Chapter 11
Roman sat at the large mahogany desk in the study, the morning light slanting across stacks of ledgers and correspondence. His mother occupied the chair opposite him, her posture as straight as ever, gray hair pinned in its severe knot.
She reviewed the estate accounts with the same meticulous precision she applied to everything else in life, her pen moving steadily across a sheet of notes.
“The timber yields from the western wood look promising this year,” Roman said, tapping one column of figures. “We should consider expanding the sawmill operations before winter sets in.”
His mother nodded once, but her attention seemed only half on the numbers. She set her pen down and folded her hands in her lap, regarding him with those cool gray eyes that so closely mirrored his own.
“You cannot remain hidden away at Langley indefinitely, Roman. The Season will be in full swing soon. A duke who buries himself at his country estate with a foundling baby invites speculation. Unpleasant speculation.”
Roman leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “I am aware of the talk, Mother.”
“Being aware is not sufficient,” she replied sharply. “You must be seen. You must counter the rumors with presence. London expects its dukes to participate in society, not play nursemaid in the countryside.”
He exhaled slowly. “Liliana needs stability. London is hardly the place for that at present.”
His mother’s lips thinned. “Then perhaps it is time you thought seriously about a match. A wife would bring order to this household. She could help manage the situation with the child. Noted families have been circling the idea for years. Lady Daphne Vane, for instance. The Earl of Harworth’s daughter.
She would be an excellent choice. Well-bred, composed, and the connection would silence much of the gossip. ”
Roman’s fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. “I am not interested in Lady Daphne.”
“Interest is a luxury,” his mother said, her voice cool.
“Reputation is not. You inherited this title months ago, Roman. The ton is watching to see whether you will uphold the Langley name or allow it to become fodder for scandal sheets. A suitable marriage would go a long way toward restoring stability.”
He met her gaze steadily. “I will not marry simply to quiet rumors. Not even for the Langley name.”
His mother studied him for a long moment, then rose gracefully from her chair. “Think on it. The Harworths are expecting an answer before long. We cannot afford to appear indecisive.”
She swept from the room, leaving the faint scent of lavender and the heavier weight of her expectations behind. Roman remained at the desk long after she had gone, staring at the ledgers without really seeing them.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a pair of warm brown eyes and the way Miss Hartley’s voice softened when she read to Liliana in the mornings.
He pushed the chair back and stood, needing movement. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings with the steward, correspondence, and a ride across the estate to inspect the southern fields. By evening, the house had settled into its usual quiet rhythm, but Roman found himself restless.
He stepped out onto the terrace outside the library, seeking the cool night air.
The garden lay spread before him in shades of deep blue and silver under the moonlight, the formal beds softened by darkness.
He had always come here to think, to escape the constant demands of the title for a few precious minutes.
He was not alone.
Miss Hartley stood at the stone railing, her silhouette outlined against the lit windows of the house behind her. She had not heard him approach.
Her hands rested lightly on the balustrade as she gazed out into the darkened garden, her auburn hair catching faint glimmers of moonlight where it had escaped its knot. There was a quiet stillness to her that tugged at something deep in his chest.
Roman moved to stand beside her, leaving a careful distance between them. For several long moments, neither spoke. The night air carried the faint scent of damp earth and late roses, and the only sound was the distant hoot of an owl.
“The garden looks different at night,” she said softly, almost to herself.
“It does,” Roman agreed, his voice low. “Quieter. More honest, perhaps. The daylight hides nothing, but the darkness reveals what we choose to see.”
Miss Hartley turned her head slightly toward him. “Do you come here often, Your Grace?”
“When I need to think.” He placed one hand on the railing, close enough to hers that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from her skin. “The house can feel rather confining at times.”
She nodded, her profile graceful in the moonlight. “What do you think about, if I may ask?”
Roman considered the question, his gaze tracing the line of her jaw before returning to the garden.
“Lately? Things I did not expect.” His voice dropped lower.
“A child who appeared on my doorstep and refused to be ignored. The way the household has shifted around her. And... other matters I have not yet found the words for.”
The air between them thickened. Miss Hartley’s fingers tightened slightly on the stone railing. She did not pull away. Instead, she turned more fully toward him, her warm brown eyes meeting his in the dim light.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the faint flush visible on her cheeks even in the moonlight, the way her lips parted as though she wanted to say something more.
Roman felt the pull like a physical thing, an awareness of her nearness that made his pulse quicken.
The delicate scent of her soap mingled with the night air.
He found himself noticing the slender column of her throat, the way a stray curl brushed against it, the subtle way her chest rose with each breath.
“Your Grace...” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Roman!” Orson’s voice called from inside the library, breaking the moment like shattering glass. “There you are. I have those updated figures you asked for earlier.”
Miss Hartley stepped back immediately, her composure sliding back into place like a well-fitted mask. “I should not keep you, Your Grace.”
Roman lingered a second longer, his eyes holding hers. “Good night, Miss Hartley.”
“Good night,” she murmured.
He turned and walked back inside, but the warmth of that brief, charged silence followed him long after Orson had drawn him into conversation about estate matters.
Roman stepped back into the warmth of the library, the cool night air from the terrace still clinging to his coat. Orson stood near the doorway, a sheaf of papers in hand, though his usual easy smile seemed a touch strained tonight.
“You look as though you could use a drink,” Roman said, gesturing toward the corridor that led to his private study. “Come. Those figures can wait a few minutes.”
Orson fell into step beside him without argument. “Lead the way.”
The study felt familiar and grounding as they entered, the fire crackling low in the hearth and casting long shadows across the bookshelves.
Roman poured two generous measures of brandy into heavy crystal glasses, handing one to his friend before settling into the leather armchair behind his desk. Orson took the chair opposite, swirling the liquid thoughtfully.
They drank in companionable silence for a moment, the rich warmth of the brandy spreading through Roman’s chest. Outside, the night pressed against the windows, but inside, the room held that particular quiet that only came after the household had mostly retired.
Orson set his glass down after a time. “Your mother cornered you this morning, I take it?”
Roman’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. “She is nothing if not persistent. She believes I must be seen in London for the Season. That hiding away here with a foundling invites too much talk.”
“And what do you think?” Orson asked, watching him carefully.
“I think the talk will continue whether I go to London or not.” Roman took another slow sip. “But she went further today. Suggested it is time I consider a match. Specifically, Lady Daphne Vane.”
Orson raised an eyebrow. “The Earl of Harworth’s daughter. The families have been hinting at that alliance for years.”
“Yes.” Roman stared into the fire. “Mother says interest is a luxury. Reputation is not.”
“And you?”
Roman met his friend’s gaze evenly. “I think nothing of it. Lady Daphne is perfectly accomplished, but I have no desire to bind myself to her simply to quiet the gossip mills.”
Orson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“That is exactly the problem, Roman. You think nothing of it. You have spent the last eight months thinking nothing of marriage, nothing of society, and now nothing of the very real possibility that this situation with Liliana could damage the Langley name beyond easy repair. At some point, you will need to think about it. Whether you like it or not.”
The words hung between them. Roman turned the glass in his hands, watching the firelight play through the amber liquid. He knew Orson was right. He usually was. But the thought of arranging a marriage of convenience felt like another chain added to the title he had never asked for.
“To evade the subject entirely,” Roman said, setting his glass down with a soft clink, “I suggest a game of chess. Unless you are afraid I will finally beat you fairly.”
Orson’s mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “You wound me. Set the board.”
They moved to the small table near the window where the chess set waited. Roman took white and opened with his usual measured pawn move.
Orson responded, but his attention seemed elsewhere. His fingers hovered over pieces longer than usual. He captured a knight too aggressively on the fifth move, leaving his own king exposed.
Roman watched him closely as the game progressed. By the twelfth move, Orson’s queen was trapped, and his defenses had crumbled. Roman delivered a checkmate with quiet efficiency.
“That,” Roman said, leaning back, “is remarkably fast. Even for you.”
Orson stared at the board for a long moment, then let out a low chuckle. “It appears I am not at my best tonight.”
Roman studied his friend’s face. The easy charm was still there, but something lay beneath it. A distraction. “What is on your mind, Orson? And do not tell me it is nothing of consequence. You have never lost in twelve moves when nothing is on your mind.”
Orson met his eyes, then smiled. It was a small, rueful smile that did not quite reach his usual warmth. He reached forward and began resetting the pieces with deliberate care, one by one.
“Nothing worth troubling you with at this hour,” he said lightly. “Merely the usual estate matters. Boundary disputes. Letters. The occasional sleepless night.”
Roman did not press further. He knew Orson well enough to recognize when the man had decided to keep his own counsel. Still, the quick defeat and the careful deflection lingered in his thoughts as they played another, slower game. This time, Orson won, but the victory felt hollow on both sides.
They spoke of lighter things after that, a recent hunt Orson had attended, an amusing story about one of the tenant farmers, the latest ridiculous rumor circulating in the village about Liliana’s arrival.
But beneath the conversation, Roman felt the subtle shift in the air between them. Something was weighing on his oldest friend, and for now, Orson had chosen not to share it.
When they finally rose, the fire had burned low, and the house lay deep in silence.
“I will see you in the morning,” Roman said as they stepped into the corridor.
Orson nodded. “Try to get some rest, Langley. You look as though your mind is as busy as mine.”
Roman watched his friend walk away down the hall before turning toward his own chambers. The night felt heavier now, filled with unanswered questions and the lingering echo of his mother’s expectations.
***
He had nearly reached the nursery corridor on his way to bed when he slowed.
The hallway was dimly lit by a single wall sconce, and at the far end, near the nursery door, stood his mother.
She remained perfectly still, her back straight, one hand resting lightly on the wall as she gazed at the closed door.
She had not gone inside. She simply stood there, as though the room beyond held some answer she was not yet ready to face.
Roman approached quietly. “Mother. Do you need something?”
She turned, her expression smoothing into its usual composed mask almost instantly. “No. I was merely walking. The house is quiet tonight.”
Her voice gave nothing away, but Roman noticed the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers lingered a fraction too long near the doorframe before she lowered her hand.
“Indeed it is,” he said softly.
She gave him a brief nod. “Good night, Roman.”
“Good night, Mother.”
She turned and walked back toward her own rooms with measured steps, her silhouette disappearing around the corner.
Roman remained where he was for a long moment, staring at the nursery door. The house felt different in those small hours, heavier with unspoken things.
He thought of Miss Hartley inside, likely sitting with Liliana, and of his mother standing there alone in the dark.
He continued to his chambers, but sleep felt even further away than before.