“I knew it,” Magnus said, his voice faint but audible. “I knew the old fool was in love. I've never seen him run a day in his life.”
Rowan didn’t care. He didn’t wait for a servant to open the front doors; he shoved them aside himself, the cold morning air hitting his face like another wake-up call.
He swung himself into the saddle, his muscles screaming with exhaustion he no longer felt. He had six miles to cover, and if Lucy was crying, he intended to be the last person who ever gave her a reason to shed another tear.
EPILOGUE
“Iam quite all right, Mary,” Lucy said, though the words trembled as they left her mouth. “You don’t need to sit with me. Did Mama put you up to this?”
Mary did not believe her; she did not budge from her side either, even though Lucy insisted she was quite all right as she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief. She said it lightly, with a small, brave smile meant to convince, but the evidence betrayed her. Her lashes were damp, her breathing uneven, and Mary, sensible as she was, did not look persuaded in the least.
“You need not fuss,” Lucy said again, turning slightly away as she composed herself. “It is nothing more than fatigue. The week has been… long.”
Mary remained where she was, hands folded, eyes watchful. She had been with Lucy long enough to know the difference between tiredness and distress, and she was clearly unwilling to abandonher post. Lucy could feel the concern pressing in on her, well-meaning and yet suffocating, when the quiet of the room was broken entirely.
The door opened with far more force than courtesy allowed.
Rowan stepped inside as if patience were a luxury he no longer possessed, his expression taut, his coat still on as if he had not paused even long enough to consider propriety. Lucy’s eyes widened at the sight of him.
Behind him, the butler hovered in clear discomfort, one hand half raised in apology.
“Your Grace, I did say...” the man began, breathless. “... that you might wait in the drawing room while I sent for Miss?—”
“I know what you said,” Rowan replied without turning. His eyes were already on Lucy.
The butler fell silent, retreating a careful step as the tension in the room shifted. Lucy straightened instinctively, her hand lowering from her face, though the remnants of tears were impossible to hide.
Rowan noticed her at once. “I will speak with Lucy alone,” he said, his tone firm.
The maid hesitated, glancing at Lucy, clearly torn between obedience and loyalty. Lucy drew a steadying breath.
“It is all right,” she said softly. “You may both leave us.”
The maid lingered for a heartbeat longer, then inclined her head and slipped from the room, closing the door behind her with care. The silence that followed was heavy, charged, and very uncomfortable. Lucy stood very still, her hands clasped together, while Rowan remained near the door, his earlier urgency held in check by the stillness of the room.
Whatever composure she had managed to gather felt thin as glass. She did not need him to speak to know that this conversation had come whether she was ready for it or not.
“Your Grace, it is quite surprising and improper to see you like this,” she said, retreating. “What brings you to my home?”
Rowan didn’t wait for her to regain her composure. He took two long, predatory strides toward her, his presence filling the small room until the air felt thin. He looked at her tear-stained face, his own expression mixed with desperation and demand.
“Is it true?” he asked, his voice vibrating with a raw edge she had never heard. “Have you been crying, Lucy? Because of me?”
Lucy recoiled as if he’d struck her, her hand flying to her throat. “I don’t know where you heard that, Your Grace. I was merely overwhelmed by the transition. I am fine.”
“Do not use that voice with me,” Rowan snapped, stepping even closer until she was backed against the wall by the window.“I didn’t ride all this way to hear you play the professional. I want to know why you were crying. What were you upset about, Lucy?”
“Rowan, stop it,” she whispered, her eyes filling with fresh moisture.
“No,” he pressed, placing his hand on the wall near her head, pinning her in place. “Tell me. What are you upset about?”
As he leaned into her space, Lucy was blindsided by the scent of him. He smelled of cold rain, leather, and that distinct, masculine spice that belonged only to him. It was a scent that had become her anchor over the few days, the one she had tried to conjure from memory as she lay in the dark the night before.
For a terrifying, beautiful second, she wanted to stop fighting. She wanted to lean forward, bury her face in the damp wool of his coat, and let the feeling of him drown out the hollow ache in her chest. She wanted to breathe him in until the longing in her heart finally stilled.
But the habit of self-protection was too strong. She blinked back the fresh moisture in her eyes, trying to find the mask that had slipped.
“I am... I am just tired,” she gasped, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs she was certain he could hear it. “It has been an exhausting month.”
