Chapter 14 Unraveling
UNRAVELING
Julian—dear Julian—was staring at Rosamund as though she’d just struck him across the face.
And the resulting scowl was darker than any she’d seen before—harsher even than that first morning after she’d arrived.
“I asked you a question,” he said, his voice low and unyielding. All the tenderness from moments ago was gone.
She swallowed. “I… am Rosamund Belle… Harrington.”
His one good eye narrowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Harrington. And your father was…”
“William Harrington. The–”
“Bloody Duke of Kenbrooks.” It was not a question.
“Yes. But—”
“You little liar.”
She flinched.
“Are you even a writer?” he demanded. And then his expression turned ice cold. “You did not come here to write about me, did you? You came to trap me into marriage!”
The room swayed around her.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His expression was all sharp angles and betrayal—the man who had kissed her in the most intimate way possible now looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Worse than that, an enemy.
“You’re wrong, Julian. I swear to you—”
“You lied to me.”
His height—his sheer presence—filled the room. A moment ago, that strength had made her feel safe. Now, it was just shy of terrifying.
“Please, let me—”
His hand rose abruptly.
She ducked.
The crash came a heartbeat later—his fist slamming into the wall beside her, plaster splitting under the force. The sound cracked through the room. Dust rained down. Wood splintered.
“All this time.”
He stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly, knuckles split and bleeding.
“I didn’t—” She reached toward him on instinct, fingers lifting toward his face.
The look in his eye stopped her cold.
“I came here to write the story,” she said, her voice breaking. “I swear it.”
He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “You lie.”
“I’m not! I am a writer!” she insisted. “And I told you the truth about my father’s demand—”
“Your father is dead.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“You let me think…”
“I had to,” she said.
The words fell between them.
His mouth tightened. What had she done?
From the doorway, Wallace’s voice cut in, cautious. “What… shall I tell him, Your Grace?”
Rosamund’s head snapped toward the sound.
Julian’s hand closed around her upper arm—not crushing, but firm enough to steal her breath—pulling her a half-step toward him.
“Was it your plan all along? Is that why he’s here?”
The implication struck like ice water.
“No.”
His grip tightened.
“You arrive unchaperoned. You remain under my roof. You let yourself be seen.”
Each word was measured. Controlled.
“If your brother came here thinking—”
“He wasn’t supposed to know!” she burst out. “I didn’t tell him.” The only person who knew she was here was Penelope… but she’d promised to keep quiet.
The duke’s eyes searched her face, ruthless.
“It won’t work,” he said at last, releasing her abruptly. “I meant what I told you before.”
That he would never marry.
The sound of raised voices and boots scuffing in the corridor confirmed Wallace’s warning.
And then Charles filled the doorway.
At thirty-one, her brother was broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, and every inch the Duke of Kenbrooks. Authority clung to him as naturally as breath.
Her stomach dropped. Perhaps she ought to have thought this through a little more… Because she had, in fact, spent multiple nights under a gentleman’s roof without a chaperone.
And if Charles demanded marriage—and Julian refused—
Her brother would demand satisfaction. On the field of honor.
Charles strode into the room, fury contained but unmistakable, his gaze sweeping over them both in one brutal pass.
Rosamund’s flushed face. The broken plaster in the wall.
And then—most damning of all—her bodice, torn and… pathetic.
His eyes flicked to it once, and that, apparently, was more than enough. Understanding hardened his face in an instant—what he believed had happened. The very last thing Rosamund would ever want her brother to see.
Something inside him snapped.
“Take your hands off her.”
The command cracked through the room.
Julian’s grip fell away at once. He stepped back without protest, though his jaw tensed and something dangerous flickered behind his eye.
Charles advanced anyway.
He did not look at her. His fury, for the moment, was reserved entirely for Julian.
With clenched teeth, voice tight, he pointed toward the door. “Go.”
Only then did his gaze cut to her. “Out to my carriage.”
No-no-no-no no! This wasn’t happening!
“But Daffodil—”
“Go to my carriage,” he bit out. “Now.” He spoke in his ducal tone.
The one he used in London. In Parliament. In rooms full of men who obeyed without question.
It reduced her, in a heartbeat, to a wayward child.
And yet she did not move.
“This is not what you think. It’s about father’s will. He left a task for me… In the envelope,” she insisted, breathless. “The duke was simply—”
“You needn’t finish that sentence,” he cut in. “I assure you, I understand perfectly.”
Julian stiffened.
“Outside. Now, Rosamund.”
But she couldn’t… So she looked over to Julian, to the man who had held her. To the man who had kissed her, touched her. The man who, only moments before, had been… under her skirts!
“Julian…” For an instant, she thought she saw something soften. She thought he’d what, defend her?
“Your Grace,” Charles said coldly, “You and I will have words.”
The implication hung heavy in the air.
“No,” she said quickly. “There is nothing to discuss. This was my doing. I came here. I—”
Charles did not look at her.
Julian did. And whatever softness she thought she’d glimpsed had vanished.
His expression twisted, and his mouth turned up, smirking.
“Run along, Lady Rosamund,” he said lightly, her title edged with mockery. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Lady Rosamund.
Not Miss Belle.
Not Rosamund.
Lady.
It was as though he had decided—in that instant—to despise her.
She blinked.
Stepped back. Another step.
Swallowed the sob that threatened to escape, and then turned.
And as the door closed behind her, she nearly collided with Felicia.
Her sister-in-law had been waiting in the foyer, tall and composed, dark hair drawn back neatly, holding Rosamund’s satchel in one gloved hand.
In her quiet assessment, Rosamund saw more compassion than she deserved.
“I have sent one of the outriders for Daffodil,” Felicia said calmly. “She will be seen to. So you mustn’t worry.”
The kindness undid her more than Charles’ anger had.
“I didn’t mean…” Rosamund whispered. “It was the letter Father left. I was only trying to… “
Wallace stepped out of the shadows and handed over Rosamund’s cloak.
Felicia draped it gently around Rosamund’s shoulders, fastening it with steady fingers.
“Explain later,” she said softly. “For now, you just need to come with me.”
Rosamund twisted slightly, looking back over her shoulder.
She couldn’t allow Charles to demand that Julian marry her! She needed him to understand, she needed them both to understand. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to her?
“But I–”
“I know, Rosa, But trust me, it’s best to sort this out later.”
Julian had dismissed her. As though the time they’d spent together meant nothing. As though she were nothing.
Wallace held the door open.
“Rosamund,” Felicia said quietly, but firmly, patience understandably dwindling.
And Rosamund, who had forced her way into the duke’s manor, who had ridden across the county to do so, found she had no strength left to defy this.
She allowed herself to be led across the foyer. Past the servants pretending not to stare and through the open door.
Her brother’s carriage waited, the driver jolting into action at the sight of them, quick to pull the door open, perfectly courteous.
Body moving almost of its own accord, Rosamund slowly climbed inside, hesitating only once, at the step. But Felicia, who was right behind her, put one hand on her back and then followed her up and in.
The door shut with a hollow thud.
And as they waited for Charles to come out, Rosamund pressed her hand to her mouth and felt it fully.
Not anger, not even fear, but defeat.
Utter. Absolute. Defeat.