Chapter 17 #2
Rowan leaned back slightly in his chair, one broad hand still resting near the abandoned letter. “No.”
A small, incredulous breath escaped her before she could stop it. She stepped closer to the desk, and lifted her chin. “Do you decide against all requests before hearing them fully, or only mine?”
His mouth remained stern, but a faint line appeared beside it. “Usually only yours.”
Her breath caught on something dangerously close to laughter. She lowered her gaze for half a second to steady herself and found that it was worse, because his strong hands rested on the desk, one thumb darkened faintly with ink.
She remembered how those fingers had closed around her elbow, how heat had traveled from that point of contact through her entire body, and suddenly she had to look back at his face before her thoughts betrayed her completely.
“I am suffocating,” she said. “And before you list the number of rooms again, I am not speaking of space.”
“I understood you.”
“Then you understand why I wish to see the village.”
“I understand why you believe you wish it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How generous of you to explain my own mind to me.”
Rowan rose.
The movement changed the room at once. The dark coat fit his shoulders too well, pulling cleanly across muscle, and Emmeline felt the humiliating warmth gather low in her stomach before she could stop it.
He came around the desk. “Ironford village is not a promenade in Hyde Park.”
“I should hope not. I have seen Hyde Park.”
“There are uneven roads, curious eyes, gossiping mouths, and villagers who have not yet formed an opinion of you.”
“Then I ought to give them the chance.”
His gaze moved over her face, pausing at her mouth just long enough to make her knees feel less certain. “And if you dislike their opinion?”
“I shall survive disappointment.”
“I do not doubt it.”
The softness of the words startled her.
For a moment, they simply looked at one another, and Emmeline felt the room narrow around them. He stood close enough now that she could see the faint dark grain of stubble along his jaw and the slight shadow beneath his eyes. She wanted to ask whether he had slept.
Instead, she lifted her chin. “I also want Aaron to come.”
At once, Rowan’s expression closed. “No.”
“Why?”
“He is not accustomed to the village.”
“Then it is time he became accustomed to it.”
“He is seven.”
“Years old. Not seven months.”
His jaw tightened. “Do not make light of this.”
“I am not.” She stepped nearer before sense could restrain her. “That is exactly my point. He should know the people who live under his father’s care. He should see shops, hear carts, greet children.”
Rowan’s eyes hardened. “You do not know what overwhelms him.”
“No,” she said, quieter now. “But I know what delights him.”
The words seemed to strike him. She watched his hand flex once at his side.
“And Biscuit,” she added carefully, because if the argument was going to be fought, it might as well be fought fully. “Aaron will be steadier if Biscuit comes.”
“The dog is not going into the village.”
“The dog is very small.”
“The dog is disordered.”
Despite herself, Emmeline smiled.
Rowan’s gaze dropped to it, and the air shifted. Her smile faltered beneath the sudden weight of his attention. It moved through her too deeply. She felt seen in a way that stripped her of composure.
“Do not smile at me so you can win the argument.” Rowan’s voice dropped.
“Does it help?”
“It makes me less inclined to be reasonable,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth, making the air in her lungs vanish.
The words were a warning. Yet they settled into the marrow of her bones—a hot, vibrating pressure that made the stone walls of the study feel like they were closing in.
“Then I shall use it sparingly,” she said. The words came out thin, lacking the sharp edge of her usual poise, her voice betraying her with a soft tremor.
He looked at her for another long, punishing moment, then turned away with a low exhale. “Very well. One hour.”
Relief broke through her so suddenly that she almost reached for his sleeve. She stopped herself just in time.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Rowan glanced back. “Do not thank me yet.”
Ironford village was smaller than she had imagined and livelier than she expected.
The carriage rolled to a stop beside a row of neat stone-fronted shops, their signs swinging gently in the breeze.
A baker’s window steamed faintly with warmth. A blacksmith’s hammer rang somewhere farther down the lane. Chickens scattered from the road as the horses came through, and Biscuit, seated in Aaron’s lap, gave a muffled bark from within the carriage, announcing himself to the entire parish.
Aaron laughed, one hand clamped around the puppy’s middle. “He th-thinks he is a h-hound.”
“He thinks he is a duke,” Emmeline murmured.
Rowan, seated opposite them, glanced from the dog to his son, then to her. “Tell him we already have one of those in the carriage.”
Aaron giggled before he could stop himself.
Emmeline’s eyes flew to Rowan.
He was looking out the window, face severe, but the corner of his mouth had moved. Barely.
When they stepped down, the village noticed at once.
Faces turned. Conversations thinned. A woman emerging from the baker’s stopped with a wrapped loaf in her hands, eyes widening as she stared at Rowan.
“Your Grace,” an older man called, bowing deeply. “Good day to you.”
“Mr. Carter,” Rowan replied with a nod.
The man straightened, visibly pleased to have been remembered. Then his gaze moved to Emmeline, and his weathered face softened into something warmer. “And Her Grace. Welcome to Ironford, Duchess.”
Emmeline smiled, and the knot in her chest loosened. “Thank you, Mr. Carter. I am very happy to see it at last.”
“We are very happy to have you, Your Grace,” Mr. Carter said, then glanced down at Aaron with a sudden fondness that made the boy’s shoulders lift with shy surprise.
“And we are grateful to have His Lordship back among us as well. Mrs. Carter still speaks of how you found her missing cat last month.”
Aaron’s eyes widened. “She d-does?”
“Indeed, she does,” Mr. Carter said gravely. “Says she would still be wandering the lanes calling for that foolish creature if not for you.”
A small, bright smile broke across Aaron’s face before he could hide it. “He was in the b-baker’s shed.”
“So he was,” Mr. Carter agreed. “And very ashamed of himself, I hope.”
Emmeline looked down at Aaron, warmth spreading through her chest at the little flicker of pride in his expression. “That was very clever of you.”
Aaron’s smile turned bashful, but it did not vanish. “I l-like finding things.”
Rowan said nothing, but Emmeline felt his attention shift quietly toward his son. From there, the greetings multiplied.
A woman in a dark wool shawl came first, dipping into a hurried curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Webb,” Rowan said. “Is your mother’s cough improved?”
The woman blinked, visibly startled that he remembered. “It is, Your Grace. The broth you delivered helped a great deal.”
“Good. If it worsens again, send word to the house. I will have Dr. Miles called.”
Mrs. Webb’s face softened at once. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace.”
Rowan only nodded and turned when another man approached with his cap already in his hands.
“Mr. Bell,” Rowan said.
The man bowed. “Your Grace. I hope we find you well.”
“Well enough. How is your son managing at the mill?”
Mr. Bell’s expression brightened. “Better every day, Your Grace. He still comes home black with flour and twice as hungry as he left, but he is learning.”
“Then tell him not to put his hand near the lower gear again. Learning is of little use if he loses fingers in the process.”
“I will, Your Grace.” Mr. Bell gave a nervous laugh. “He still speaks of the warning you gave him last time.”
“Then perhaps this time he will heed it.”
Emmeline watched the man bow again and step away smiling despite the sternness of the advice.
A round-faced baker appeared next, wiping his hands hastily down the front of his apron. “Your Grace, the new oven draws better than the old one ever did.”
Rowan’s gaze flicked to the shop behind him. “No smoke in the back room?”
“None at all.”
“Good. Your wife should not have been breathing it all winter.”
The baker’s smile softened into something almost shy. “No, Your Grace. She is much easier for it.”
Rowan inclined his head, already turning as the blacksmith approached from the forge, one hand wrapped in linen.
“Hargreaves,” Rowan said, his brows drawing together. “That hand should still be resting.”
The blacksmith looked down at the bandage with the expression of a boy caught stealing apples. “It is only a little work, Your Grace.”
“It is never a little work with you. Give the heavier orders to Thomas for another week.”
“Thomas is slower than cold treacle.”
“Then he will have time to improve.”
The blacksmith huffed, but there was no resentment in it. “As Your Grace commands.”
Rowan gave a short nod, and Emmeline stood beside him in a kind of quiet astonishment.
The villagers admired him. That much was plain.
They feared his silences too, his size, his stern mouth, the weight of a gaze that could make full-grown men straighten their backs and choose their words carefully.
Yet beneath all that severity, he had remembered them.
Their ailments. Their children. Their work. Their small troubles.
He did not speak gently, exactly. He did not soften his voice or make a show of concern. But the concern was there all the same, hidden inside practical orders and curt questions.
Emmeline felt the discovery settle strangely inside her.
He is not cold everywhere.
If Rowan could be attentive here, if he could carry all these small details beneath that severe exterior, then what else did he carry? What had he buried so deeply that only fragments came through in commands and restrained glances and the awkward set of his hand upon Aaron’s shoulder?