Chapter 19 The Honorable Thing
THE HONORABLE THING
The Duke of Bexley stood near the window, broad shoulders framed by the late afternoon light.
He turned.
He wore a dark riding coat, sharply fitted to his powerful frame, and Hessians with a fine veil of dust clinging to the leather.
He had dressed with intention.
He had travelled with urgency.
And he looked… resolute.
And just behind him, positioned with quiet dignity near the hearth—
A chair. Constructed of unfinished pine, its lines were elegant but sturdy, free of unnecessary ornament save for the carved rosebuds winding along the crest rail.
A… gift? For her?
She squashed the foolish thought, though no other plausible explanation came to mind.
“Why have you come?” she managed.
His jaw flexed once.
“I…” He glanced briefly at the offending piece of furniture. “I brought you a chair.”
She blinked.
“You came all this way to deliver a chair?”
The faintest color rose along his collar. “Yes.”
Despite herself, warmth unfurled low in her stomach. His presence did that. The sheer, impossible nearness of him. That scent of wood she’d learned to crave.
And the quiet intensity in his gaze.
He reached absently to adjust his cravat, and she caught the slightest tremor in his hands.
“To thank you,” he added. “For the article.”
She inclined her head thoughtfully. “I told you I would write it.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“What were you discussing with my brother?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Primarily you.”
“And?” she pressed, though her pulse had begun to hammer in her ears.
“And,” he said slowly, stepping toward her, “he has granted my request to speak to you directly.”
For a moment, her thoughts scattered.
That meant—
Her sisters had been wrong about the duke’s intentions. Surely. Although…
Men did not seek such permissions lightly. Not after hours shut away in a study.
What had they discussed for so long?
Terms? Apologies? Reparations?
Or—
No. She would not presume.
But since he was here—whatever happened afterward—she could at least take this chance to ease her conscience.
“I am sorry.” She met his eye seriously. “I’m so very sorry that I lied to you.”
She could not tell if what she was seeing in him was acceptance. He didn’t look angry…
“Why did you come to Ironwood Manor, Rosamund?”
She exhaled.
“My father died last year,” she said quietly. “In his will, he left each of us a task. One we were required to complete in order to receive our inheritance.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“It was important,” she continued. “Not merely the funds. The independence. The freedom to choose our own futures.”
“And your task was to write.”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Something meaningful. And to publish it under my own name.”
“So that portion was not entirely false,” he murmured.
She shook her head faintly. “Not entirely.”
He took a step closer to her, then another. Slow, careful. “Why me?” he asked.
Her breath trembled, but she held his gaze.
“Don’t you know? I have…” she whispered. “I have… been in love with you for most of my life. You were my—” She hesitated, embarrassed by the word. “—hero.”
He very slightly dipped his chin, still studying her. But something in his expression had softened.
“The second I read my task, I knew what I wanted to do. The rumors about you had already been circling for a while by then, and I knew they were wrong. I wanted to set it right.” She drew in a steady breath.
“I lied to you about who I was in the hopes that you would not turn me away—as you surely would have—and I regret that my deception hurt you, along with many other things about the way I went about this whole venture, but… I do not regret that any of it happened, because… I simply cannot.”
A low, quiet sound escaped him. His hand lifted, almost unconsciously, to cradle her cheek. “I do not regret it either.”
But as she leaned into his palm, he tilted his head and dropped his hand. “You did not publish it under your own name. That was one of your father’s stipulations, was it not?”
“When I took it to my printer, he insisted the article would carry more weight under Robert’s byline. An established writer. A man.” She rolled her eyes but then lifted her chin slightly. “It was vital that the right people read it.”
“And your inheritance?”
She gave a small, almost sheepish shrug. “I suppose I’ve forfeited that. Unless I publish something else before the deadline, which might be difficult, considering…”
He leaned closer now, so near she could feel the warmth of his breath.
“You forfeited your inheritance… for me?”
Heat rose in her cheeks. Yes. She had. And she didn’t regret it.
She straightened her back. “Why are you here, Julian?”
He blinked, and then… “Because,” he said quietly, “I found my house intolerably quiet without you. Because nothing felt right. Because I had grown rather—”
He stopped himself.
“Fond?” she prompted.
“That.” His mouth curved faintly. “And I missed you.”
The words settled between them.
She glanced toward the hearth.
“So you made me a chair. Because you missed me.”
He led her across the room and placed her hand on the smooth wood.
“I wanted you to have something of mine that could hold you. Something shaped with care. And something that will, in time, carry the marks of you.” He looked at her then, his one dark eye searching hers.
His hand closed gently around hers where it rested on the chair. He turned her toward him with unhurried certainty, drawing her fully into his arms.
“You dared to touch my scars,” he said, searching her face. “Not only the ones you can see—but the ones I carry inside.”
He lifted her hands between them, his fingers guiding her palms upward.
And then he pressed them flat against his chest.
Over his heart.
“But most of all,” he murmured, his voice steady now, “you have left your mark here.”
Her hands remained there, feeling the strong, even rhythm beneath her touch.
“I want your touch everywhere, Rosamund,” he said. “So that wherever I turn… I know you were there.”
Stunned, but with joy shooting through her, Rosamund nodded.
“So, yes. I came to bring you a chair.” His voice lowered. “But also because I could not stop thinking of you.”
Before she could gather herself enough to respond, he bent his head and kissed her. There was no tentativeness in this kiss. It was confident. Unapologetic.
It was the kind of kiss a man gives when he has already decided something.
Having no thoughts of resisting, Rosamund kissed him back.
And when he drew back, he did not release her, but rested his forehead against hers.
“Marry me.”
Her lashes lifted slowly. “You are not asking because of my brother, I hope.”
She needed to know for sure, that this was a choice.
His choice.
A flicker of indignation crossed his face. “My proposal has absolutely nothing to do with your brother.”
He kissed her again. This time, several moments passed before she pulled back enough to search his expression again.
“I thought you did not trust yourself to have a wife.”
A flicker of rueful amusement crossed his features.
“I did not,” he admitted. “But having read Mr. Robert Belle’s recent observations, I find myself persuaded that the Duke of Bexley is not the beast he once imagined.”
Her lips curved. “It was the article that convinced you, then?”
“It was the author.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, not teasing now—certain.
“You have been doing it from the moment you stepped into my house, Rosamund. Challenging me. Questioning me. Refusing to accept the version of myself I had settled into.”
Her breath caught.
“The truth matters, you said.” His thumb was on her bottom lip now. “And then you made sure I saw it.”
“What truth?” she asked softly.
His gaze did not waver. “That when a man finds the right woman, he does not lose control.”
He brushed his mouth over hers, as though he truly could not help himself.
“He finds it.”
—The End—