamand and the Duke of Bexley.
Alone.
“I am still here because I wasn’t finished,” she said quietly.
“You weren’t finished?” His mouth tightened. “I allowed you a night under my roof, Miss Belle. And for that courtesy, you overstay your welcome—harassing my staff, prying for secrets?”
“I am not looking for secrets,” Rosamund said at once. “I am looking for what ought to be known already. Information that might change… certain people’s opinions of you.”
His laugh was short and humorless. “I stopped chasing good opinions a long time ago.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s precisely the problem.”
He turned away, voice rising as he barked toward the corridor. “Wallace! Bring Miss Belle's horse around. Now.”
Rosamund did not move.
“You will leave,” he continued, not looking at her. “Seeing as you cannot be trusted to do so of your own accord, I will have you escorted from the estate.”
“Stop. Wait. Just… hear me out.”
A pause. And then, “You have one minute.”
She chose her next words with care. “If it were only the village, I would not trouble you further. But… It isn’t only Hallow’s Bridge that’s talking.”
He stilled and finally turned back to face her. “Speak plainly.”
“It’s just that,” Rosamund said evenly, “There are… discussions being had–in Westminster Hall. About your fitness to manage your estates.”
Silence fell between them, but then his eyes narrowed. “How would you know what the blighters in Westminster are saying?”
She knew because her mother, who spent most of her time in London, wasn’t above sharing decadent morsels of gossip in the letters she sent to her daughters. And her brother, who sometimes left parliamentary correspondence open on his desk…
She swallowed all of that back.
Telling him who her father was would not win his trust. It would only make her a threat.
“From the same place I hear everything else,” she said instead.
His mouth twisted. “Village chatter.”
“But it’s more than that,” Rosamund replied calmly. “Servants and workers, they hear things. If other nobles really are beginning to question—”
He let out a short, disbelieving huff. “No one is taking over my estate.”
“You cannot guarantee that,” she said gently. “And if you are wrong… it won’t be only you who suffers.”
His nostrils flared.
Rosamund pressed on carefully, aware that she was running out of time. “Not all dukes treat their servants as you do. Or their tenants. If someone else were placed in charge—someone less invested, less human…”
For the first time, she saw him truly listening.
“I did not learn secrets this morning, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “I learned what your people truly think of you. That they trust you. That they depend on you. That they speak of you not merely as a master, but as a protector. As someone who steps in when no one else will.”
Her voice wavered. “I would hate for that to be taken from them. It would be unjust.”
At that moment, Angus padded into the foyer, nails clicking softly on the floor.
He crossed the space without ceremony and settled at the duke’s side, a great, warm presence leaning in as though this were the most natural place in the world.
Another creature the duke had protected. Would Angus even be alive right now if not for him?
Rosamund’s throat tightened.
She had been here less than a day, and yet—somehow—it already mattered.
“I have no secrets. All I have is my privacy.”
“I won’t intrude,” she said. “Let me stay one week. That is all. To observe the normal workings of a ducal estate. And then, I will write about it, about your sense of responsibility, the productivity here that benefits the shire and beyond—and you will never hear from me again.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head once, sharply.
“Three days,” he said. “Not a moment more.”
Relief flared—brief and traitorous—before he continued.
“But make no mistake,” he added, his voice turning hard again.
“This arrangement is improper. And if, upon your departure, you claim to have been compromised—” He stepped closer, near enough that she was suddenly aware of the breadth of him, the faint, spiced scent of wood and work. “I won’t give a damn.”
Rosamund blinked. Compromised? She hadn’t even really considered…
His gaze dropped, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to her face.
“If this is just some ruse to secure a wealthy husband,” he went on, more quietly now, “or a title to parade beside your name—”
Rosamund almost laughed. “Your Grace, I assure you—”
“You will be disappointed," he finished, cutting her off. “I do not fall for schemes. No matter how prettily they are packaged.”
Rosamund frowned, genuinely puzzled now. “I’m not here seeking a husband,” she said. Surely, he hadn’t just called her pretty?
“Good,” he said flatly. “Because I don’t play games.”
That sobered her.
She drew herself up, meeting his gaze squarely. “Nor do I,” she said. “I want to write this story. Nothing more.”
And yet, inside, her heart was racing. No one had ever looked at her like that, as though she were…
But she hadn’t time to decide what it meant.
Mrs. Wetherby appeared at the doorway, Rosamund’s bags in hand. “Miss Belle's mare is saddled and waiting outside, Your Grace.”
For a heartbeat, Rosamund was certain he would change his mind. That this would be the moment he sent her away.
But instead he said, “Return Miss Belle's belongings to the guest chambers, Mrs. Wetherby. Our… guest will be staying on after all.”
Mrs. Wetherby’s brows shot up, but then she immediately scooped up Rosamund’s belongings once again and disappeared around the corner.
“Three days, Miss Belle,” the duke said again. “You stay under my roof on my terms. After that, you leave.”
She opened her mouth to thank him, but her throat had gone dry.
He held her gaze. “Do not make me regret this.”
Then he pivoted on his heel and strode away, long steps carrying him down the corridor and out of sight.
Where he was going, Rosamund had no idea.
But, now that she had permission, she was determined to find out.