The faint creak of the door startled her.
Rosamund turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat. But it was only her mother. The Countess glided into the room, her face a mask of concern beneath her composed elegance. Rosamund's smile softened as she greeted her.
"Mother."
She turned back to the view. Her gaze fixed on the sprawling estate grounds below. The morning sunlight bathed her face. For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of lightness in her chest. Occasionally, she bit her lower lip. A habit she had never quite outgrown.
Her mother stepped closer, resting her chin gently on Rosamund's shoulder. Her voice, though soft, carried an edge of unease.
"You seem… unusually happy today."
Rosamund exhaled a small laugh. Her fingers traced the edge of the metal rail. "Of course I am. It's not every day you finally kick the devil from your life."
Her mother's hands, cool and steady, grasped hers. She turned Rosamund gently to face her. The concern in her mother's eyes deepened.
"You know nothing about the Duke, Rosamund."
Rosamund's smile faltered. A flicker of defiance sparked in her gaze. "Mother, you should be happy for me. Finally, I've found someone who—"
"Everyone says he is distant. Ruthless, even." Her mother's voice was firm yet trembling. "I don't wish harm for you, Rosamund. You are my daughter."
Her mother's hand brushed her cheek. Fingertips tracing the faint freckles as though she could erase the past with the gesture. Rosamund leaned into the touch, but her resolve did not waver.
"Mother, the man who rescued me—he was gentle. He was good. I want that for myself. A man who respects women. Who sees them as more than ornaments."
Her mother's lips tightened. "A man you have known for less than a day. No, not even that. A single night."
Rosamund stiffened. Her chin lifted in defiance. "He is mine. I know it. I feel it. That's why God sent him to me. He's the one, Mother. I'm certain of it."
Her mother's eyes softened, but the worry remained etched in her features. She opened her mouth to speak, but Rosamund stepped back. Her gaze was steady and unyielding.
"This one," she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet conviction, "is mine."
"Very well," her mother conceded, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. "If you believe this is your path, I will stand by you. Always. Your father intends to invite the Duke this evening." She squeezed Rosamund's hand, her grip warm but firm, then turned and glided out the door.
Rosamund watched her mother's retreating figure. A mix of relief and anticipation bubbled in her chest. Once the door clicked shut, she walked slowly to her bed and collapsed onto it. Her body sank into the soft mattress. She stared at the canopy above, her mind racing with thoughts of the evening ahead.
---
Downstairs, in the sunlit morning room, the quiet was broken only by the rhythmic click of Diana's knitting needles.
"I think the Duke truly has an eye for our sister," Diana mused. Her tone was thoughtful but tinged with skepticism.
Agnes, seated across from her with a novel open on her lap, let out a low chuckle. "I must confess—I was utterly shocked when he proposed to Rosamund. I mean, she's so… headstrong. Most men would run from that."
Mary entered just then, carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. She set it down with a slight clatter. Her tone was matter-of-fact. "The Duke saw something in her that others overlook. Courage. A wildfire. She's one of a kind."
Diana glanced up, her knitting needles pausing mid-stitch. "She's certainly that," she said, her voice softening.
Agnes closed her book. Her expression became more thoughtful. "Perhaps he sees what we all do, but only a man like him would dare admire it."
"I heard he's never been seen with a woman," Agnes continued. Her voice was tinged with curiosity and concern. "Just like Rosamund. I wonder if he even knows how to love a woman. How to make her feel those butterflies in her stomach." She sighed wistfully, her gaze drifting to the window. "Oh, I truly miss Henry. This trip is taking forever."
Mary chuckled softly. Her hands busied themselves arranging the tea set. "Ah, sugar-coated words and men who chase everything in skirts—those are hardly the marks of a true gentleman." Her laughter was light, almost contagious. Soon Diana joined in, her knitting needles pausing as she smiled.
Agnes's expression hardened. Her chin lifted slightly. "That was one mistake, and he apologized. I forgave him." Her voice was firm, but there was a flicker of something beneath the words. Perhaps doubt. Perhaps resolve.
Mary glanced at her, her gaze softening. "Forgiveness is a virtue, Agnes, but wisdom rarely forgives twice."
---
Golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows. It painted warm stripes across the oak-paneled walls. The scent of beeswax and aged leather hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of bergamot from the untouched tea service on the sideboard.
Harold stood by the window. His broad shoulders were tense beneath his tailored coat. The sunlight caught the silver at his temples, making him appear both regal and weary. Behind him, James leaned against the desk. His fingers gripped the edge until his knuckles whitened.
"I don't know why, but I just… had to." Harold's voice was low, roughened by something deeper than mere frustration.
James exhaled sharply. His gaze fixed on the patterned rug beneath their feet. "You haven't told her the truth," he said quietly. "Not the whole of it."
Harold turned. The sunlight haloed his frame. "I told her enough. She understands this is a marriage of convenience. Of duty." His jaw tightened. "She will have my name, my protection, but not my heart. That has never been mine to give."
A carriage rattled past outside. The cheerful clatter of hooves was at odds with the weight in the room.
James pushed off the desk. His boots were silent on the thick carpet. "And what of me?" His voice was dangerously soft. "Am I to wait in the shadows while you play the doting husband? Smile politely when she carries your child?"
Harold closed the distance between them in two strides. He caught James's wrist. The warmth of his grip was at odds with the chill in his words. "You know damn well there will be no pretense of affection. I will do what is required. Nothing more." His thumb traced the delicate bones beneath James's skin. "But you… you are the only one who has ever had me. Entirely."
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Its brass tones cut through the silence.
James looked away. His throat worked. "I wish we lived in a world where this wasn't something to be whispered about. Where I could stand beside you without shame."
Harold's expression darkened. "If I could, I would tear down every law, every expectation that keeps us like this." He lifted James's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. "But for now, this is all I can give you."
James curled his fingers around Harold's. "Then I'll take it," he murmured. "For as long as I can."
Harold could not hold it in anymore. His lips lowered desperately, seeking James's as if trying to bridge the chasm between them. His tongue intertwined with James's, a desperate dance that sought solace, forgiveness, and something more. Quick gasps, like murmured prayers, escaped between them. Their breaths mingled in the charged air.
Harold pushed James urgently against the desk. His hands slammed down on either side, trapping him in a cage of longing and restraint. His lips never left James's, as if afraid letting go would mean losing him entirely.
James's hands trembled as they traveled to Harold's coat. Fingers fumbling with the buttons, desperate to feel skin beneath the layers of propriety.
But Harold caught his wrists gently. He pulled back just enough to speak.
"Not now," Harold breathed, his voice ragged with regret. "I have to go."
James froze. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes searched Harold's face for answers.
Harold leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. A tender gesture that felt more like an apology than a promise.
"I will attend to you later," Harold murmured. His voice was low and heavy with unspoken words.
He stepped back. The space between them grew colder with his absence. James stood there, his hands still hovering in the air where Harold had been. The echo of his touch lingered like a ghost.
Harold turned and strode toward the door. His polished boots clicked against the wooden floor. Each step was a reminder of the distance being forced between them.
---
To be continued...