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Rowan froze, then resumed buffing with enough vigor to strip the leather right off Gabriel’s pumps.
“Nothing to say about this young lady, Rowan?” Perhaps a little nudge was in order. “You haven’t been yourself this past week. I thought she might have something to do with it.”
Rowan hesitated, then set his brush aside with a sigh. “Beatrice Featherstone.”
“Lady Featherstone’s daughter?” Now that was a surprise.
He’d overheard two of his servants whispering about the Feather stones the other day, and they hadn’t had anything complimentary to say about Phillippa Featherstone. The word ‘harridan’ had come up more than once.
“Her younger daughter, yes. But Beatrice is nothing at all like her mother and elder sister.” Rowan was too much of a gentleman to elaborate on that point, but his shudder gave him away. “She’s clever, and funny and … well, a bit odd, really, but charming in her own way.”
Was Rowan … glowing? By God, he was. As soon as he said the lady’s name, his face lit up like a sky filled with stars. “My God, man. You’re in love with Beatrice Featherstone, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter if I am or not, Your Grace.”
“For God’s sake, Rowan, of course it does! Love matters more than anything.”
“I don’t disagree, Your Grace, but there is no possible chance of a future between myself and Miss Beatrice.” Rowan shrugged, but his voice wasn’t quite steady when he said, “She thinks I’m the Duke of Hawthorne.”
There was no accusation in Rowan’s voice, no blame, but his words cut through Gabriel as surely as if Rowan had plunged a dagger into his heart.
Why had it never occurred to him that Rowan might fall in love?
Because he’d only been thinking of himself, of course. He’d behaved abominably. “I’ve made liars of us both, haven’t I, Rowan?”
“You never intended to hurt anyone, Your Grace. You couldn’t have known how it would turn out.”
“Always unfailingly loyal, Rowan.”
He hadn’t known, no, but that didn’t change the facts.
This entire debacle was his fault. The lies, the schemes, the counter feit duke. All of it. Now Rowan’s heart was broken, and likely Beatrice Featherstone’s, too, all because of his selfishness and cowardice.
And what of Stella’s heart? Her lovely, warm, open, trusting heart?
He’d known who she was the first day she came to Hawthorne Castle. The beekeeping veil she’d made for him had been a gesture of pure kindness, and she’d made it for Mr. Ambrose, the duke’s lowly gardener, and not for the Duke of Hawthorne.
Everyone was kind to a duke, after all.
He couldn’t give her up. He wouldn’t. She was holding his heart right in the center of her dainty pink palm.
He had to fix this. For Stella, and Rowan, and yes, even for Beatrice Featherstone.
For himself, too. He was the Duke of Hawthorne, and it was time he started behaving like it. Nothing would ever be good or happy or true again until he did.
“Don’t despair yet, Rowan.” He leapt to his feet. “I’ve made a terrible mess of this, but I’m going to put it right again. I promise it.”
Rowan blanched. “How, Your Grace?”
“I will pretend I didn’t notice that wince, Rowan. Never mind the details. All I ask is that you appear at the ball tonight as the Duke of Hawthorne, and I will take care of the rest. Do you have one final performance in you?”
“I daresay I can manage it, Your Grace.”
“Good man. I have a few things to do this afternoon, but I’ll be back here in time to prepare for the ball.”
“You plan to attend the ball tonight as well, Your Grace?”
“Of course, Rowan. Have you forgotten I’m meant to announce my duchess’s name tonight? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
