“I am not,” she shot back, voice firm despite the fluttering nerves. “I have the letter!” She began rifling through her reticule on the floor, knocking aside gloves and handkerchiefs, desperate to prove her point.
Rowan groaned, the sound low and frustrated, and he rose to his full height. The chair scraped sharply behind him. “Enough!” His voice carried over hers, stern. “I am done with this. You are in the wrong house. A matchmaker? How could you not ascertain the proper estate? You are not even equipped for this task.”
Lucy’s fingers fumbled over her bag, finally finding the folded letter. She rose slightly from her seat, keeping her tone measured and respectful, though her cheeks were aflame. “Your Grace,” she said carefully, holding it out, “I am not mistaken. This is why I am here.”
Rowan paused mid-step, regarding her with a gaze that was equal parts disbelief and frustration. His jaw tightened, though he said nothing, allowing her the dignity of her protest, however futile it might appear.
Lucy’s hand trembled slightly, but she held the letter aloft, the paper crisp between her fingers. Rowan walked over to her side of the table, and Lucy instinctively stood up. He reached out, and before Lucy could pull back, his fingers closed around the letter.He stood in front of her, his presence commanding, impossible to ignore.
He unfolded the letter slowly, scanning its contents. Lucy watched every flicker of expression. His narrowed eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. There was a subtle shift, a softening beneath the usual steel, as though a puzzle piece had finally revealed its shape.
Then, just for a heartbeat, she saw it. The realization. But it was not the kind of realization she was expecting. No... she could tell then that he did not write the letter. It seemed as though he was regarding the paper for the first time. Someone had orchestrated this, and he seemed to know precisely who. Her stomach tightened as her pulse quickened, and she found herself staring at him, not wanting to look away but unsure if she should.
No wonder something felt off about the letter when she had received it that day in Selina’s study.
He returned the letter to her and took in a sharp breath. “Miss Crampton, like I said, I did not send this letter. You have come for nothing. Perhaps… you would do best to leave.”
Lucy’s chest rose and fell quickly as he turned to leave. Instinctively, she walked right into his path, abruptly halting him mid-step. For a second, he faltered, almost bumping into her.
She reached out and steadied him, her hand brushing his arm in a fleeting, charged touch. The warmth of his skin, the strength beneath his tailored sleeve, made her pulse stutter.
“You… cannot leave,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. “Not yet. You must hear me.”
Rowan’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered down to her hand on his arm then back to her face. A faint exhale escaped him, almost imperceptible, and the tension shifted. He remained still, commanding as ever, but the sharp edge of certainty had softened.
Lucy held her ground, every ounce of resolve tethered to the letter still clenched in her other hand. She could feel him studying her, analyzing, weighing, but she did not retreat.
“If you did not send the letter, then who did?” she questioned. “It bears your seal.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “It does,” he admitted. “But I did not send it.”
Lucy blinked, confusion flickering across her features. “Then who did?”
“My son,” he said outrightly. “My eldest.”
Her breath caught. “Your son sent the letter?”
He inclined his head, expression taut with controlled irritation. “He apparently believes his father requires someone. He is wrong. It was a mistake. I do not require a wife, Miss Crampton. I have my children, my estate, my responsibilities. I have no need of a matchmaker nor of the fuss this letter has wrought.”
Her fingers tightened around the crisp paper. “Then… I have come all this way for nothing?”
Rowan’s expression darkened with exasperation. He stepped back, brushing past her as if to leave, his coat brushing hers, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine. “You have, indeed. You are best advised to return to your aunt, Miss Crampton. This matter is concluded.”
The study door clicked softly behind him, and Lucy remained frozen for a heartbeat, the echo of his departing steps lingering like a ghost in the room. She pressed her palms to the desk, her fingers brushing over the polished surface, grounding herself. The reality of the moment pressed down... the humiliation, the frustration, the sting of futility.
She drew in a shuddering breath and straightened, but the strength was hollow. Her gaze swept the room, the bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, the fine tapestries, the vast windows letting in the fading light... but nothing could fill the sudden emptiness gnawing at her chest.
Her mind spun, replaying every word. This was her one chance, her only chance to prove myself. Now, it seemed, she had failed before she had even begun. Her aunt’s trust, her training, heropportunity to step into a life she had long dreamed of, all of it felt as though it had slipped through her fingers.
Lucy sank into the nearest chair, letting the letter rest in her lap, her gaze distant. “I came all this way for nothing,” she whispered, almost to herself, the words heavy on her tongue. “Perhaps I am not meant to do this at all.”
A soft sigh escaped her lips. For the first time since leaving her aunt’s estate, she felt the uncertainty settle in her bones, the bitter taste of a mistake she could not yet correct.
“Wait! Wait! Wait! Stop the carriage!” a voice came from outside the moving carriage.
Lucy blinked, the words slicing through her fog of disappointment and reflection. She pressed her hands to the windowpane, startled by the abrupt interruption. The carriage jolted to a halt, and the horses shifted nervously beneath the sudden command.
Before she could fully process what was happening, the door creaked open. Standing there was a small figure, no more than twelve years old, his dark coat slightly rumpled, hair tumbling into a shock of curls that framed a face far too serious for his years.
