Chapter 10 Good Evening, Your Grace
GOOD EVENING, YOUR GRACE
As soon as Rosamund was confident that she was completely alone, she backed into a tree, and then lowered herself to the ground.
HIs command rang in her ears.
“Go back to the house… Now!”
Her cheeks burned—not with embarrassment alone, but with the sharp, unsettled awareness that her siblings had always been right about her. She did act without thinking. She always had. She followed impulse. Had a tendency to give in to the tug of feeling before sense could catch up.
She certainly had not been thinking when she kissed him.
The realization came in a slow, mortifying wave.
She hadn’t weighed the moment. Hadn’t decided anything at all.
One moment she had been standing there, feeling all the rawness in his expression, moved by the way his voice frayed when he spoke of the things he carried inside him—and the next, she had simply… done it.
At first, he had gone utterly still.
She remembered that part with uncomfortable clarity—the steel in his shoulders.
It had startled her, that stiffness. Not rejection, exactly. More like containment.
And still, she hadn’t retreated.
She’d slid her hands along the line of his jaw, smoothing over the roughness of his unshaven skin. An intimate gesture. A gentle one. An absurdly tender one, now that she thought of it.
She’d caressed the rough edges of his scar.
And then—
Then he had sighed.
The change in him had been unmistakable. His hands on her back had been hesitant at first, then certain.
His walls dropped, and Rosamund had felt his need—quiet, buried. Almost like a cry.
When was the last time he’d accepted comfort from anyone?
Not a kiss, but a gentle caress. The squeeze of a hand. A hug.
I can do that.
But… what was she thinking?
Tonight was to be her last night here. Wasn’t it? And even if…
Well, he’d detailed his feelings about marriage in no uncertain terms. Not that she was thinking about marriage… Good heavens, Rosamund!
She was here to write the article–nothing more! Earn her inheritance so that she could purchase a cottage for herself. Establish herself as an independent spinster.
At the same time, she could dispel the vicious rumors about the duke.
She huffed out a shaky breath, pushed herself up and off the ground, and started along the path that would lead her out of the woods.
“Rosamund.”
If not for Angus…
Oh, Angus. Loyal, ill-timed Angus. Should she be grateful for the interruption, or furious?
With the dog’s approach, all of the duke’s openness had vanished.
He had pushed her away—not roughly, but decisively—as though that kiss had been a mistake.
As though she was the mistake.
He had been angry.
At himself? Or at her?
Rosamund slowed at the edge of the trees and then touched her hands to her flushed cheeks. Tomorrow morning, she needed to go—back to Fenmere Park, back to her father’s home—no, her brother’s now.
Back to the same existence she’d always known.
The red-haired sister with the freckles. The one who asked too many questions. The one who laughed too loudly and was never quite taken seriously enough.
Lady Rosamund.
The thought sent a flicker of panic through her.
And it was not because the article remained unfinished, or because she lacked the information she’d come for.
Those things suddenly felt… manageable. Doable.
No—the panic came from the realization that in the space of a few short days—between his grudging and then not-so-grudging tolerance, and those rare moments of painful, unguarded honesty—she had grown rather… fond of Julian Cavendish.
No. That was not quite it.
Fondness was too small a word.
She… she had seen him, just a glimpse, but enough to know she’d been right to come here. And now the thought of leaving—of turning away without… without finding more—that was what sent this almost irrational panic spiraling from her head to her toes.
As Rosamund stepped out of the trees, Daffodil and Merlin both lifted their heads, ears pricking.
“There you are,” Rosamund murmured, approaching them both, feeling an odd easing in her chest.
Merlin stood steady beside Daffodil, dark and patient. Rosamund reached up to stroke the soft skin under his mane.
“Pay him no mind,” she said softly. “He’s convinced he’s dangerous. We know better, don’t we?”
The horse nodded as though agreeing.
“Yes,” she said softly. “We shall keep him from ruining everything.”
Daffodil, jealous and less patient now, nudged Rosamund’s shoulder.
Rosamund turned, her breath catching on a dry sob she hadn’t known was coming, and then rested her forehead against the mare’s neck. “What am I doing?” she whispered.
Daffodil answered as she always did. With gentle love. Comfort.
After a moment, Rosamund gathered the reins and swung easily into the saddle.
“Let’s go home.”
Only, it wasn’t home. Even if the manor had grown… familiar. Easier. Far more welcoming than it had been when she first arrived.
As the mare stepped forward, there was nothing that could have kept her thoughts from returning to the man she’d left behind in the forest.
She had felt this pull before. Years ago. On that absurd afternoon in the mercantile, when she had glimpsed something quiet. Something good.
Something—someone special.
And then he had gone to war.
He had returned changed, but she’d known… He was still himself. Still the person she’d always believed him to be.
A cloud shifted, and the sun illuminated the field. The wildflowers and tall swaying grass turned golden. The wind caressed her heated cheeks.
And in that moment, the truth became crystal clear.
She was not ready to give up on Julian Cavendish.