Chapter 6 Dinner for One
DINNER FOR ONE
Rosamund smoothed her skirts as she took her place at the long dining table, determined to meet the evening with civility.
Footmen moved with quiet precision, setting before her a tureen of herb-scented soup, followed by platters of roasted lamb, buttered carrots, and warm bread still steaming from the oven.
There was no sign of the duke.
Only one place had been laid—hers—just as it had been for every meal save the first night, the night she’d arrived at the estate.
She told herself she did not mind. The meal was exquisite, finer than anything she would have been served at home. Still, it felt strange to dine alone at a table meant for many.
At home, her sisters and a few brothers-in-law would have filled at least half the chairs, voices overlapping, news and complaints traded freely. Even after Papa’s death, meals had remained a noisy, stubbornly communal affair.
People were not meant to eat alone.
And yet, the duke did.
Earlier that day, when she had gone in search of him, she had managed to remain just one step behind.
One minute he had been meeting with a tenant, the next conferring with a steward, then walking the boundary of a field with a ledger tucked beneath his arm.
Each time she arrived, he had already moved on—present everywhere, and nowhere long enough to be caught.
It was precisely the sort of work she wished to document—proof of competence, of care.
And yet, he had contrived to keep her from it.
It had not looked like idleness. Nor had it looked like neglect.
If anything, it had looked deliberate.
Blasted man.
And she knew—because no one was that busy—that his empty seat at yet another meal was a choice.
She hadn’t been lying, though, when she’d complimented his cook’s skills, and so she forced herself to appreciate the flavors, to pretend she could not feel the silence pressing in on her nor the watchful eyes of the footmen where they stood like sentries at each door.
But with every course, her patience thinned.
He had made his irritation quite clear the previous afternoon, but her time here was limited. It was the duke himself who had only given her three days to come up with her story—and now he was wasting them.
By the time dessert arrived—a golden treacle tart, the sugar crust glistening—she could contain her vexation no longer.
She pushed the plate away untouched, her temper bubbling over, and then tossed her napkin onto the table.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
She rose at once, offered Finch a brief apology—enough to startle him—and swept from the dining room, skirts whispering with purpose.
The corridors were long and dim, but she did not hesitate. Mrs. Wetherby had shown her which door led to the duke’s study, if only so she might avoid it.
Light glowed beneath the threshold.
A fire.
She’d provided reason enough to write the article. A very good reason, in fact.
The whispers had shifted over time. Not weakness, precisely—but something worse in the eyes of society. That the Duke of Bexley was unstable. That a man so altered could not be trusted with power, no matter how august the title.
Rosamund had read the words in her mother’s letters, and even worse, in the documents she’d discovered on her brother’s desk. “He does not appear... He leaves matters unattended... One wonders how long Parliament will tolerate it.”
And that was the danger.
He would be bothered one way or another—by her questions now, or later by men with authority and far less patience.
Rosamund set her jaw.
She could already see the story taking shape—not an excuse, not a defense, but an alternate narrative. One that acknowledged absence without mistaking it for neglect. That showed a man managing quietly, deliberately, in ways that did not announce themselves.
If only he would allow her to gather the information needed.
She did not pause to knock.
She pushed the door open.
The duke sat at a small table before the hearth, his head bent over a plate, fork halfway to his mouth. He stilled as the door struck the wall.
Rosamund took in the scene in a single glance.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, exasperation slipping through despite herself, “but I was told you were too busy to dine. I cannot help noticing that this appears not to be true. If you wish me to convey the nature of your character, in order to protect all that is yours, Your Grace, you are eventually going to have to allow me to witness it.”
Julian took his time, deliberately chewing and swallowing the bite of tart he’d been enjoying before the interruption. The pause afforded him a few useful seconds to decide how he meant to handle Miss Belle.
First the workshop.
Now his study.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Was there no corner of his own house safe from her persistence?
She stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but exertion—eyes bright with that same unsettling mix of determination and calculation he had begun to recognize.
It reminded him, absurdly, of his cat. The way the creature fixed upon a goal and refused to be deterred once she had decided something was hers.
Julian set his fork aside with deliberate care, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and leaned back in his chair.
He should not have noticed what she wore.
And yet he did.
The same gown as her first night—plain, serviceable, unmistakably country-made. It clung where it ought not, skimming her hips, refusing to disguise the generous curve of her bosom. Sensible fabric. Treacherous effect.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Julian said coolly, “that you have accomplished nothing in the past day and a half?”
Miss Belle flushed. “Well. Not nothing, but I—”
“Then I see no cause for this disruption.” His tone remained even. “You have access to the staff. You arrived with your own ideas about me. What more could you possibly require?”
His gaze dropped—only briefly—and then lingered an instant too long before he dragged it back to her face.
It was—
She was—
Distracting.
Which was precisely the problem.
Her jaw set. “Your Grace. If I rely solely on rumor and secondhand accounts, then how is that any better than the gossip already circulating?”
He lifted a brow. Honestly—was it meant to be?
Apparently so, because she now looked properly affronted.
“That,” she said through clenched teeth, “is not what I do. I will not spread unsubstantiated nonsense. There is already quite enough of that in the world.”
“So you truly mean to confirm everything yourself.”
“Yes,” she said at once. “Because the truth matters. It has to. If people are given falsehoods instead of facts, they respond against their own judgment. And that… That is wrong.”
That gave him pause.
Reluctantly, Julian inclined his head. “I suppose that is… commendable of you.” She opened her mouth, no doubt to defend herself further, but he cut in before she could.
“Which brings us back to my question. What, precisely, do you require?”
She hesitated—only briefly. “The opportunity to observe you doing the work that ought to speak for itself. And time. I need your time.”
His eye narrowed. “I’ve already conceded to three days. And I answered all your questions yesterday, did I not?”
“You were graciousness itself.” There was a hint of teasing in her eyes. By God.
“But,” she continued, sobering, “as I have said, I need to observe. And you do seem to make a habit of disappearing just as I arrive.”
He exhaled slowly.
“It is not evasion,” he said. “It is discretion. This is work, Miss Belle—and not mine alone. Tenants might not wish their affairs made public. My accounts are not for general scrutiny.”
She nodded. “Of course. And I will keep that in mind. But as we have discussed, their interests are part of this story as well. Your stewardship of them—how you conduct that work—is precisely what I intend to show.”
A pause.
“Without that,” she said gently, “there is nothing of value for me to write.”
Silence settled between them.
At last, Julian spoke. “Very well.”
Her eyes widened—just slightly.
“I’ll make some allowances,” he said at last, his tone controlled. “You may accompany me in the morning—at sunup—when I attend to estate matters. But understand this: if I step away, you will not follow. And you will not presume any particular access to me beyond what I allow.”
She studied him for a beat, then nodded. “That is reasonable.”
“As for the staff, you may ask your questions when appropriate. But you won’t push those who wish to keep silent.”
Another nod. “Understood.”
Some of the tension eased in his chest.
Miss Belle drew a steadying breath. “And—I should say, I am aware I can be… a bit much. My sisters remind me of it often enough.” She stared at the floor with a rueful smile. “And I like to keep busy. When I am left alone too long,” she added lightly, “I begin to… find trouble.”
Her gaze lifted to his then—not apologetic; not entirely innocent, either.
The implication hovered between them.
Lonely, then.
The realization sat poorly with him.
“I have,” Julian said after a moment, clearing his throat, “perhaps not been the most welcoming of hosts.”
Before she could respond, the door creaked open.
Wallace froze mid-step upon seeing Miss Belle, color draining from his face. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not realize—”
“No matter, Wallace,” Julian said briskly. “This conversation was overdue.”
Miss Belle flushed. “Oh—I was just—”
“You may clear this,” Julian added, nudging the barely touched treacle tart toward the edge of the table. “I won’t be finishing it.”
His gaze flicked to her. “And you are forgiven, by the way. I don’t suppose I should expect you or anyone else to keep her from traipsing about the manor. Even her own father finds her impossible to contain.”
But Miss Belle didn’t so much as bristle at his assessment. Her attention had drifted to the tart.
Ah.
“Something you would like to say, Miss Belle?”
“It’s only that I left mine… and it’s your fault, you know. Being so rude as to abandon your guest.”
“Is that what you are?” he drawled, pushing the plate toward her. “A guest?”
She met his gaze without hesitation and, before he could object, took his spoon and dipped it into the tart.
Julian stared.
Most people shied away from even looking at him; few, he’d assumed, would be willing to touch him, and yet this woman was completely unbothered by the casual intimacy of… sharing his spoon?
She drew the spoon from her lips with a hum and met his gaze again, entirely at ease.
Wallace made a strangled sound.
“I’m not opposed to sharing,” she said simply, sliding the plate back.
Julian should have found the familiarity improper. Instead, something eased—just slightly.
“You’re dismissed, Wallace,” he said, fighting a smile.
As the footman fled, Julian had the unsettling realization that he had agreed to far more today than he ever intended.
Miss Belle met his gaze again, bright-eyed and unafraid.
And that—more than anything—unnerved him.