The silence between them was no longer cold or empty. It was filled with the steady, matching thud of two hearts finally beating in time.
CHAPTER 19
“Ido not recall owning quite so much land.”
Alexander leaned back slightly in the chair behind the heavy walnut desk, one hand resting against the open ledger while the other pressed absently against his temple, hoping the simple act of staring at columns of figures might eventually coax his memory into returning.
The study smelled faintly of leather and ink, the tall windows letting in the pale afternoon light, casting long golden rectangles across the carpet and the scattered papers spread over his desk. Maps of the Rosewood estates lay open before him, inked boundaries tracing through counties he was supposed to know intimately.
The realization that he couldn’t remember carried the same sharp edge of panic it had in the beginning.
In the weeks since the accident, he had learned to compensate for the gaps in his mind with observation and patience, the same careful strategy that had carried him through the ball a few nights earlier. If a man listened long enough, watched closely enough, and asked the correct questions at the right moments, the world had a way of revealing itself without forcing him to admit what he lacked.
Still, the sheer size of the Rosewood estates was unsettling.
He had spent the better part of the morning studying ledgers and letters from stewards, trying to build a picture of responsibilities that apparently belonged to him whether he remembered them or not. Tenant rents. Crop rotations. Repairs to tenant cottages in Dorset. A dispute about drainage in the northern pasture.
It was an entire life written in ink. A life that belonged to him and yet felt curiously distant.
Alexander exhaled slowly and closed the ledger.
“You are a very fortunate fellow,” he muttered under his breath to the silent room. “Though I suspect the fortunate fellow in question might have appreciated leaving instructions.”
He had just reached for the next letter when a discreet knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened a moment later, and the butler stepped inside with his usual composed efficiency. “Your Grace.”
Alexander straightened slightly in his chair. “Yes?”
“There are visitors requesting to see you.”
Alexander’s brows drew together faintly. He had expected a quiet afternoon. “Visitors?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler hesitated just enough for Alexander to notice. “The Duchess’s aunt and uncle have arrived.”
Something in Alexander’s chest tightened.
He did not yet know the full details of Diana’s family history, but he knew enough to understand that the subject of her guardians had never been accompanied by warmth in her voice. The few times their names had arisen during the past weeks, she had spoken of them with polite distance rather than affection.
Still, politeness required a proper reception.
“I see.” Alexander pushed back his chair and rose from the desk. “Where are they?”
“In the front drawing room, Your Grace. The Duchess is with them.”
Alexander nodded once. “Very well.”
The butler inclined his head and withdrew.
Alexander crossed the room toward the door, adjusting the cuff of his shirt as he went. His mind had already begun assembling the polite mask that the Duke of Rosewood was expected to wear in such situations. Whatever Diana’s personal feelings toward these relations might be, the ton maintained very clear expectations about courtesy.
At least, that was the assumption he made as he stepped into the corridor and began making his way toward the staircase.
He had descended perhaps halfway when voices drifted upward from the lower hall.
Alexander slowed.
