Chapter 16 #2
Rowan stopped at the edge of the rear lawn, his riding gloves crushed in one hand. His jaw had not unclenched since he left the stables.
For three days, he had managed the puppy’s presence with remarkable discipline. He had left the house early, returned late, taken his meals with rigid punctuality and spoken to his wife only when propriety required it.
Distance was wisdom.
Emmeline was settling in well with Aaron.
Aaron smiled more. The dog had survived his first bath and had not yet destroyed anything of value.
The house had gained some peculiar warmth Rowan did not know what to do with, so he had buried himself in tenants, ledgers, correspondence, and any occupation that did not require him to look at his wife for too long.
Now he came home to find his son and his duchess on their hands and knees in the grass, barking.
Emmeline turned toward him at once. The sight was so startlingly unguarded that his irritation faltered before he could harden it properly.
Her sandy blonde hair had loosened in the breeze, several curls slipping free near her temples, and there was a streak of grass upon one sleeve of her pale walking dress.
Her cheeks were flushed, her honey eyes bright with laughter she was clearly trying to restrain, and the softness of her mouth did something vicious to his control.
Beside her, Aaron froze with his lips still parted around what had clearly been another bark.
Biscuit, the disgraceful creature responsible for most of this disorder, sat between them and barked once at Rowan, as though answering his question.
Rowan stared at the dog. Then at his son. Then at his wife.
“I shall ask again,” he said slowly. “What are you doing?”
Aaron’s face reddened at once, and his gaze dropped to the grass.
Emmeline saw it before Rowan had even finished speaking. She saw everything when it came to the boy, every small retreat, every flinch, every silence before it became visible to anyone else. That was part of the problem. She noticed too much.
“We are training Biscuit,” she said, brushing her hands lightly over her skirts as she rose. “Or rather, Biscuit is training us. The balance of authority remains uncertain.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “By barking at him?”
“It is an exercise.”
“It is a humiliation.”
Her lashes lowered for the smallest second, and when she lifted them again, the softness had gone still upon her face. Her mouth remained gentle, but it had firmed at the corners, and her chin rose just enough to make the line of her throat lengthen above the modest edge of her gown.
A sudden, heated pull started low in his body before he had any chance to stop it. His grip tightened around the gloves.
Aaron shifted beside the puppy. “It h-helps.”
Rowan looked down at him.
The boy swallowed. Biscuit leaned against his boot, and Aaron’s fingers dipped into the puppy’s fur, clutching there as though it steadied him.
“It helps?” Rowan repeated.
Aaron nodded, then drew in a careful breath. “When I g-get stuck on a w-word, I… I b-bark.”
Rowan went still.
Aaron glanced at Emmeline, and she gave him no prompt, no rescuing answer, only a small nod that seemed to say she trusted him to continue. The boy looked back at Rowan.
“Like this,” Aaron said, his voice trembling but determined. “I w-wanted to say th-that Biscuit would sit, but the word would not come. So I s-said, ‘Bark,’ and then I could say it. Biscuit will sit.” He paused, eyes widening a little, as if he had just heard himself. “See?”
The words had come almost cleanly at the end.
Rowan’s chest tightened. Aaron stood motionless, his knuckles disappearing into the puppy’s messy fur. He fastened his gaze on Rowan’s face, eyes wide and shimmering.
He held the trembling creature forward like an offering, his small shoulders braced as if waiting for a blow he hoped would not come.
Biscuit chose the silence to bark again, softer this time.
Aaron gave a quick, nervous smile. “He agrees.”
Emmeline’s mouth curved faintly.
That small, tender smile irritated Rowan beyond reason. Because it touched his son first and him afterward, and he felt the aftershock of it through his whole body.
“Take the dog to Miss Harrow,” Rowan said.
Aaron’s smile faltered. “But—”
“Now.” The word came out harder than he intended.
Emmeline’s gaze flew to his face.
Aaron bent immediately, gathering Biscuit with awkward care. The puppy wriggled and licked his chin, which made Aaron’s composure crack into a brief laugh before he remembered himself and glanced toward Rowan.
“Yes, Father,” he said quietly.
He walked toward the shaded path where Miss Harrow waited a little distance away, and Biscuit looked back over his shoulder at them with his ridiculous ears flopping.
Rowan waited until Aaron was out of hearing, then he turned on Emmeline. “I will speak with you.”
She lifted her chin. “So I gathered.”
He took her by the elbow, not roughly, but firmly enough that the touch sent heat shooting up his own arm like punishment.
She came with him beneath the cover of the old beech tree near the garden wall, where the leaves cast restless shadows over her face and where no servant could easily hear them.
He released her at once, his fingers stinging from the contact.
It was a mistake. Without the touch, he became agonizingly aware of the inch of cool air between them, and how badly he wanted to close it.
Rowan’s fingers spasmed against his thighs, his knuckles white as he fought the urge to reach for her again.
“You will not make my son a spectacle,” he said, his voice tightening. He stood rigid, his shoulders squared, almost bracing himself.
Emmeline did not flinch. Instead, she mirrored his intensity, her spine snapping straight as she stared at him with eyes bright and stinging with defiance. “A spectacle?”
“You had him barking in the garden.”
“I had him laughing in the garden.”
“Not when the laughter can be turned against him.”
“Then teach him that laughter does not have to belong to others,” she said, stepping suddenly into his space, forcing him to look down at her.
She did not stop until the toes of her shoes nearly touched his boots.
His jaw locked, a hard knot of muscle jumping in his cheek. He could feel the blood thrumming in his ears. Rowan’s gaze dropped to the quick rise and fall of her chest, then snapped back to her blazing eyes.
“You do not understand what people can do with weakness,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned into her, “once they see it.”
“And you do not understand what happens to a child when every difficult thing is treated as a shameful one.”
The words struck with the precision of a blade. Rowan looked at her, at the stubborn lift of her chin, the high, frantic color in her cheeks, and the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. She was angry, but she wasn’t reckless.
“You have been his mother for less than a month,” he said, his voice dropping, the fury quieter now.
Something flashed in her eyes. “And yet I seem to have noticed that he breathes more easily when he is not being watched for failure.”
His restraint frayed. She was too near. He could smell the light floral soap on her skin and the sun-warmed scent of her hair—a sweetness that had begun to haunt his sleep.
She stood there, lecturing him, and all he could feel was a sudden, violent pull in his gut.
He imagined sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her flush against him just to hear her gasp.
He knew she would. He had seen the way her breath hitched when he loomed over her.
He had watched her mouth go soft and heavy even while she fought him.
He wanted to close the distance. He wanted to see if that fierce defiance would turn to a different kind of shivering if he leaned down and pressed his lips to the sensitive cord of her neck.
He forced himself to take a step back.
Her eyes followed him, searching, and he saw the moment she realized exactly how much effort it took for him to move away.
“You are not to invent remedies without consulting me,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual flint.
“I did not invent anything dangerous. I gave him a way through a word.”
“You made him bark like a dog.”
“I gave him permission to make a sound without fearing he would be judged.”
His fingers flexed at his side, his palms aching. “That sounds very noble. It will sound rather different when some boy in a village mocks him.”
“Then let him be strong enough to laugh at it.”
“Aaron is not strong enough for that yet.”
“He could be,” she said, her voice a soft, urgent lure. “If you would stop deciding the limits of his courage before he has a chance to find them himself.”
A loose curl drifted against her cheek, and Rowan’s gaze caught on it, tracing the curve of her ear before dropping to her mouth. Her lips were parted, ripe and slightly damp, and the air between them seemed to hum with an invisible current.
“Do not look at me like that,” he said, the words dragging low in his throat.
Her breath caught. “Like what?”
“As though you mean to challenge me until I forget why I am angry.”
The flush on her neck deepened, a beautiful, rose-colored stain. “That sounds like your failing, not mine.”
A rough, low sound vibrated in his chest. He moved closer—only half a pace, but it was enough to soften her. Her back was nearly pinned to the silver bark of the beech. Her lashes flickered, and her fingers curled into the silk of her skirt, her knuckles white.
“Careful, Duchess,” he said, leaning in until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth.
Her chin lifted, her breathing coming in shallow, uneven draws. “Or what?”
“Or,” he rumbled, his lips brushing hers with every syllable, “I’ll press you into this bark and find out if you taste as sweet as you look when you’re being wicked.”
Then Biscuit barked, and both of them turned.
Aaron stood several yards away with the puppy in his arms, eyes wide and uncertain. “Biscuit r-r,” he started, then quickly added, “Bark. Ran back.”
The last words came clear.
Rowan stared at him. Emmeline only looked at Rowan, and the quiet triumph in her eyes was worse than any argument she might have made.
Aaron looked between them. “Did I do it right?”
Rowan’s throat worked once. For once, there was no correction waiting on his tongue.
“Yes,” he said, the word rougher than he intended. “You did.”