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“ A nother brandy, Your Grace?” Felix’s butler asked, holding the crystal decanter aloft.

“Yes.” Rowan sat rigidly in the leather armchair, his fingers white against the polished wood of the armrests. “Leave the decanter.”

The butler poured two generous measures, bowed, and departed, closing the study door with practiced discretion.

Silence fell between the two men, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional pop from the fireplace.

“I need details, Rowan,” Felix said, leaning forward intently. “If I’m to help investigate your abduction, I must know everything. Names, places, anything that might lead us to whoever orchestrated this.”

Rowan took a long swallow of brandy, letting it burn a path down his throat. Even now, weeks after his return, speaking of his time aboard the Intrepid filled him with a burning mixture of rage and shame.

“The naval officer who took me called himself Lieutenant Morris,” he began, his voice tight with controlled emotion. “Though I doubt that was his real name. Three men in total—Morris and two larger men who did the physical work.”

“Would you recognize them again?” Felix’s usual playfulness had vanished, replaced by sharp focus.

“Morris, certainly. The others wore scarves over their faces.” Rowan’s jaw clenched. “They were professionals. Quick, efficient. They knew exactly when to find me alone.”

“Which suggests inside information,” Felix noted. “Someone familiar with your household routines.”

“Precisely.” Rowan paced to the window, too restless to remain seated. “The ship, the Intrepid, was a third-rate, seventy-four guns. Captain named Richards—cold, efficient, uninterested in my claims.”

“Did he seem to know who you truly were?”

“The first mate recognized me, I’m certain. But he denied everything, said I was a common drunkard trying to escape service.” Rowan’s hand tightened around his glass. “They stripped me of my clothes, even cut my hair. Assigned me to the gundeck crew under a bosun with a fondness for the lash.”

Felix’s expression darkened. “Names of officers? Anyone who might have been bribed?”

“Lieutenant William Scott, first mate. Bosun named Harris. Quarter Master Douglas.” Rowan recited the names with cold precision. “The ship’s surgeon, Pennington, treated me after my first flogging. He knew I was no common sailor—commented on my hands, my diction.”

“Flogging?” Felix frowned, his eyes filling with sadness. “You were flogged?”

Rowan’s jaw tensed. He hated the tone, hated the look in his friend’s eyes.

Pity. No, he would never have pity.

“Lieutenant William Scott, first mate. Bosun named Harris. Quarter Master Douglas. Pennington, the ship’s surgeon.” Rowan repeated the names. “Write these down, Felix.”

“But—”

“ Felix .”

His friend’s brows furrowed deeper, but he knew better than to push him. So, Felix nodded and took out a pen and a small notebook from his coat.

“All right,” Felix murmured, jotting down the names Rowan gave him. “These men can be traced, interviewed. The Admiralty keeps records of all officers’ assignments.”

“They’ll deny everything,” Rowan warned. “If they were paid once, they can be paid again for silence.”

“Everyone has a price,” Felix agreed. “But also a breaking point.” His smile held no warmth. “Leave that to me.”

Rowan studied his friend with new appreciation. Behind Felix’s facade of frivolity lay a sharp mind and, apparently, a willingness to employ methods Rowan hadn’t suspected him capable of.

“What of your escape? Details there might prove useful as well.”

“Gibraltar, after an engagement with French privateers off Cadiz.” Rowan’s expression hardened at the memory. “Shore leave for repairs. They sent guards with the shore parties, but one took a bribe to look the other way. Four of us slipped away.”

“Names of your fellow escapees?”

“Thomas Jenkins, William Porter, and a Scotsman called McGregor. They didn’t make it.” Rowan’s voice turned grim. “I heard the shots as I swam for the merchant vessels in the harbor.”

“Christ.” Felix’s face paled slightly. “And this merchant vessel?”

“The Morning Star. Captain Jacob Barnes. Bound for Bristol with a cargo of wine and olives.” Rowan drained his glass. “He asked no questions, needed an extra hand.”

Felix added these names to his list. “This helps immensely. Each name is a thread we can pull. Each thread might lead us to whoever set this in motion. You should have come to me immediately,” Felix said, a hint of hurt in his voice.

“I needed time,” Rowan replied. “To recover. To plan.”

“To isolate yourself, you mean.” Felix’s tone grew pointed. “We’ve known each other since we were boys, Rowan. Did you think I wouldn’t help?”

“This wasn’t schoolyard fisticuffs or university scrapes,” Rowan snapped. “This was calculated. Professional. Whoever did this wouldn’t hesitate to target anyone helping me.”

Felix stared at him for a long moment. “Remember that summer at Eton? When Preston and his gang cornered me behind the stables?”

Rowan frowned at the sudden change of subject. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You didn’t hesitate then,” Felix continued. “Four of them, one of you, and you waded right in. Bloody nose, black eye, and a week of detention for your trouble.”

“We were children.”

“And you said something I never forgot.” Felix met his gaze steadily. “You said, ‘That’s what friends do. They fight for each other, even when the odds are poor.’”

The memory surfaced unexpectedly—Felix, skinny and bookish at thirteen, backed against the stable wall by older boys; the blind rage Rowan had felt seeing his friend threatened; the satisfaction of Preston’s shocked face when Rowan’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Different circumstances,” Rowan muttered.

“Same principle.” Felix refilled their glasses. “You never let me face troubles alone. Why should I do any less for you?”

Rowan had no answer for that. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with shared history.

“Do you remember the hunting trip to Scotland?” Felix asked suddenly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Your father’s idea of making a man of you.”

“God, that was miserable.” Rowan almost smiled at the memory. “Three weeks in constant rain, tracking nonexistent deer.”

“While your father drank himself insensible every night in that drafty lodge,” Felix added. “And you still brought down that stag on the last day.”

“Pure luck.”

“Skill,” Felix countered. “And determination. The same qualities that kept you alive this past year.” He raised his glass. “To survival.”

Rowan hesitated, then lifted his own glass. “To survival.”

“Remember that night at Cambridge?” Felix asked, settling deeper into his chair. “When we liberated the Dean’s prized rosebushes?”

A reluctant laugh escaped Rowan. “And replanted them in the chapel courtyard.”

“The poor man never did figure out how we managed it.” Felix’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Though I maintain it was an improvement. The chapel garden was dreadfully dull.”

“We were fortunate not to be expelled.”

“Fortunate?” Felix scoffed. “It was your silver tongue that saved us. ‘A horticultural relocation in service of aesthetic enhancement,’ I believe you called it.”

The memories flowed between them, youthful escapades, shared triumphs, occasional disasters. With each reminiscence, Rowan felt something tight within him loosen slightly.

For a brief time, he was not the haunted duke or the vengeful victim, but simply Rowan, Felix’s oldest friend.

When they finally parted, the afternoon sun was lowering toward the western rooftops. Rowan declined Felix’s offer of his carriage, preferring to walk and clear his head before returning home.

Home. The word carried new weight now. Not just a house that belonged to him, but a place where Selina waited. A woman who had become more than just a convenient solution to his need for an heir.

The memory of her face on the opera balcony haunted him—her shock at his kiss, followed by an unmistakable response. She had wanted him, at least in that moment.

And God help him, he wanted her with an intensity that frightened him.

But wanting was not enough. Not when nightmares still jerked him awake in cold sweats. Not when the sound of a slamming door could send him back to the gun deck of the Intrepid. Not when he had enemies who might use her to hurt him.

Better to keep his distance until this was finished. Until he found those responsible and ensured they could never harm him, or Selina, again.

The decision made, Rowan quickened his pace toward the townhouse, pushing thoughts of Selina’s kiss firmly from his mind. There would be time for such considerations later, once justice had been served.

If only his treacherous heart would agree.

“Where is His Grace?” Selina asked, though she suspected the answer.

The dinner hour arrived with its usual formality. Selina had entered the dining room precisely at eight, expecting to find Rowan already seated at the head of the table. Instead, only Simmons stood waiting, his impassive face giving nothing away.

“His Grace sends his apologies, Your Grace. He will be dining at the Marquess of Halston’s residence this evening.”

Disappointment pinched unexpectedly. After their charged encounter at the opera, she had hoped for some resolution, some acknowledgment of what had transpired between them.

“I see.” Selina took her seat at the empty table. “Thank you, Simmons.”

The butler supervised as footmen served the first course, a delicate soup that Selina barely tasted.

The room felt cavernous with just one person, the empty chair at the opposite end a silent reminder of her husband’s absence.

Why should she care where he dined? Their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more. He had made that abundantly clear. Yet the memory of his kiss suggested otherwise, as did the flash of emotion she occasionally glimpsed in his eyes before his guard slammed back into place.

Selina set down her spoon, appetite gone. “Please inform Cook that the meal is excellent, but I find I’m not hungry tonight. I’ll take tea in the drawing room instead.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Alone in the drawing room with her tea, Selina tried to focus on a novel, but the words blurred before her eyes. She found herself listening for the front door, for Rowan’s footsteps in the hall.

This was becoming a pattern, she realized. Waiting for a man who maintained his distance. Hoping for warmth from someone who had walled himself off from true connection.

The thought filled her with sudden determination.

She would not spend her life this way, forever yearning for crumbs of affection.

If Rowan wished for a marriage in name only, she would accept those terms with dignity.

She would build a life of her own within the constraints of her position.

Focus on charitable work. Cultivate friendships.

Find purpose beyond waiting for her husband’s rare moments of humanity.

Setting aside her book, Selina crossed to the writing desk.

She pulled out a sheet of paper and began a letter to Isabella, describing her visit to the shops and the gifts she had purchased for little Lily.

She mentioned nothing of the strain with Rowan, of the kiss at the opera, of the loneliness that sometimes threatened to engulf her.

Some burdens were her own to bear.

As the clock struck eleven with no sign of Rowan’s return, Selina retired to her chamber. Agnes helped her undress and brush out her hair, chatting about the day’s purchases.

“The little gown for Lady Bingham’s daughter was exquisite, Your Grace. You have excellent taste.”

“Thank you, Agnes.” Selina stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked the same as always—golden hair, hazel eyes, features that had been called pretty if not beautiful. Yet she felt changed, somehow. Hardened by disappointment, perhaps. Or simply growing accustomed to the reality of her situation.

After Agnes departed, Selina slipped beneath the covers of her bed. The sheets felt cool against her skin, the room quiet save for the occasional creak of the old house settling.

Tomorrow would be another day of polite distance, of carefully maintained barriers. Another day of wondering what secrets her husband kept, what demons drove him to keep her at arm’s length.

But tonight, just for a moment before sleep claimed her, Selina allowed herself to remember the feeling of Rowan’s lips on hers, his arms drawing her close.

Whatever his reasons for that kiss, whatever his reasons for pushing her away afterward, the connection had been real. Undeniable.

And in that small truth, she found enough comfort to finally drift into sleep.