Chapter 8 Beneath the Trees
BENEATH THE TREES
The next morning dawned cool and quiet as they began their ride south.
Rather than peppering the duke with more questions, however, Rosamund rode in silence today, listening as the land came awake—the birds, the wind, the steady sound of hooves.
The land surrounding Ironwood Manor, she had to admit, was some of the most peaceful she’d ever known.
Which made the unsettled feeling in her chest all the more irritating.
The duke, by contrast, seemed wholly unaffected, riding with purpose, his gaze fixed on the line of trees ahead.
As they neared the forest’s edge, something thudded lightly against the back of his saddle when Merlin adjusted his stride. The sound drew her eye.
Rosamund eased Daffodil back a fraction, just long enough to study the unfamiliar bundle lashed behind him. Partially visible beneath the leather flap was the end of an oiled cloth, the unmistakable handle of a mallet—and then, unmistakably, the haft of an axe.
She urged Daffodil forward again until they rode abreast.
“What will we be doing today?” she asked.
He glanced over, then ahead again. “Thought I’d show you one of the estate’s greatest assets.”
Rosamund’s gaze followed his to the trees rising in the distance, tall and close-set.
What would her sisters say if they knew what she was doing today?
Riding into a forest.
Alone with the Duke of Bexley.
Glancing back again, her mouth twitched despite itself.
Who was bringing an axe.
The duke, seeming to sense her scrutiny, flicked a quick look to the bundle behind his saddle, then back to her face.
“I should clarify,” he said dryly, “before you decide you’ve made a terrible miscalculation.”
She lifted a brow.
“I’m going to cut wood for a project I’m working on,” he continued. “Nothing more sinister than that, I assure you.”
Rosamund laughed softly, the sound surprising even her.
“I never thought it was,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you, you know. In case you hadn’t realized by now.”
His mouth curved faintly at that.
They rode on toward the trees until the path narrowed, where the duke brought Merlin to a halt and dismounted. “We’ll leave the horses here.”
From her seat on Daffodil, Rosamund watched as he unstrapped his tools with practiced ease, unexpectedly struck by the quiet elegance of his hands.
“It shouldn’t take long,” he added. “You’re welcome to bring your writing while I work, if you like.”
Nodding, Rosamund dismounted, and then slipped a few folded pages into the pocket of her cloak, where a pencil already lived. Old habit. Then she followed him beneath the canopy, the air cooling as the forest closed around them.
Rather than stride ahead, he placed a hand at her back—light, assured—and steered her gently into the woods.
“So what are we looking for?” Her voice came out a little breathless.
“Beechwood.”
She nodded, aware somehow that even more than yesterday, she was no longer merely observing his work, but being quietly invited into it.
“How do you decide which trees you’ll use?”
“Come. I’ll show you.” Still moving with purpose, the duke slapped his free hand on the trunk of a massive tree.
“Oak,” he said. “Hard as stone. It takes its time—slow seasons—but once it’s cut and set, it’ll stand for centuries. Beams. Floors. Ships, even.”
They walked on, leaves crunching softly beneath their boots.
“Ash,” he went on, nodding toward a slimmer tree. “Tough, but it bends before it breaks. That’s why it’s used for carriage wheels, tool handles.” A pause, as he indicated the pack slung over his shoulder. “This mallet is made with ash. It’s outlasted every other.”
There was no poetry in his tone. He spoke plainly, as though these things were just… obvious.
Rosamund listened, committing it all to memory. Not just the names, but the way he moved through the forest as though it were a ledger.
Trees marked. Chores planned.
And she realized, to him, this was what mattered.
Not rumors or legends or opinions.
Lines stirred in her mind, unbidden.
Hard wood. Slow seasons.
What is cut
Is chosen.
What remains
Endures.
Her fingers curled around the pencil in her pocket.
Yes, she thought.
This must be a part of the story. The heart of it.
He was not simply Bexley, the duke. He was a fixer—someone who mended what others overlooked, who measured his worth not by London’s regard but by whether his people were better for his presence.
The thought absorbed her so completely that she failed to notice a root cutting across the path. Her boot caught, her balance tipping forward—
—and she would have fallen, had the duke’s arms not caught her from behind.
For a breathless second, she was pressed to his chest, the heat of him unmistakable even through the layers of her cloak and gown.
And… dear heavens. It burned.
Almost as if…
Rosamund jerked up, searching for both her footing and her composure at the same time.
“Careful,” he murmured, his fingers lingering before he released her.
“Yes… of course.”
She shook herself. She’d always known he was special–to her. But this… allowing herself to imagine…
This was not why she had come.
They made their way deeper into the forest until the duke stopped before a tree with pale grey bark, smooth except for a few knots. He rubbed his thumb over the grain whorls, places where branches once grew…
“Even-grained,” he said, running his palm along the pale bark. “Cuts clean. Takes a polish better than most. I’ll use a few of these for the desks.”
“Desks?” Rosamund echoed.
“For the school a few villages over.” He said it as though it required no further explanation.
Then he stepped back, shrugged out of his coat, and draped it neatly over a low branch. He casually rolled his sleeves, loosened his collar, and set his satchel at the base of the tree.
Rosamund moved to a nearby fallen trunk and settled herself there, folding her skirts beneath her. She did not write.
She watched.
He tested the axe’s weight once, adjusted his stance, and set the blade where he wanted it.
The first strike bit cleanly into the wood, ringing clear and bright through the forest. Then another, until he was working at a steady rhythm: lift, swing, strike.
And as she sat there, listening to the cadence of axe against wood, Rosamund felt the press of time in an unexpected way.
More than likely, today was her last day.
And…
There was one more matter she needed to address. One of the core responsibilities inherent in any title. Something parliament would be quite, quite interested in.
She drew a slow breath and waited for him to finish the next stroke.
It couldn’t wait.
“You plan to marry eventually, don’t you?”
The duke’s body went taut. Slowly, he turned his head toward her. “You said I needn’t…”
“This is not about me,” she blurted. “I–I’m most definitely not seeking a husband.”
Not that anyone had ever asked.
Not that the duke had asked, actually…
He cocked his brow. “Good then, because I am most definitely not seeking a wife.”
Lift, swing. Strike. The loudest of them all.
“... Ever?”
His answer was not at all what she wanted to hear.
And that had nothing to do with her. Truly.
It was because siring an heir was, in fact, an essential duty.
Even if marriage wasn’t in his near future, knowing he eventually intended to could make all the difference.
“But—” Strike. She winced. “Surely you’ve not ruled it out completely? I mean, it would… look better if—”
Lift. “I’ve no plans to marry. Now or ever.” Swing. Strike.
“Because of your injury?”
Strike. “Why else, Miss Belle?”
“But you’ve recovered—”
Before she could finish, she was interrupted.
Not by the ring of the axe—but a sharp, violent crack, splitting the air.
The tree groaned, a deep, protesting sound, and then began to fall.
Rosamund forgot her argument for a moment and simply stared as branches snapped, birds took flight, and then the ground shuddered under the tree’s weight.
And then the duke turned.
He faced her fully and, abruptly, reached up and tore the patch from his eye.
Her hand flew to her mouth—not from fear—but from shock. The patch, she’d gotten used to over the last few days. Just a part of his face now, no more remarkable than the shape of his chin or his nose.
She’d almost forgotten about the injury hidden beneath it.
It was the sort of wound people looked away from.
The socket was sunken, the scar pronounced and uneven. His lashes ended abruptly, the lid drooping where the eye had been.
And as Rosamund stood there, in this sudden silence, she felt the disorientation keenly.
“You’re wrong.” His voice was raw. “This ugliness, it’s only the surface. Easy enough to hide.”
His fingers pinched the edge of the patch. “Men see this,” he went on, not looking at her. “They understand it. A physical wound with edges. People understand that kind of ugliness.” His mouth tightened. “It makes sense.”
He took a step away.
“It allows them to believe I am… finished with it.”
Rosamund’s fingers curled into her skirts. “But you are.”
A short, humorless breath left him.
“If that were true, Miss Belle, you wouldn’t be here.”
He stared past her, into the distance.
“The scars I carry inside,” he said with finality, “Cannot be hidden by a patch.”
He gestured vaguely toward his head.
“The stories people tell, they’re not all lies. There is truth behind the rumors. I can… I have… acted violently. I cannot guarantee I won’t act thusly again. Anger… arrives fully formed. The injury… It’s caused me to lose time. Minutes. Sometimes longer.” His mouth twisted.
She swallowed.
“You say I ought to marry,” he went on, too calmly now. “To take a wife into my confidence. Into my bed. To place her at my side when I cannot always be certain what man will wake in my skin.” He shook his head once. “No.”
Rosamund’s voice came softly. “You would never harm—”
“I might,” he said. Not sharply. Not loudly. Simply honestly. And then shrugged. “I… don’t know.”
He looked back at her then, and there was something naked in his expression—something far more frightening than anger.
“It’s why…” The corner of his mouth ticked. “Why I avoid society. Why I… keep my distance.”
He swallowed hard. HIs jaw ticked again.
And before she could think better of it, Rosamund stepped closer, sliding her arms up the solid wall of his chest.
And, rising onto her toes, she kissed him.
Right on the mouth.