Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Damn it,” the word came out under his breath the moment Rowan’s eyes opened, as if waking itself had dragged the memory back with it.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above his bed, the pale morning light cutting across the carved wood in sharp, unforgiving lines.
He had slept, but not well. Every time he had drifted, he had felt it all over again: the press of her body, the softness of her mouth on his, the startled sound she had made when he pulled her close.
He pushed himself upright.
The movement was abrupt, almost violent, his body needing something to anchor itself to that was not the memory of her in his arms. His shirt had been discarded at some point in the night.
He dragged a hand over his face, then through his hair, exhaling slowly as if breath alone could settle the unrest coiled in his chest.
He felt her lips against his once again and his hand curled into a fist against his thigh.
Fool.
He had lost control. For a moment he had forgotten why he had drawn the line in the first place. Forgotten that letting himself take what he wanted would not end with one kiss.
Rowan swung his legs off the bed and stood.
The cold floor under his feet grounded him, just enough to pull his thoughts back into order. He crossed the room and splashed water over his face, the chill biting into his skin, forcing his body to wake fully.
It is done.
He had sent her away. Whatever had nearly happened had been stopped. He had stopped it. He had drawn the line where it needed to be drawn. Then why did it not feel like victory?
Rowan braced both hands against the edge of the basin, his head bowed for a moment.
She had looked at him like he was something she might actually want. Like she had expected something from him beyond duty. And he had seen it break.
His jaw clenched harder.
Better it breaks now than later. Better she understands at once what this marriage was, and what it would never become.
He straightened, reaching for his clothes with swift, efficient movements. Shirt. Breeches. Boots. Every motion was precise, controlled.
He could not touch her again. He had no right to take what he had no intention of keeping. Aaron did not need more chaos. The house did not need more ghosts. And Rowan did not need another reason to fail someone who depended on him.
He dragged on his coat, ignoring the faint, lingering scent of her that still clung to the fabric at his shoulder.
Rowan strode out into the corridor, his pace already too fast, too sharp, hoping distance might dull the memory. Servants bowed as he passed, their greetings barely registering. The house was too quiet.
She was somewhere within it, and that knowledge drove him down the stairs, across the hall, and through the front doors into the cool morning air. The bite of it hit his lungs, clean and bracing, and for the first time since waking, he drew a full breath.
The stable boy hurried forward at once. “Your Grace, the horse is ready—”
“Good.” His voice came out clipped.
The horse shifted under his touch, warm and blessedly uncomplicated. He reached for the reins, the familiar leather grounding him far more effectively than anything inside the house had. The horse shifted under his touch.
Rowan mounted in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he sat there, feeling her mouth against his, hearing the soft way she had said his name.
He shut it down. His heel pressed into the horse’s flank.
The animal surged forward, and Rowan let it take him, riding hard down the drive, away from the house, away from the closed door, away from the woman who had nearly undone him in a single night.
By the time the wind tore against his face and the land opened before him, there was nothing left in his mind but distance and the tenants he had to see.
And he held on to it like salvation.
“You have a great many portraits for a house that seems determined not to speak.”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Vale, paused halfway across the gallery and turned with the careful expression of a woman deciding whether her new mistress had made a joke.
Emmeline glanced up at the row of painted Huntleys lining the long wall, their faces stern beneath powdered wigs, dark coats, pearls, lace, and the unblinking arrogance of generations who had never once wondered whether they belonged anywhere.
Morning light poured through the tall windows, catching the gilt frames and making each severe mouth seem thinner.
She lifted one brow. “Do they always look so displeased, or have I offended them already?”
Mrs. Vale’s mouth twitched before she mastered it. “The late duke was said to prefer solemn portraiture, Your Grace.”
“How fortunate for him that his descendants complied.”
This time the housekeeper did smile, though only slightly. “They were a serious family.”
Emmeline looked at the portraits again, feeling the strange pull of curiosity and discomfort at their cold, hard eyes.
She had risen that morning with her body still aching from lack of sleep and memory, expecting, foolishly perhaps, some trace of Rowan in the corridors, some accidental encounter that would force last night into the open.
Instead, she had been told by a footman, with careful politeness, that His Grace had left the house at dawn to see to his tenants.
Before breakfast. Before he could risk seeing her.
The humiliation had burned, then sharpened into a jagged heat, but both were eclipsed by the phantom pressure of his mouth. Her skin still prickled where his hand had gripped her neck, and the memory of his body shuddering at her whisper felt like a brand.
Emmeline pivoted away from the unblinking eyes of the portraits.
“The music room?”
“Beyond the east drawing room, Your Grace.”
“And the library?”
Mrs. Vale’s mouth softened by a hair. “The finest room in the house.”
“Then show me.”
Ironford Hall seemed built from discipline as much as stone. The furniture stood in military formation, and the piano in the music room was a mirror of untouched, still water. Every “Your Grace” from a bowing servant made the title settle heavier around her shoulders.
When the library doors swung open, the air changed. The scent of leather and old paper rose to meet her, smelling of beeswax and sunlight. Golden bars of morning light stretched across the carpet, and the towering shelves didn’t seem to judge her.
A rustle came from the far window.
Tucked into a massive leather chair, a small leg swung in a restless arc. Aaron sat with a book spread across his knees, his wooden horse propped against the armrest, ears cocked as if listening for the next word.
He looked up at once. “D-Duchess.”
The stammer sharpened with surprise, and Emmeline felt the instinctive ache in her chest.
She softened her voice and let the door close gently behind her. “Good morning, Aaron.”
His gaze flicked past her, as if checking whether someone else had entered too. “G-good morning.”
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
He looked down at the book, then at the horse, then back at her. “N-no.”
“May I sit?”
He hesitated for only a moment before nodding.
Emmeline crossed to the chair opposite his and sat, arranging her skirts with deliberate care so he had time to grow used to her presence. She felt, strangely, more nervous with him than she had with half the household staff, because servants would obey a duchess whether they liked her or not.
Aaron’s trust had to come willingly. And trust, she was beginning to understand, was the rarer thing in this house.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
Aaron glanced at the page. “A b-book.”
The solemnity of the answer tugged a smile from her. “I’d gathered as much.”
A tiny smile appeared on his mouth, uncertain but real.
He looked back at the page. “It is about a ship.”
“A ship?”
“A ship and a s-storm,” he said, then paused, his brows pinching as the word caught. “And p-p-pirates.”
Emmeline leaned forward. “Pirates. That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” he said, and his voice brightened before fear could stop it. “But the c-captain is brave. He has a sword.”
“Does he use it well?”
Aaron nodded quickly. “Very well.”
“And would your horse approve of pirates?”
The boy looked at the wooden horse, then back at her. “He would not l-like the sea.”
“No?”
“Horses c-cannot s-sail.”
Emmeline pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “No, I suppose they cannot.”
Aaron smiled again, larger this time, and something inside her eased. She had done nothing grand or clever. She had simply asked him questions that did not demand performance. And each time she did, his words came a little more easily.
“He is brave,” Aaron said softly, fingers tightening around the horse. “He does not fear anything.”
Emmeline felt the softness lodge in her chest. “That must be useful. I think every household needs someone fearless.”
Aaron ran his thumb along the horse’s carved mane. “Father says fear does not h-help.”
Emmeline stilled, just slightly. “Does he?”
Aaron nodded. “He says one must learn to c-control it.”
Emmeline thought of Rowan’s face in the carriage, the way he braced himself against the boy’s very existence. He wanted a fortress. Anything that could not be commanded seemed to frighten him, even in his own son.
“And what do you think?” she asked.
Aaron blinked at her. The question seemed to surprise him more than anything else she had said. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
His mouth opened, then closed. His stammer gathered before any word could break free, and Emmeline saw the frustration rise in his face. He looked down at the horse and swallowed.
“I t-think…” He pressed his thumb harder into the wooden mane. “I think fear is l-loud.”
Emmeline’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she said at last. “It can be very loud.”
Aaron looked up at her, relief flickering over his face as if he had expected correction and found understanding instead.