“No, truly,” Lord Weston continued, clearly determined to ease the tension before it worsened. “There is a stretch near Hammersmith that is practically a trench. One wonders how any carriage arrives in town with all four wheels still attached.”
Rowan leaned back by a fraction, understanding the intervention for what it was.
He saw the moment Emmeline heard it too, saw the faint tightening of her mouth, the reluctant lowering of her lashes as she gathered her composure around herself again.
“Yes,” she said after a brief pause, her voice quieter now. “The roads were rather poor.”
Lord Weston exhaled as though he had been spared execution. “Precisely. Poor. Most poor.”
Rowan said nothing, but his gaze remained on Emmeline a moment longer.
She looked away first.
Dinner resumed, if such a strained continuation could be called resuming at all.
Aaron did not return.
A servant slipped in midway through the next course and bent to Rowan’s ear. “He is in the schoolroom, Your Grace. Miss Harrow is with him now.”
Rowan felt something release in his chest even as shame followed it. He gave a short nod and dismissed the man.
When the meal ended at last, Lord Weston thanked him with earnest courtesy, the kind that grows only from genuine dependence and discomfort. Emmeline rose beside her father, graceful as ever, though any softness she had shown Aaron was absent from the look she gave Rowan now.
“Thank you for the evening, Your Grace,” she said.
It was polite. It was also cool enough to let him know precisely what she thought of how it had gone.
“We shall announce the engagement at the next suitable event,” Rowan said. “I will bring you a ring then.”
She inclined her head. “Very good.”
Lord Weston was already turning toward the door when Emmeline paused and looked back once more.
“Please give Aaron my regards.”
There was no accusation in it, only honesty. That made it worse.
Rowan bowed. “I shall.”
Then she was gone.
Chapter Seven
“He is still not down?” Rowan did not look up from the breakfast table as he asked it, though the untouched cup of coffee at his right hand had long since gone tepid and the morning paper lay folded beside it, unread.
The silence pressed against his eardrums, reminding him of the empty chair at the end of the table.
The housekeeper stood near the sideboard, hands clasped neatly before her apron. “No, Your Grace. Miss Harrow says Master Aaron woke, but he has not yet left his room.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened.
He had scarcely slept. Each time he closed his eyes, the previous evening returned in sharp pieces. He had gone to the schoolroom later, of course. Aaron had already fallen asleep on the sofa there with Comet tucked beneath one arm, Miss Harrowseated nearby with a book left open in her lap. Rowan had stood in the doorway longer than he should have.
“Send some food up to him,” he said at last. “Bread, fruit, whatever he will take.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And if he does not eat, he is not to come downstairs.”
