Chapter 13
The morning air carried a sharp chill as Roman and Orson rode out across the eastern fields, their horses’ hooves thudding softly against the damp ground.
Roman guided his bay stallion with a loose rein, the familiar weight of the saddle and the steady rhythm beneath him offering a rare sense of clarity.
Orson rode beside him on a gray mare, sitting with his usual effortless ease, though Roman noticed the slight tension in his friend’s shoulders.
They had been riding in companionable silence for some time, discussing the usual matters of the estate. The recent rains had left parts of the lower fields soft, and Roman pointed out a section where drainage work might be needed before winter fully set in.
“The tenants near the stream have been complaining again,” Roman said, scanning the land. “If we do not address the flooding soon, we will lose more of the winter wheat than I would like.”
Orson nodded, his gaze following the same line. “I spoke with the steward yesterday. He suggests reinforcing the banks with stone rather than timber this time. More expensive upfront, but it may save us trouble in the long run.”
They continued in this vein for a while, moving from crop yields to tenant repairs and the upcoming timber harvest. Roman found himself attempting a touch of levity as they crested a low hill overlooking the valley.
“At this rate, I shall have to start charging you rent for all the time you spend riding my land and offering opinions,” he said, glancing sideways with a faint smile. “Perhaps we can settle on a modest percentage of your winnings from our next chess match.”
Orson’s mouth twitched, but the expected easy laugh did not come. Instead, he studied Roman’s face for a long moment, his expression growing more serious.
“Roman,” he said carefully, slowing his horse to a walk. “Have you given any more thought to your mother’s suggestion regarding Lady Daphne?”
Roman’s grip tightened slightly on the reins. He kept his eyes on the horizon, where a thin line of mist still clung to the distant trees. “No. I have not.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the morning chill. Orson exhaled slowly, adjusting his seat in the saddle.
“That is not what concerns me,” he said at last. His voice was quiet. “What concerns me is that you have spent nearly every morning for the past three weeks in the nursery. With Miss Hartley and Liliana.”
Roman remained quiet, the only sound the soft crunch of hooves on the path and the occasional call of a bird overhead. He could feel Orson’s gaze on him, patient but unwavering.
“Whatever is happening in that room,” Orson continued, “it is not something that ends well for a duke and a servant. You know that as well as I do.”
Roman slowed his horse to a complete stop. The bay tossed its head once, sensing the shift in mood, before settling. He stared out across the fields, the vast Langley lands stretching before him like a reminder of every duty and expectation that came with his title.
After a long pause, he spoke, his voice low. “I am aware of the problem.”
Orson pulled his mare up beside him. “Being aware of it and doing something about it are two very different things, my friend.”
The words settled between them as stones dropped into still water. Roman turned his head slightly, meeting Orson’s eyes. There was no judgment there, only the steady concern of a man who had stood beside him through Cambridge, through his father’s illness, through the sudden weight of the dukedom.
“I know,” Roman said finally. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands. “She is... good with Liliana. The child has settled in ways I did not expect. The household feels steadier with her there.”
Orson waited, saying nothing, giving him space to continue.
Roman’s jaw tightened. “Miss Hartley reads to her in the mornings. She has ideas about the gardens that are surprisingly sound. And Liliana reaches for her as though she has always been there. It is... difficult to ignore.”
“Difficult,” Orson repeated gently. “But not impossible.”
Roman looked away again, toward the distant line of the estate boundary.
The wind stirred the grass around them, cool and insistent.
He thought of the terrace last night, of Miss Hartley standing beside him in the moonlight, the way the air had thickened between them.
The memory sent an unwelcome warmth through his chest.
“I have responsibilities,” he said at last. “To the title. To Liliana’s future. To this estate.”
“And to yourself?” Orson asked quietly.
Roman gave a short, humorless laugh. “Myself, least of all, it would seem.”
They sat there on horseback for several minutes, the silence stretching comfortably now. Orson did not push further. He never did when he sensed the limit had been reached. Instead, he nudged his mare forward again, and Roman followed.
As they continued their ride, the conversation drifted back toward safer ground—the boundary dispute with the Uppertons, a letter from a neighboring landowner about shared hunting rights, the upcoming harvest festival.
But beneath the words, Roman felt the weight of Orson’s earlier observation lingering like a shadow.
By the time they turned their horses back toward the house, the sun had climbed higher, burning off the last of the morning mist. Roman’s mind, however, remained tangled in the nursery, in soft voices and warm brown eyes and the growing certainty that whatever was happening there could no longer be so easily dismissed.
That afternoon, Roman was reviewing correspondence in the drawing room when the sound of hooves on the gravel drive drew his attention.
He glanced out the tall window just as Nicolette Upperton dismounted from her bay mare. She carried a leather folder under one arm and wore a practical riding habit in deep green that suited her dark hair and direct manner.
Orson, who had been reading near the fireplace, rose at the sound. “Miss Upperton,” he said, a note of resignation already in his voice.
Roman hid a smile. “Show her in, would you?”
Moments later, Nicolette strode into the room, her boots still carrying traces of field mud. She nodded to Roman first. “Your Grace. I bring the latest survey maps and some rather pointed thoughts about that eastern boundary line.”
“Miss Upperton,” Roman replied, gesturing for her to sit. “Always a pleasure. Orson here was just mentioning your latest letter.”
Her gaze slid to Orson, who had remained standing. “Lord Ashmore. Still hiding behind your maps, I see.”
Orson offered a small bow, though his jaw had tightened. “Someone must ensure accuracy, Miss Upperton.”
Roman watched them with open interest, leaning back in his chair. The air between his friend and the neighboring landowner had grown increasingly charged with every encounter, and he made no effort to hide his amusement.
They spread the maps across the low table. For a time, the discussion remained civil, focused on the boundary dispute and potential compromises. But it did not last.
“The land tax reform you propose would cripple smaller estates,” Orson said, tapping a section of the map. “The Upperton holdings might absorb the burden, but many of Langley’s tenants could not.”
Nicolette leaned forward, her dark eyes flashing. “And yet you expect those same tenants to shoulder higher rents while the great estates pay a pittance. How convenient for you, Lord Ashmore, to defend the current system when it benefits your friend’s title so handsomely.”
Orson’s eyebrows rose. “It is not convenient. It is practicality. Sudden reform without proper transition would create chaos. You speak as though change can be waved into existence like a magic spell.”
“Practicality,” she echoed, her voice laced with challenge.
She planted one hand on the table, close enough to Orson’s that their fingers nearly brushed.
“Or simply fear of losing even an inch of control? I have seen how you look at these maps, my lord. As though every line drawn threatens your precious order.”
Orson did not retreat. Instead, he met her gaze directly, a spark of something sharper than irritation in his eyes. “And I have seen how you charge at every reform like a cavalry charge, Miss Upperton. No thought for the ground you might trample in the process.”
The tension crackled between them. Roman watched, fascinated, as neither yielded an inch. Nicolette’s cheeks had gained color, and Orson’s usual effortless charm had sharpened into something more raw, more alive.
“Gentlemen do not trample,” she said sweetly, though her eyes were anything but. “They negotiate. Though I suppose some prefer hiding behind centuries of tradition instead of actually listening.”
Orson leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “And some prefer storming ahead without regard for the consequences. Tell me, Miss Upperton, do you ever pause to consider that not every change is progress?”
Her lips curved in a dangerous smile. “Only when the person suggesting it stops treating every conversation like a battlefield, my lord.”
Roman cleared his throat, barely suppressing a grin. “Perhaps we might return to the boundary line before blood is spilled on my carpet.”
Nicolette straightened, shooting Orson one final look that was equal parts frustration and something far warmer. Orson adjusted his coat, his ears faintly red.
At that moment, Roman glanced toward the door. “Miss Hartley,” he called softly. “Would you bring Liliana down for a moment? Miss Upperton has not yet met her.”
Miss Hartley appeared shortly after; Liliana balanced on her hip. The baby’s eyes lit up at the sight of new faces, and she reached out with both hands, babbling excitedly.
Nicolette turned, her expression shifting from combative to delighted in an instant. “Well, hello there, little troublemaker.” She stepped forward without hesitation and held out her arms. “May I?”
“Of course.”