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“Er, my lord, I do not believe -,” a quiet girl Rosamund could guess was the daughter of the curate tried to say something.

“I agree with you, Lord Jarvis,” an older lord replied. “Why can we not dismantle a few of the buildings and replace them with more modern designs?”

“My lord, there is no need -”

Again, the girl was ignored. Lord Jarvis replied, “I am glad that you agree with me, Lord Hutton. What do you think, Your Grace? Westbourne and Ashbourne are both located within this neighborhood. You have more stakes than anyone of us here.”

“Then, I believe you must listen to Miss Anna Lionel’s thoughts. She had been trying to tell you something for the longest while and the two of you were only listening to each other,” the Duke said.

The girl, who was perhaps a year younger than Rosamund gave him an adoring look. She then proceeded to talk about how she believed the village should keep several of its architecture to maintain its personality.

The Duke kept the wine flowing and steered the conversation away from political debates whenever possible. Rosamund watched as he skilfully interacted with people of various personalities and backgrounds. He was never cruel or condescending, even when some of his guests seemed to be determined to be. She could tell that people did not merely fear him; they respected him.

Admiration and resentment mingled in her chest. It was an uncomfortable feeling, making her chest tight. It would have been easier if he had shown some undeniably terrible quality of character. How was she to maintain a feud of a man when her former neighbors supported him?

“I must say, Your Grace,” a voice purred from somewhere close to the Duke. “Ashbourne is beautiful during the autumn. Still, I miss the midnight hunts at Westbourne Hall. Your other home certainly has that rowdy charm that suits you.”

Rowdy charm?

Rosamund could not help but assess the speaker. Mrs. Helene Trevor was an exceptionally beautiful widow, who was not even thirty. She wore a crimson gown with a cut that dipped low over her pale shoulders. Her green eyes were almost catlike and glittered with flirtation. This was a woman who was not afraid to be rejected by the Duke, perhaps because he had never rejected her. She watched him through her lashes, and he looked back at her, too.

“My conservatory still exists,” he replied. “However, my prize orchids are still suffering from your decision to venture into that route, Madame.”

Mrs. Trevor let out a throaty laugh. The woman was certainly born to engage men in such an open display of flirtation. She let her fan flutter against her chest, not so much to cover it as to draw attention to it.

“Do remember that you suggested the route, Your Grace! You said that it was the most private among your garden paths,” she reminded him shamelessly.

There were a few polite chuckles from across the table. Lord Halstead shook his head while wearing a smirk on his face. It was clear that nobody was surprised or shocked by Mrs. Trevor’s statement.

Rosamund almost thought she must have heard everything wrong. It felt like a cold bucket of water had been dumped over her head. She understood the implication of what Mrs. Trevor said. It seemed that the Duke’s reputation was not merely gossip; he was a rake in reality. This was a man who did not only complement debutantes in the open but also met with widows in dark paths all alone.

She hated realizing that the Duke’s rakish ways were not merely performative. It was his personality. Something twisted in her stomach at the thought of him making other women smile and having secrets with these women. For the rest of the meal, she stopped observing the Duke and his interactions. She stubbornly focused on her plate, with her jaw clenched and the ice inside of her spreading swiftly and quietly.

Fifteen

“There it is,” Rosamund said with a sigh, as relief coursed through her.

She had excused herself from the dining hall to get a breath of fresh air, and she was not even lying. She needed to leave the stifling heat and loud chatter. In the conservatory, she inhaled jasmine, orange blossoms, roses, and more. As a child, it had been her refuge, and it still smelled the same. How much care had the Duke taken, to keep the conservatory healthy and growing?

She stood near the central fountain, her back to the entrance as she watched the moon through the glass walls. Her dreams fell around her, some of them crashing completely and some still floating with uncertainty.

Just when her mind was about to drift to a place further back in memory, she heard heavy footsteps approaching. She almost groaned aloud. She needed more time alone.

“Everyone is in the drawing room now,” the Duke announced softly. “But it can be unbearable, I know. I only invited a few chosen people.”

Rosamund knew he was trying to imply that he had carefully selected only a few people for her comfort. Yet, the implication that Mrs. Trevor and a few other ladies from the guest list were important to him was also present.

“The drawing room is not a problem, Your Grace,” she said, suspecting she just told a lie. “I only needed some fresh air.”

The Duke went into the conservatory, walking closer to her. Even if she did not turn, she would still see how close he was. His shadow fell over her, and it grew bigger, covering more of her as he approached. He extended his arm, casually resting a hand against the stone pillar close to her head.

“What have I done now, Lady Rosamund?” he asked, his tone between a jest and true curiosity.

“You have done nothing, Your Grace,” she said, her body turning rigid. She was aware of how close he had gotten, only a few inches behind her.

“I can see that it is false,” the Duke murmured, leaning closer so that she could feel his hot breath. “Your expression usually announces my crimes before you do, but tonight, I feel myself thoroughly uninformed. Was the meal not to your liking? Was there a need for a seating plan? I saw you were sitting between the vicar and Grenville.”

Rosamund turned around slowly, her hazel eyes flashing, as she said, “You need not account for your ladies to me, Your Grace.”