Chapter 16 Consequences and Compromises #2
“I am not undoing anything,” he said, quieter now. “I am preserving what remains.”
“You are wrong!”
“No.” His restraint snapped—not loudly, but decisively. “Father was wrong.”
The words hung between them.
“You have always been impulsive, Rosa. Brave, yes—but reckless.” His jaw tightened. “He should have known what you would risk to make him proud.”
Rosamund went very still.
There was truth in what he said. Irritating, inconvenient truth.
But she would not yield.
She would not be exiled to London. She would not abandon her work. And most of all, she would not break her word.
“And what,” she asked quietly, “if I choose not to comply?”
“Rosamund…”
Had he truly believed she would fold so easily?
“You may send me to London,” she continued evenly, “and force Mother to take me in. But you cannot supervise every conversation I have. Every letter I write. Or how I choose to spend my pin money… I imagine there are excellent printers in London.”
His hand dragged through his hair. “God damn it, Rosa. Are you truly willing to drag your sisters down with you?”
“They will endure,” she replied evenly. “As we always have. And my point, Charles, is that short of locking me in my chambers, you cannot keep me from fulfilling my task.”
“Do not tempt me.” He pushed back from the desk and began to pace. “You cannot publish anything about Bexley. Do you not see? The moment his name appears in connection with yours, people will look closer. And yes, I’m well aware that Father’s stipulation involved publishing in your own name.”
“How did you know that?”
“You left the envelope open in the library, you little fool. If I can know all of this so easily, do you not think others could as well?”
His gaze snapped to hers.
“And if your little adventure becomes known, that article will not quiet rumor—it will confirm it. It will be proof. You understand how swiftly gossip hardens into fact?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”
And that was precisely why she had already thought this through.
“And that is why,” she added, almost thoughtfully, “I’d like to suggest a compromise.”
He stopped pacing.
The scoff he sent her was automatic. “And what compromise do you imagine?”
“I will go to London. I will present whatever version of this week we decide upon. I will be… agreeable.” She held his gaze. “On one condition.”
“Rosa.”
“I publish one article.”
His eyes narrowed.
“It will recount how the Duke of Kenbrooks visited the Duke of Bexley’s estate. How you walked the grounds together. Met the tenants. Renewed an old friendship.”
“You expect me to endorse fiction?”
“The only fiction will be that it was you. I did walk the grounds with him, and I will report nothing of substance that I did not see for myself,” she replied evenly.
“He is not beastly. The rumors are not true, Charles. Think about it. You forced your way into his home. You insulted him in his own dining room.”
Her gaze lowered deliberately.
“And yet, the only injury I observe is to your own knuckles.”
Charles’s mouth tightened.
“If he were dangerous, as society claims, you would not have walked away unscathed. You are strong. But he is stronger still. If he lacked control, you would know it.”
His voice dropped. “Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Because truth matters,” she said steadily.
“Because I may have blundered in how I pursued it, but the pursuit itself was not wrong. He suffered a horrible injury. Yes. He was changed by the war—what soldier is not? But he is intelligent. Compassionate. Honorable.” She let the word settle between them. “I always believed you were, as well.”
A muscle worked in Charles’s jaw.
“Lying is not honorable.”
“I know.” She did not look away. “But your association would quiet speculation, whereas mine would only ignite it further. One small, albeit strategic, deception would restore justice. And that”—her voice tightened despite herself—“is what I care about most.”
Charles didn’t answer immediately.
She watched the calculation take place behind his eyes. Risk weighed against risk. Scandal against strategy. Control against concession.
At last, he exhaled.
“I will read the article before you take it to your printer,” he said. “And after, you will go to London without further argument.”
“I will.”
“And if this backfires—”
“It won’t.”
His brow arched at that.
“It cannot,” she amended, more carefully.
Another pause.
“Very well.” The words seemed drawn from him by force. “Your narrative may serve—particularly as Felicity and I are not in the habit of advertising our schedules.”
Between them, the rest of the details were settled by the end of the evening. Who had been where, and when.
At the end of their discussion, Rosamund inclined her head, already reshaping the article in her mind—the tone, the sequencing, the emphasis. It would have to be exact.
As she rose, his voice stopped her. “Keep in mind, Rosamund, if Felicity objects, this entire arrangement is void.”
“Of course.” Rosamund did not hesitate. She knew her sister-in-law—a woman who had once donned breeches to reclaim her own father’s estate. Felicity would understand what was at stake.
Still, when Rosamund stepped into the corridor, any sense of triumph was far overshadowed by grief.
She had secured the article.
She would safeguard the Duke of Bexley’s reputation, and all of the people who depended upon him.
But in protecting him, she had quietly undone herself—because somehow, over the course of those four days, she had discovered what it was to feel whole… and she had just relinquished him.