Chapter 18 Delivery, Deliverance
DELIVERY, DELIVERANCE
The article had been published for less than a day, and already, according to her sisters, it had performed its duty admirably.
The Duke of Bexley, it seemed, was no longer a volatile menace lurking in the wilds of a dilapidated country estate. He was, instead, a man of industry. A steward of moderate habits. A patron of widows. A craftsman of sturdy chairs.
In short—
A bore.
“They’re almost bereft,” Eugenia added dryly. “Imagine. A duke who reads ledgers and carves furniture.”
Rosamund closed her trunk with more force than necessary. “Good,” she said.
Because that had been the objective.
Respectability restored. Rumors starved. And now—
Charles had fulfilled his part. He had allowed his name to stand beside Bexley’s in quiet endorsement.
Which meant she must fulfill hers.
London awaited.
Her mother awaited.
Rosamund swiped at her eyes, and then smoothed her hands down the front of her dress.
The only thing left to fix now was… her broken heart. This wasn’t the distant ache of girlish admiration, nor the quiet disappointment she’d felt when he’d gone to war.
This was something far more ruthless.
It was the absence of the scent of wood shavings clinging to his coat.
The loss of that single, assessing stare that seemed to see straight through her.
The rough, frustrated sounds he made when she challenged him too boldly.
The way Ironwood Manor—isolated, imperfect—had somehow come to feel like home. Like she had always been a part of it.
There, though unwelcome at first, she had not felt excessive or inconvenient. She had felt… as though she belonged.
With him.
She had loved Julian.
The thought struck clean and merciless. I love him.
And now…
Now she was to go to London. To her mother.
She would go, of course, as she had promised, and she would not complain or sabotage Charles’s plans for her, but she would not shrink. Not smooth herself into something smaller. Not dim the parts of her that had flourished in that quiet, timber-scented house.
She had learned what it felt like to be whole.
“Charles is being a brute.” Josephine’s declaration startled Rosamund out of her thoughts. “If Rosa is banished to London, there will be only three remaining members of the Busty Bodice Club at home.”
“She is not perishing,” Eugenia replied dryly, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “She is merely visiting Mother.”
“Which may very well prove fatal,” Josephine countered darkly.
Rosamund almost smiled.
“You mustn’t blame Charles,” she said gently. “This was just part of our agreement.”
In truth, she was the only one of her sisters who had not implored him to change his mind.
She paused, surveying the chamber for anything overlooked, then slipped her journal and a small bundle of folded pages into her traveling satchel. The Club’s minutes, as Josephine liked to call them.
Behind her, she sensed her sisters drifting toward the window one by one, attention captured by something down in the yard.
“Who might that be, do you think?”
“And what on earth is that on the back of the cart?”
Rosamund did not turn at first. “A cart?” she repeated absently.
“I think it’s a chair,” Eugenia breathed.
“That is unmistakably a chair,” Penelope agreed.
A… a chair?
Rosamund crossed the room in three strides so she could see for herself.
She recognized not only the cart that was parked right beneath the entrance awning, but the horse pulling it. And secured upright in the back—
Rosamund let out a shaky breath.
Even at this distance she recognized the elegant, deliberate lines. And the wood, unfinished pine.
She wasn’t certain whether she ought to believe what she was seeing.
Josephine leaned so far forward her breath fogged the glass. “I can’t see him now.”
“You won’t,” Rosamund said faintly. “Not from this angle.”
It was something one learned after a lifetime of watching from windows while imagining stories to write.
“He wore a patch,” Imogen said suddenly. “Over one eye.”
All of them froze.
“It has to be him,” Penelope said.
Rosamund turned slowly from the window. “But… why?” Her mouth had gone dry, making her voice little more than a whisper.
Less than four days had passed since he had ordered her out of his dining room.
Since—
She pressed her palms to her cheeks to steady herself.
Why would he come? To thank Charles? The article had been about Kenbrooks’ visit, after all.
Perhaps he was merely delivering the chair to some fortunate villager.
Only… He had not shown himself in the village in years.
“Right,” Eugenia declared briskly, already smoothing her skirts. “I shall investigate. None of you move.”
She slipped out before anyone could argue.
The moment she left, the chamber erupted.
“He looked tall, didn’t he, even from up here?” Penelope murmured.
“And broad,” Josephine added thoughtfully. “Extraordinarily broad.”
“Aside from the patch,” Imogen said, already crossing toward Rosamund with a determined expression, “he is surprisingly handsome.”
Rosamund found herself steered to her vanity before she could protest. Fingers deft and efficient, Imogen tugged loose the severe knot at the back of her head.
“You can’t meet with him looking like someone’s governess.”
“It won’t matter,” Rosamund whispered as her hair tumbled free. “He is not here to see me.”
A brush slid through the red waves.
“Of course he is,” Penelope said.
“He most certainly is,” Josephine agreed.
Rosamund’s mind raced. If he had read the article—
If he had misunderstood—
If he had come to object—
If he had come to—
The door burst open.
Eugenia slipped inside and shut it firmly behind her. All four sisters stared at her.
“Well?” Josephine demanded.
Eugenia lifted her chin. “I was just in time to hear Godrey announce him.”
“And?” Imogen demanded.
Eugenia deepened her voice in imitation of the butler. “‘The Duke of Bexley to see His Grace… in order to discuss his sister, Lady Rosamund.’”
Rosamund stopped breathing.
When another knock sounded at the door, her heart nearly exploded.
This time, it was Felicity who stepped inside—and her gaze went directly to Rosamund.
“It appears, Rosa, that your journey to London will be postponed," she said. “At least until Charles has concluded his conversation with the Duke… of Bexley.”
The faintest sparkle lit her eyes.
It had not taken Imogen long to fashion Rosamund’s hair into something softer, more becoming. Nor had it taken long for Rosamund to exchange her traveling gown for one less… resigned.
And as they waited, Rosamund’s sisters took turns slipping downstairs under increasingly flimsy pretenses.
A misplaced ribbon. A forgotten book. An urgent need for lemonade.
Aside from the occasional rise in male voices drifting from Charles’s study, none returned to report anything of substance.
“They are not shouting,” Josephine reported at one point, as though this were promising.
“They are also not laughing,” Eugenia countered.
Time dragged.
Every creak of the floorboards. Every footstep in the corridor. Every murmur from below sent her nerves pulling tight as wire.
By the time Felicity finally returned, Rosamund’s composure felt as fragile as spun glass.
“The Duke of Bexley wishes to see you.”
Her sisters erupted, but Rosamund rose carefully, determined to appear serene.
“He has been closeted with Charles for nearly two hours,” Josephine whispered. “Men do not converse that long unless something momentous is occurring.”
“They do,” Eugenia replied. “They smoke. And glare. And discuss honor.”
“And settlements,” Imogen added, waggling her eyebrows.
At which point, Rosamund helplessly endured a round of premature embraces.
“For heaven’s sake,” she murmured. “It’s only a visit. Charles, no doubt, is going to demand I formally apologize for lying to him.”
Did they truly imagine she stood on the brink of an engagement? After all that had transpired?
She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands, however, before making her way downstairs.
There, Charles met her outside the study door. He did not look angry. He looked… thoughtful.
Which only unsettled her more.
“What is it?” she asked quietly.
Charles held her gaze for a long moment, then he shook his head once.
“I suppose,” he said, stepping aside, “that is entirely up to you.”
“Up to me…?”
Her brother answered, simply, with a nod.
Rosamund drew one steadying breath and crossed the threshold.