“Where is Lucy, Magnus?” he demanded, his voice stripped of all its ducal layers. “Do you know? I think you do. I am not quite sure where exactly she is. Did she truly return to her Aunt’s estate? Did she go to London to meet with her cousin? Did she go to Hemroad estate, her family house? Or is she here? This seems like the most viable option given that she does not like her family house very much, and the carriage returned quite early. If it had taken her to the Mullens estate, it would have taken longer to return.”
Magnus scoffed. “You deducted all of that by yourself?”
“Is she here, Magnus?” Rowan asked again. “It is important that I speak to her. I know the Duchess might want to shield her from me because of how Lucy and I left things, but you can tell me. You are my friend, are you not?”
“I am. She is not here,” Magnus said plainly.
Magnus didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, infuriatingly knowing smile spread across his face. He took a deliberate sip of his tea, his eyes twinkling with the malicious glee of a man who had finally solved a very complex puzzle.
“Ah,” Magnus murmured. “So the lion finally admits he’s missing his thorn. I was wondering how long it would take for you to stop talking about the road conditions and her safety.”
Rowan’s hands balled into fists at his sides. The urge to punch the smirk right off his friend’s smug face was nearly overwhelming. “Magnus, I swear by every title I hold?—”
“Now, now, Rowan, there’s no need for threats,” Magnus interrupted, tilting his head toward the door as a knock came, and it silently swung open. “I might not have the exact coordinates of her current location, but I suspect you could ask her mother. She’s far more likely to have the latest itinerary.”
Rowan froze. The air in his lungs seemed to solidify as he sensed a presence behind him. He turned slowly, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that no battlefield had ever managed to provoke.
Standing just a few feet away, regal and impeccably dressed despite the early hour, was Marianne Crampton. She had entered the room, and she was now standing right next to them, her gaze flicking between Magnus’ amused face and Rowan’s disheveled, haunted expression.
Rowan felt the sudden, frantic urge to check his cravat, but his hands felt like lead. For a man who regularly advised the House of Lords, he found himself utterly speechless.
“Your Grace,” Marianne said to Magnus, her voice cool but surprisingly lacking the sharp edge Lucy had described. She inclined her head just a fraction. “I did not know you had company. I had come to let you know that your duchess awaits you in the nursery.”
“Thank you, Marianne.” Magnus’ grin widened. He stood, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Your Grace, may I formally introduce Lady Marianne Crampton, Viscountess of Hemroad. Marianne, this is the Duke of Langridge. His Grace, Rowan Clawridge.”
The shift was instantaneous. The moment the name left Magnus’ lips, the curious softness in Marianne’s expression vanished, replaced by a cold, glittering frost. Her spine stiffened until she seemed to tower over the room.
“The Duke of Langridge?” she repeated. She didn’t curtsy. Instead, she took a step toward him. “How charming. I suppose you do have time to frolic and pay visits to friends. Have you perhaps simply run out of women to insult in London?”
Rowan blinked, taken aback by the sudden vitriol. “I beg your pardon, Madam?”
“Oh, don’t play the confused gentleman with me,” Marianne snapped, her voice rising in volume. Magnus winced, looking toward the hallway as if expecting the entire household to come running. “You are quite bold, aren’t you? To show up at this house, under my niece’s roof, after the way you discarded my daughter like a piece of unwanted furniture. Do you have any idea the state she was in when she arrived? Do you even care? Of course you don’t. The rumors about you must be true. How sick you must be to treat people like that.”
Rowan’s confusion flared into a defensive heat. He was unaccustomed to being spoken to with such blatant disregard for his rank. He drew himself up to his full, intimidating height, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble.
“I suggest you watch how you speak to me, Lady Crampton,” Rowan warned. “You do not know the details of our agreement, nor do you know the reasons behind?—”
“I know enough!” Marianne interrupted, waving a hand dismissively as she took another step into his personal space. “I know my daughter. I know how stubborn she can be, and I know the walls she puts up around herself. But if you happen to break one of those walls, the least you can do is take responsibility for it! A woman who has spent her life being too strong for her own good arrived at my door in pieces because of you. You broke an agreement? No, Your Grace. You broke a woman’s spirit becauseyou were too much of a coward to see what was standing right in front of you.”
“Lady Crampton!” Rowan roared. “Enough.”
The library walls seemed to vibrate with the force of his voice. He took a step toward her, his eyes blazing with a desperate, frantic light. “You speak of her as if I am her enemy. You speak of her as if I enjoyed every second of that carriage pulling away from my gates. Do you truly think I am made of stone?”
“I think you are made of pride,” Marianne shot back, though her voice wavered under the sheer intensity of his gaze. “While you sit here nursing that pride, my daughter is back at our estate, unable to eat, unable to sleep, and crying until she has no more tears left because she is utterly heartbroken. She thinks she wasn’t enough for you.”
Rowan froze. Her words hit him with more force than any insult she had hurled. He had imagined Lucy stoic, perhaps a bit wistful, but ultimately relieved to be back to her books and her business. The image of her, the vibrant, sharp, indomitable Lucy Crampton, sobbing in a dark room because of him, shattered the last of his composure.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Who is crying? Who is heartbroken?”
“Who else!” Marianne shot back. “You broke my child, even more than I had done in the past twenty-five years of her life.”
His fury shifted, turning cold and sharp. He stepped into Marianne’s space, his stature looming over her until she actually took a half-step back, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face.
“Is she there now?” he asked, his voice low. “Is she at the Hemroad estate?”
Marianne swallowed hard, her bravado momentarily failing her in the face of a duke who looked ready to burn the world down to get an answer from her. “She is. She refused to come today. She... she is in her room.”
Rowan didn’t say another word. He didn’t offer a polite farewell, and he didn’t look at Magnus. He turned on his heel and bolted from the room, his heavy riding boots thundering against the polished floors of the hallway.
