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“ W ill you require anything else with your breakfast, Your Grace?” the footman asked, placing a steaming pot of tea beside Selina’s plate.

“No, thank you, James. This is fine.” Selina maintained a composed expression as she buttered a slice of toast, though her thoughts remained fixed on the previous night.

Last night’s kiss on the opera house balcony played through her mind like a scene from one of her beloved books.

The heat of Rowan’s mouth on hers. The strength of his arms drawing her close. The way her body had betrayed her, responding with an eagerness that mortified her now in the cold light of morning.

What a fool she had been. After he had abandoned her at the altar and forced her into marriage a year later, she had no business melting into his arms like a lovesick girl.

Idiot . She felt like a complete idiot, especially after the Duke had given her nothing but a curt “good night” at her chamber door before he disappeared into his own rooms.

Mrs. Wilson approached the table, a leather-bound ledger tucked under her arm. “Your Grace, I’ve prepared the household accounts for your review. And several invitations arrived yesterday requiring responses.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll attend to them this afternoon.” Selina forced herself to focus on the housekeeper’s words rather than the memory of her husband’s hands at her waist.

The door opened as Mrs. Wilson withdrew. Rowan entered, his face betraying none of the passion that had flared between them just hours ago.

“Good morning,” he said, taking his place at the opposite end of the table.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Selina matched his formality, determined not to reveal how his presence affected her.

Silence fell between them as Rowan filled his plate from the chafing dishes. The only sounds were the clink of silverware and the rustle of the newspaper as he unfolded it.

Selina sipped her tea, watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

Had she imagined the hunger in his kiss? The way his body had tensed when her hands touched his shoulders?

No, that had been real enough. But equally real was his current coldness, the careful distance he maintained as if nothing had happened between them.

“I have business in the city today,” Rowan said without looking up from his newspaper. “I expect to return late.”

“I see,” Selina set down her cup with deliberate care. “I’ll be visiting Lady Bingham this afternoon. She’s recently given birth to a daughter.”

Rowan acknowledged this with a brief nod before returning to his reading.

They finished breakfast without further conversation, the tension stretching between them like a taut wire. When Selina stood to leave, Rowan rose as well, his chair scraping against the floor.

They reached the door simultaneously, colliding in the narrow space. His hand shot out to steady her, fingers curling around her upper arm.

The contact sent warmth cascading through her body.

Their eyes met. For an instant, Selina thought she glimpsed something in his gaze, a flash of the same heat that had consumed them on the balcony. Then his expression shuttered once more, and he stepped back, gesturing for her to proceed.

“After you, Your Grace.”

Selina moved past him, the silk of her dress brushing against his legs.

She wouldn’t let herself be drawn in again. Whatever game Rowan was playing, she refused to be a pawn in it.

“I need to speak with whoever handled the investigation of the late Duke of Aldermere’s death,” Rowan told the clerk at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Office.

The young man looked up from his ledger, eyes widening with recognition. “Your Grace. Of course. That would be Mr. Grainger. He’s in his office now, if you’d care to follow me.”

Rowan followed the clerk down a narrow corridor lined with wooden doors. The building smelled of dust, ink, and sweat—the byproducts of London’s primitive attempts at justice.

The clerk knocked at the last door on the left, then opened it without waiting for a response. “Mr. Grainger, the Duke of Aldermere is here to see you.”

A stout man with graying whiskers rose from behind a paper-strewn desk. “Your Grace. This is unexpected.” He gestured to a wooden chair. “Please, sit. Jenkins, that will be all.”

When the clerk had gone, Grainger settled back into his seat. “What brings you to Bow Street, Your Grace? I haven’t seen you since your father’s unfortunate passing.”

“I want to review the details of my father’s death,” Rowan said, declining the offered chair. “There may be connections to other matters I am investigating.”

Grainger’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Your father’s case was straightforward enough. Gambling debts, bad crowd. Got himself cornered by some real unsavory men.” He pulled a leather folder from a stack on his desk. “I kept copies of the notes, given the prominence of the family.”

Rowan glanced at the folder. “Were the men who killed him ever identified?”

“Not the actual killers, no. But we found the man who gave the order.” Grainger tapped the folder. “Fellow named Silas Crowe. Debt collector with a nasty reputation. We located him about six months ago after you disappeared, Your Grace. He’s in Newgate now, awaiting transportation to Australia.”

Rowan’s interest sharpened. “Was Crowe ever involved with the Royal Navy?”

“The Navy?” Grainger looked puzzled. “No, certainly not. Crowe was strictly involved in moneylending and extortion. Kept to London’s underworld.” He leaned forward. “May I ask why you’re inquiring about naval connections, Your Grace?”

Rowan remained silent, his face revealing nothing.

Understanding dawned in Grainger’s eyes. “Your own disappearance last year and now you’re back, with that sea-weathered look about you.” He studied Rowan more closely, and a wave of shock drained the color from his face. “Were you press-ganged, Your Grace?”

The question hung in the air. Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“That’s a serious assumption, Mr. Grainger.”

“Your Grace…” Grainger’s voice lowered. “If someone had you forcibly enlisted, that’s a crime we can prosecute. Even if they had naval connections.”

“You misunderstand my interest,” Rowan said coldly. “I simply wished to verify the details about my father’s death.”

“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t think I misunderstand,” Grainger stood, his expression earnest. “If you were press-ganged, you should come forward. The Bow Street Runners can help bring whoever did this to justice.”

“You presume too much,” Rowan replied. “And I suggest you keep your ridiculous suspicions to yourself.”

Grainger’s face paled slightly. “I would never spread this, Your Grace. My sole interest is justice.”

“Then confine your justice to proven facts,” Rowan said. “And leave speculation to novelists.”

Grainger nodded stiffly. “As you wish. But should you reconsider, my door remains open.” He hesitated, then added, “You might look into your father’s rivals or other enemies. The late Duke was not universally beloved, if I may speak plainly.”

“Duly noted,” Rowan said, turning to leave. “Good day, Mr. Grainger.”

He strode from the office, his mind churning. Grainger had eliminated one possibility, the debt collector Crowe, but hinted at others.

His father’s enemies.

The blackmailer L.B. mentioned in the solicitor’s records.

The trail remained frustratingly obscure.

Lost in thought, Rowan nearly collided with a gentleman turning the corner onto the street.

“Well, well,” Felix drawled, smoothing his rumpled coat. “If it isn’t the Duke of Aldermere, emerging from the halls of justice.”

Rowan looked his friend up and down. Felix’s clothes were the same as the previous night, but significantly dirtier. His cravat hung loose around his neck, and a faint stubble darkened his jaw.

“What are you doing here?” Rowan asked.

Felix grinned, falling into step beside him. “I might ask you the same question. Bow Street at this hour? Most unusual for a duke.”

“My business is my own,” Rowan replied, increasing his pace.

Felix matched his pace effortlessly. “That wasn’t always the case, you know. There was a time when your business was mine. When friends actually spoke to each other.”

Rowan said nothing, his eyes sweeping the street for a hackney.

“Speaking of friends sharing secrets,” Felix added lightly. “Care to tell your oldest friend what about your balcony interlude with the Duchess?”

Rowan stopped walking. “If you value our friendship, you’ll never mention that again.”

“And there it is!” Felix threw up his hands. “The wall. The impenetrable fortress of the Duke of Aldermere. God forbid someone actually care about what’s happening in your life.”

“You don’t understand.”

“How could I? You tell me nothing!” Felix’s voice lost its teasing edge. “After all the years of our friendship, do I really deserve this silence? The man I knew would’ve trusted me—would’ve let me stand beside him, not shut me out like some stranger.”

“Some burdens can’t be shared.”

“Nonsense,” Felix blocked his path. “I am here whether you like it or not. And I swear, I’ll nag you like a fishwife on market day until you crack! And you know I mean that, Aldermere!”

Rowan groaned, knowing from experience that Felix could fully become the most irritating presence in London when he set his mind to it.

“Not here,” he said finally. “Somewhere private.”

Felix’s face brightened. “My townhouse is just around the corner.” He flagged down a passing hackney with an elegant wave. “And I have an excellent brandy that will loosen that stubborn tongue of yours.”

Felix’s townhouse reflected its owner’s personality, elegant but with unexpected touches of whimsy. A footman took their hats and coats, and Felix led the way to his study.

“Now,” he said, pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses, “tell me what’s troubling you. And don’t spare the details. I want to know everything.”

Rowan accepted the brandy but remained standing, too restless to sit.

The events of the past year pressed against him: the abduction, the months at sea, the hunt for whoever had arranged it all. And now Selina, complicating matters with her beauty and strength and the way her lips had yielded beneath his.

Felix waited, unusually patient. When Rowan finally spoke, the words felt torn from his throat.

“I was kidnapped on my wedding day. Press-ganged into the Royal Navy.”

Felix’s glass froze halfway to his lips. “Good God.”

The story poured out in brief, clipped sentences. Waking aboard the Intrepid with a false name. The year of brutal service near the Spanish coast. His eventual escape and return to England. The ongoing search for whoever orchestrated his abduction.

Felix listened without interruption, his expression growing darker with each revelation.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked when Rowan finished.

“I needed to understand what happened before involving others.”

“Others?” Felix shook his head. “I’m not ‘others,’ Rowan. I’m your oldest friend.”

“Which is precisely why I’m telling you now.” Rowan drained his glass. “I need your help.”

Felix set down his untouched brandy and stood. “You have it. Whatever you need.”

For the first time in months, Rowan felt the weight on his shoulders lighten fractionally. He wasn’t alone in this hunt anymore.

“Whoever did this, they had resources and connections,” he said. “They knew my movements, had access to naval officers willing to commit crimes, and harbored enough hatred to destroy my life.”

“Or enough fear,” Felix suggested. “What do you know that someone might want to suppress?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing I’m aware of,” Rowan moved to the window, looking out at the London street. “But my father might have. His death, my abduction…they must be connected.”

“Then we’ll find the connection.” Felix’s voice was firm with conviction. “And when we do, they’ll answer for what they’ve done.”

Rowan turned from the window. “Thank you.”

Felix smiled, though his eyes remained serious. “That’s what friends are for.” He lifted his glass. “Now, while we’re being honest with each other, perhaps you’d care to tell me what’s happening between you and your duchess?”

Rowan’s expression closed. “Nothing is happening.”

“Nothing? Then you should’ve seen me last night. A few sessions of ‘nothing’ with Lady Umberton. She’s got a real talent for it.”

Rowan glared at the Marquess, his voice a low growl. “Keep talking like that, Felix, and I’ll knock that smirk off your face. You won’t be able to speak for a week.”

Felix chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Oh no, my face and my wit? Please, Rowan, I couldn’t possibly lose those. What would you do without my charm to brighten your miserable existence? And it’d disappoint half the widows in Mayfair, you know.”

Rowan groaned, “Are you done with your prattling?”

“Are you going to tell me anything about your kiss with your wife?”

“A momentary lapse in judgment,” Rowan said stiffly. “It won’t happen again.”

Felix studied him for a long moment. “You’re lying to yourself, my friend.”

Rowan didn’t argue. The complicated feelings Selina stirred in him—desire, protectiveness, guilt—would remain his secret for now.

Until he could make sense of them himself.