Page 33

“ Y ou’re staring,” Selina murmured, her eyes still closed as she burrowed deeper into the pillows.

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting the room in a golden haze. Rowan had been watching her for some time, taking in the way sleep had relaxed her features, how her hair spilled across the pillow, the curve of her bare shoulder where the sheet had slipped low.

“Can you blame me?” he said, tracing a slow line along her arm. “The view is rather captivating.”

Her lashes lifted, a hint of color blooming in her cheeks. For all they had shared during the night, this quiet, easy closeness felt new. Uncharted.

“What time is it?” she asked, though she didn’t move.

“Just past nine.” His fingers followed the slope of her collarbone, unhurried. “The staff will assume we’ve both taken ill.”

“Or they’ll come to a more obvious conclusion.” She caught his hand in hers and brought it to her lips, brushing a kiss against his palm.

The simple sweetness of it startled him. He hadn’t expected tenderness to undo him more than passion ever could.

A knock at the door interrupted whatever reply he might have made. Selina pulled the sheet higher as Rowan called for the visitor to enter.

Simmons appeared with a laden tray, his expression betraying nothing at finding the duchess in his master’s bed. “Your breakfast, Your Grace. Mrs. Wilson thought you might prefer to dine privately this morning.”

“Thank you, Simmons. That will be all.”

When the door closed behind the butler, Selina buried her face in the pillow with a groan. “The entire staff will know by luncheon.”

“They’re servants. Discretion is their profession.” Rowan lifted the tray’s cover, revealing an array of dishes far more elaborate than their usual breakfast fare. “Mrs. Wilson seems to approve, judging by this feast.”

Selina sat up, keeping the sheet modestly tucked around her. “I’ve never taken breakfast in bed before.”

“Never?” Rowan positioned the tray between them, pouring tea into delicate cups. “Not even during illness?”

“My first husband considered it slovenly.” She accepted the cup he offered. “And my father believed comfort bred weakness of character.”

Rowan’s expression darkened. “Your father sounds delightful.”

“He was… difficult.” Selina selected a slice of toast, and spread it with preserves. “But that’s a conversation for another time. What shall we do today?”

He studied her face, noting how quickly she had redirected from the mention of her father. There was a story there, one he intended to learn. But she was right—there would be time for such conversations later.

“I thought we might visit the Somerset House art gallery,” he said instead. “You mentioned wanting to see it in your letters.”

Surprise flickered across her features. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything you wrote. Everything you say,” Rowan said before he could stop himself. “Even if I haven’t always shown it.”

Her smile lit up her entire face. “Then I’d like that very much.”

They lingered over breakfast, speaking more easily than ever before. Bits of themselves surfaced through the conversation.

A shared love of Byron’s poetry. A mutual dislike of oysters. Childhood dreams of running off on grand adventures, far from society’s expectations.

When the last cup was empty, Selina stood, clearly reluctant. “I should go. Agnes will have imagined all sorts of disasters.”

“Let her,” Rowan said, watching as she gathered her things. “The exhibition will still be there if we show up at noon instead of eleven.”

At the doorway to her room, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, mischief dancing in her eyes. “If you keep looking at me like that, we may not arrive at all.”

The door closed behind her, leaving behind only the soft scent of lavender and a quiet that felt less like emptiness and more like wonder. For the first time in months, Rowan wasn’t thinking about Edward Bentern. He wasn’t thinking about the investigation or what waited for him beyond this house.

He was thinking about her .

Somerset House teemed with fashionable Londoners, all gathered to view the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition.

Selina walked beside Rowan, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, acutely aware of the curious glances that followed them. Their marriage had been the subject of whispered speculation since his return. Now, the ease between them would only add fuel to the gossip.

“Lady Pearsall has expanded her collection,” she said as they paused in front of a sweeping landscape. “Three new Turners since last season.”

“You have a discerning eye,” Rowan said, his hand gently covering hers where it rested on his sleeve. “Do you paint?”

“Badly,” Selina admitted with a soft laugh. “My art master gave up after three months. But I’ve always loved to look, even if I can’t create.”

“I would disagree.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “You created something quite beautiful last night.”

Color warmed her cheeks. She glanced around, but the nearby patrons were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice.

“You’re scandalous,” she murmured, smiling despite herself.

“Only with you.” The warmth in his gaze made her chest flutter.

This was a side of Rowan she had only glimpsed before. The attentive escort. The teasing husband. A man capable of tenderness rather than guarded detachment. What had once been a formal politeness between them had transformed into something genuine.

As they wandered through the galleries, Selina found herself drawn to him.

Her hand remained on his arm. Their shoulders brushed as they examined paintings.

Their fingers met briefly when he passed her the exhibition catalog.

Every touch sent a small thrill through her, a quiet reminder of the intimacy they had shared.

“Would you like some refreshment?” Rowan asked as they reached the end of the main gallery. “There’s a tearoom downstairs.”

Though the tearoom was crowded, their status secured them a small table by the window, overlooking the Thames. As they waited for their tea, Selina noticed that Rowan’s attention never wavered from her. He seemed entirely unaware of the other guests.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, folding her hands on the table.

“That I’ve wasted time,” he said. “Too much of it. Since I came back.”

“We’re here now,” she said carefully, unsure how to respond to his sudden openness. “We can’t change the past.”

His expression darkened slightly. “Some parts of the past don’t stay buried so easily.”

She was about to ask what he meant when their tea arrived, and the moment passed. The conversation turned light again, touching on the exhibition, the fashions on display, and plans for the days ahead.

“I thought we might dine with Felix tomorrow,” Rowan said as they finished their tea. “He’s been asking to know you better.”

“I’d like that,” Selina replied. She had grown fond of Felix’s irreverent charm. “Though I suspect he already knows more about me than I know about him.”

“He’s always been nosy,” Rowan said with a faint smile. “But loyal. That matters more than I used to realize.”

There was a note in his voice she couldn’t quite place. She was about to press him, but again, he moved the conversation on.

“Shall we go into the portrait gallery before we go?”

They spent another hour there, and Selina was surprised to discover that Rowan knew many of the subjects in the paintings. His commentary was full of wry stories and personal observations that made her laugh behind her gloved hand.

By the time they returned to their carriage, the afternoon had faded into early evening. Selina leaned back against the squabs, pleasantly tired from walking.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Rowan asked as the carriage pulled away.

“Very much. I’m glad we went.”

“I should have taken you sooner.”

She turned to him, catching the regret in his tone. “We can’t go back, Rowan. But we can make better use of the time ahead.”

He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, her hand resting in his. The ease of it surprised her. Just days ago, such a gesture would have seemed impossible.

When they arrived home, Simmons informed them that dinner would be served within the hour. Rowan suggested they might rest before the meal, but Selina found herself too awake to sit still.

“I think I’ll visit the library for a bit,” she said. “There’s a book I’d like to finish.”

“May I join you?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Of course.”

The library was cool and dim, lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Selina moved between the shelves, searching for the slim volume of Keats she had started earlier in the week.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Rowan’s voice came from just behind her.

She turned, startled to find him so close. He held the book in his hand, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” she said, reaching for it.

He pulled it just out of reach, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Perhaps I should read it to you.”

“If you like.” She stepped in, closing the space between them.

His free hand settled at her waist. “At the moment, I have other plans.”

The book slipped from his fingers, forgotten, as he leaned in to kiss her. This kiss was slower than the others they had shared. There was no rush. No urgency. Just exploration.

Selina’s hands slid up his chest to his shoulders. His own hands traced her back and waist, guiding her gently until she was pressed between him and the bookshelf.

“Rowan,” she whispered as his lips brushed her jaw, her neck. “The servants?—”

“Won’t interrupt us,” he said against her skin. “Not unless they want to be dismissed.”

His hands moved to the fastenings of her gown. His usual control was gone. Her own fingers weren’t much steadier as she reached for his cravat, his waistcoat, wanting only to feel the warmth of him beneath her hands.