“Rarely,” Frederick corrected.
“Never,” Rowan said.
Frederick leaned closer to Aaron. “This is why your father is a duke and I am invited to fewer respectable dinners.”
Aaron laughed so suddenly that Rowan felt it strike him clean through. Emmeline’s hand brushed his for a moment, only enough for him to know she had felt the same thing.
The next event should have been tedious.
Lady Haversham’s musical evening was the kind of gathering Rowan endured rather than willingly attended: too many candles, too much conversation disguised as culture, and a soprano determined to murder an Italian aria with dignity.
He stood beside Emmeline near the long windows, one hand behind his back, listening to a man with silver whiskers explain at length why London standards had declined since the last king.
Then he heard Lady Amanda.
“Of course, one admires any woman willing to accept such a position,” she said, not loudly, but with perfect placement. “A second wife must possess unusual tolerance. Particularly when the first left such… echoes.”
Emmeline stood three steps away, speaking with Margaret, but Rowan saw the words reach her. Her expression did not change and that was how he knew they had cut.
Amanda’s companion murmured something Rowan did not catch. Amanda gave a light laugh. “But she is very composed, is she not? One must give her that. Composure is useful when affection is scarce.”
Rowan moved before he considered it.
“Lady Amanda.”
She turned, and the color left her face so quickly it pleased him more than it should have. “Your Grace.”
The nearby conversation thinned.
Rowan stopped before her, calm enough that even the fools around them understood calm was the dangerous part. “You seem very occupied with my marriage.”
Amanda’s fan fluttered once. “Not at all. I was only speaking generally.”
“No,” Rowan said. “You were speaking carelessly.”
Her mouth opened.
He continued before she could decide whether denial would serve her. “You will not speak of my wife again. Not generally. Not privately. Not behind a fan, in a corner, to other women.”
Someone behind him inhaled sharply.
Amanda’s face flushed. “Your Grace, I meant no offense.”
“Then you must cultivate the discipline to match your intentions.”
Her eyes flashed, humiliated and furious.
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice enough to make the next words hers alone and therefore worse. “If your disappointment over my marriage has made you careless, learn dignity quickly. I will not warn you a third time.”
When he turned, Emmeline was watching him.
The room was watching too, of course, but he did not care. Let them. London liked a spectacle until it remembered consequences. By morning, the story would spread, and by supper the lesson would be understood: the Duchess of Ironford was not a woman to be tested for sport.
He returned to Emmeline’s side.
Her fingers curled once against her fan. “You should not have done that so publicly.”
“Yes,” he said. “I should have.”
