Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“London appears determined to look as cheerful as possible,” Emmeline said to Aaron as they stepped down from the carriage, her gaze moving over the gray streets and the damp stone.
London had received them with all the warmth of a closed door.
Since that awful dinner three nights ago, Rowan had given her nothing but civility: polite good mornings, brief inquiries after her comfort, instructions delivered to servants rather than explanations offered to her, and a distance so exact it felt less like indifference than punishment.
He had not apologized. He had only watched her now and then with that dark, unreadable restraint that made her body remember his nearness even when her pride still burned from his cruelty.
Ironford House rose before them, grand and polished, imposing without warmth. Yet by the time they crossed the threshold, with Aaron carrying Biscuit carefully against his chest, the solemn entrance hall had already begun to lose some of its severity.
Biscuit lifted his head, spotted a marble bust upon its pedestal, and barked with complete conviction.
“Biscuit,” Aaron said, tugging at the ribbon tied loosely around the puppy’s neck. “That is not a man.”
Biscuit kept barking at the bust.
Rowan handed his hat to the butler. “His judgment remains poor.”
Aaron laughed softly.
Emmeline watched the sound land on Rowan. His head turned slightly, and for one fleeting second something moved behind his eyes. Then it was gone, locked away, as always.
Only a few hours later, Margaret arrived before luncheon with a violet bonnet, bright eyes, and absolutely no intention of pretending she had called only out of politeness.
“My dearest Duchess,” she declared, kissing Emmeline’s cheek before stepping back to inspect her. “You look too composed, which means I am immediately suspicious.”
Emmeline’s lips curved despite herself. “And you look intrusive, which means nothing has changed.”
“Thank heaven. I should hate to become dull.” Margaret’s gaze flicked beyond her toward the garden doors, where Aaron was attempting to teach Biscuit to fetch a short stick while the puppy proudly chased his own tail instead. “Is that the famous puppy?”
“That is Biscuit, yes.”
“Magnificent,” Margaret said gravely, watching Biscuit trot three proud circles around Aaron’s boots. “He has the air of a creature worth owning an estate.”
Emmeline laughed before she could stop herself. “Do not say that too loudly. He already believes the house belongs to him.”
“Does it not?” Margaret asked, widening her eyes. “Look at him. That is not a puppy. That is a landlord in need of rent.”
Emmeline laughed again, and for one moment the tightness beneath her ribs loosened enough that she could breathe without feeling the shape of the dining room around her.
They stepped into the garden together, where the clipped hedges and pale autumn flowers made London seem less gray, less watchful. Aaron stood a few paces ahead with Biscuit hopping at his heels, then glanced back at Margaret.
“G-good morning, Miss Godwin,” he said, with only the smallest hitch.
Margaret’s expression softened at once, though her voice remained bright. “Good morning, Lord Aaron. I am honored to be received by you and your very important dog.”
Aaron blushed, ducking his head as he bent to untangle Biscuit from the edge of a flowerbed. “He is not important. He is only Biscuit.”
“That,” Margaret replied, “is precisely what important creatures want us to think.”
Emmeline watched Aaron’s shoulders relax as he turned back to the puppy, and something tender pressed so sharply beneath her ribs that she had to look down at the path for a moment.
Margaret waited until they had walked a little farther, then slipped her hand through Emmeline’s arm and lowered her voice.
“Now,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”
Emmeline watched a yellow leaf drift from a tree and land upon the gravel. “About what?”
“Please, Emmeline. About your husband.”
The word husband still felt foreign to her, but she tried to force her face into neutrality.
“He is…” Emmeline stopped.
Margaret waited patiently, eyes locked into Emmeline’s face.
“He is difficult,” Emmeline said at last.
Margaret’s brows lifted. “Difficult how?”
“Simply…difficult.”
“Does he bite?”
Heat rushed up Emmeline’s neck before she could stop it. “Margaret.”
“Oh.” Margaret’s expression sharpened into immediate interest. “That was not a denial.”
Emmeline pulled her arm free only to clasp her hands before her. “Nothing has happened.”
Margaret looked almost disappointed. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“And is that by your choice or his?”
Emmeline turned her gaze toward Aaron so she would not have to answer too quickly. He had crouched beside Biscuit now, speaking softly to the dog, his small shoulders relaxed in a way that still felt new.
“I do not know,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think he might want me.”
Margaret made a soft sound. “Sometimes?”
The question moved through her body before it reached her mind.
She remembered the kiss, the heat of his breath scorching her, the low warning in his voice, the way her own breath had trembled in answer to a danger she had not wanted to escape.
She remembered his hand helping her into the carriage after the village, lingering around hers for one heartbeat too long, the warm pressure of his palm.
Then she remembered the dining room and the ache closed around her throat.
“He can be cruel,” she said quietly.
Margaret sobered at once. “What did he do?”
Emmeline looked toward Aaron again. He was laughing now, because Biscuit had seized the stick and was trotting in the wrong direction with his head held high.
“He said something he should not have said.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
Margaret’s mouth tightened. “Do I need to despise him?”
“No,” Emmeline said too quickly, then hated the speed of it. “No. I do not think so. He was… wounded.”
“That does not prevent me from despising him.”
“I know.”
“Was he sorry?”
Emmeline thought of Rowan standing at the head of the dining table, his face drained of its cold certainty, his eyes fixed on the napkin she had smoothed because she had needed somewhere to put her pain. She thought of the sad way he had said her name afterward.
“He looked it,” she said. “He did not say it.”
Margaret exhaled. “Men do have such a talent for making women read their remorse like scripture.”
Despite everything, Emmeline’s mouth twitched.
Margaret squeezed her arm. “And Aaron?”
“He is dearer to me every day.” The words left before she could dress them in caution. “That is part of the trouble.”
“Because the Duke resents it?”
“I do not know if he resents it.” Emmeline’s gaze tracked Rowan through the glass doors at the far end of the house.
He had appeared in the study doorway that opened toward the garden, speaking to a footman, but his eyes had already found her. Even from a distance, she felt the pull of that gray gaze, moving over her with an intimacy deeper than touch.
Her breath changed.
Margaret followed her attention and went quiet for one beat too long. “Oh,” she said softly.
Emmeline looked away. “Do not.”
“I have said nothing.”
“You said oh.”
“And what an eloquent syllable it was.” Margaret’s voice softened, though the mischief remained. “He watches you as though he is starving and furious that the hunger has become public.”
Emmeline’s pulse leapt. “He watches everyone.”
“No,” Margaret said. “He observes everyone. He watches you.”
Before she could answer, Aaron came running toward them with Biscuit hopping at his heels.
“Your Grace,” he called, breathless but smiling. “Biscuit fetched it. The wrong way, but he fetched.”
Emmeline’s face softened at once. “Then we must praise his effort.”
Aaron nodded solemnly. Then he glanced toward Margaret. “He is improving.”
“So are you, my lord,” Margaret said gently.
Aaron blushed and looked down, but he did not retreat.
Behind him, through the glass, Rowan still watched.
Margaret followed Emmeline’s gaze for one brief moment, then looked away with a small, knowing breath.
“You know,” she said lightly, though her eyes were far too sharp, “if society has any sense of timing at all, you and His Grace will be invited somewhere insufferably public very soon.”
Emmeline turned back to her. “Must you sound so pleased by the prospect?”
“I am not pleased,” Margaret said, with absolutely no sincerity. “I am merely prepared. Lord and Lady Wetherby are holding a ball this week, and if they do not invite the newly returned Duke and Duchess of Ironford, I shall assume they have lost all instinct for scandal.”
Emmeline’s stomach tightened despite herself. “How comforting.”
“Wear something devastating,” Margaret advised. “It is the only proper response.”
“There they are,” Miss Bexley whispered near the doorway.
“The new Duchess,” Lady Winthrop replied, her gaze slipping over Emmeline’s gown with open curiosity.
“And his sister still absent, I hear,” Lady Milborne said, lowering her voice only enough to pretend discretion.
“Poor Wellfield,” Lord Pike muttered from somewhere near the refreshment table.
“Poor Wellfield?” Mr. Vane returned softly. “Poor girl, perhaps.”
Emmeline heard enough.
The ballroom was already alive when they arrived, bright with chandeliers, silk, jewels, and all the ruthless curiosity London could fit beneath one painted ceiling. Conversation shifted the moment they entered, bending toward them like flowers toward the sun.
Rowan’s hand settled at the small of her back.
The contact was brief, proper, and devastating. Heat moved through the silk of her gown into her skin, and she hated that her body softened toward it before pride could intervene. His hand simply remained there, steady and possessive, guiding her forward through the whispers.
“Your Grace,” Lord Penhurst said, bowing with a little too much eagerness. “London is relieved to have you among us again.”
“London is kind to concern itself,” Rowan replied.