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“ W hat do you see when you look at me like that?” Selina asked, her voice still heavy with sleep as she turned to find Rowan propped on one elbow, watching her.

“Everything I never expected to have,” he said, surprised by how easily the truth came now. Honesty had started to feel natural between them, especially over the past week.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the tangle of sheets. Sharing his bed had become their quiet habit, her own room used only for dressing and keeping up appearances for the staff. Not that anyone in the household was likely fooled.

Selina smiled and reached up to trace his jaw. “You need a shave.”

“Later,” he murmured, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “We’ve nowhere to be this morning.”

She shifted closer, warm against him. “A dangerous indulgence, Your Grace. We might never get up.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

Her laughter rumbled softly against his chest. “The servants would talk.”

“Let them.”

He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close.

It still astonished him how quickly things had changed.

Just a week ago, they had barely exchanged more than polite conversation at breakfast. Now their days were filled with quiet companionship and shared looks, their nights wrapped in each other’s arms. Every barrier that had once stood between them seemed to slip away.

The papers on his desk remained untouched. Letters from Plymouth. Notes about Edward Bentern. None of it had mattered since the Harrington ball. He still wanted answers, but that single-minded urgency had dulled beneath the weight of something else. Selina.

“I need to visit my solicitor this morning,” he said after a pause, reluctantly pulling away from the stillness between them. “But I’ll be back before luncheon.”

“Business at last,” Selina teased. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned it entirely.”

“Not entirely,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “It just feels a little less important than it used to.”

She studied him, her hazel eyes searching his face. “You’ve changed.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Decidedly.”

When Selina finally rose to dress for the day, Rowan watched her slip through the connecting door, a quiet sense of contentment settling over him.

The nightmares that had haunted him since his return had faded, replaced by deep, dreamless sleep in her arms. Even the constant edge of alertness he had carried since his time on the Intrepid had softened, leaving space for something he hadn’t felt in a long time—peace.

He dressed with care, then made his way to his study, where the evidence of his hunt for Edward Bentern lay scattered across the desk.

Receipt from Veer. Notes from Felix’s inquiries. List of possible naval connections. He stared at them, trying to summon the burning need for vengeance that had driven him since his return.

It was still there, but muted, as if viewed through clouded glass. The mystery remained unsolved, but his life had expanded beyond it, creating space for something he hadn’t thought possible—happiness.

Tucking the documents into a drawer, Rowan focused on a different purpose for his outing. Not his solicitor, as he’d told Selina, but a commission he had arranged days ago.

A gift worthy of the woman who had transformed his existence with nothing more than her presence and patience.

“Close your eyes,” Rowan instructed that evening as Selina entered the drawing room.

She raised an eyebrow but complied, her lips curving in anticipation. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not unless you fear pleasant surprises.” He guided her to a chair, positioning her carefully before retrieving a wrapped package from the sideboard. “You may look now.”

Selina opened her eyes, blinking at the silk-wrapped object in his hands. “What is this?”

“Open it and see.”

Her fingers worked carefully at the wrapping, loosening the ribbon and folding back the silk. Inside was a book bound in soft blue leather, its cover embossed with a delicate pattern of lilies.

“Oh,” she breathed, opening the volume with gentle hands. “Rowan, this is?—”

“The complete works of Keats. First edition,” he said. “You told me once he was your favorite.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. “That was weeks ago. I can’t believe you remembered.”

The warmth in her expression stirred something in his chest. “The binding was falling apart. I had it rebound when I came across the original.”

Selina ran her fingertip along the embossed flowers. “It’s beautiful. Truly. The most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.”

Watching her, Rowan felt something shift inside him. He was already thinking of other things she might love, other ways to bring that same look to her face. It was an unfamiliar impulse, especially for a man who had spent the last year thinking only of survival and revenge.

“Read to me?” he asked, settling beside her on the sofa.

She opened the book without hesitation and began reading Bright Star , her voice soft but sure. The familiar words seemed to carry new weight, her tone turning them into something personal. Rowan closed his eyes, letting the poetry and her voice sink into him.

When she finished, they sat quietly for a moment, her head resting against his shoulder, the book open in her lap.

Selina’s hand found his, fingers intertwining. “Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me what happened during that year you were gone.”

He was quiet, then slowly, the words began to come.

“I was press-ganged,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “On our wedding day. Some men took me from my own garden and forced me aboard a naval vessel called the Intrepid.”

Selina’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I woke with a throbbing head and a new identity. They called me John Smith. The officers refused to believe I was a duke. Said I was just another drunkard trying to escape service. When I refused to answer to the name Smith, they gave me my first taste of the lash.”

His free hand unconsciously moved toward his back where the scars lay hidden.

“I used to dream of this,” he continued, his voice growing distant. “When the air stank of blood and unwashed bodies, and men were dying all around me, I’d imagine something like this. A quiet room. Clean air. A woman reading poetry.”

“They broke me eventually,” he admitted, staring into the fire rather than meeting her eyes. “Not my spirit, but my resistance. I learned to respond to Smith, to take orders, to work until my hands bled and my muscles screamed. It was adapt or die.”

“Yet you survived,” Selina said, her voice free of judgment.

“Some didn’t.” He told her of the men who had died in battle, of storms that swept sailors from the decks, of disease that ravaged the crew in tropical waters. “The sea teaches you the value of life. How precarious our existence truly is.”

Night had fallen by the time his words tapered off. The fire burned low in the grate. Selina had listened without interruption, her hand in his a constant anchor to the present.

“I want to see,” she said simply.

He understood what she meant with no need to ask. Rising, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, exposing the scars that crossed his back. They told the story of lashings, battlefield wounds, and a year spent in a kind of hell he rarely spoke about.

She drew in a sharp breath, and for a moment, he tensed. But when her fingers touched his skin, they were steady and soft. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pity him. Her touch held something closer to reverence.

“You survived,” she said again, pressing her lips to a pale ridge that curved over his shoulder. “You came through it. You came back.”

The quiet strength in her voice, the grace in her touch, broke something open in him. He turned and pulled her into his arms, pressing his face into her hair. There were no words. None were needed.

Later, in the privacy of their bed, she traced every scar with her fingers, then her mouth, turning memories of pain into moments of tenderness.

For the first time, Rowan didn’t look at his body with shame or anger.

He saw it for what it was—evidence that he had endured.

And in her eyes, that was something worth cherishing.

“The Countess of Mayfield looks positively green with envy,” Felix murmured, appearing at Rowan’s elbow during a lull in the music. “Your duchess has been the talk of the evening.”

Rowan’s gaze found Selina across the ballroom, resplendent in a gown of deep gold that complemented her fair coloring. She laughed at something Lady Emberford said, the sound carrying even across the crowded room.

“She outshines everyone here,” he agreed.

“Including her husband, though you clean up well enough.” Felix sipped his champagne, studying Rowan with undisguised curiosity. “You seem different. Almost… happy.”

“Is that so unlikely?”

“Considering you spent the past months obsessed with revenge, prowling around London like some vengeful specter? Yes, rather.”

Rowan couldn’t dispute the assessment. He had been consumed by his hunt for Edward Bentern, pushing away anything—anyone—that might distract him from his purpose.

“Priorities change,” he said simply.

“Clearly.” Felix nodded toward Selina. “Though I notice your newfound domestic bliss hasn’t included a trip to Plymouth.”

The reminder of George Latham, waiting to be questioned, sent a brief ripple of guilt through Rowan. “That will keep.”

“Will it?” Felix lowered his voice. “Whoever arranged your abduction is still out there, Rowan. Still potentially dangerous.”

“I know.” The thought had occurred to him in quiet moments, raising questions about whether his happiness with Selina might be putting her at risk. “But a few weeks’ delay won’t change the outcome.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz, ending their conversation as Rowan moved to claim his wife for the dance. Selina came into his arms with an easy grace, her body instinctively in sync with his after so many nights spent together.

“What were you and Felix talking about so intently?” she asked as they stepped into the rhythm of the dance.

“Old matters,” Rowan said, guiding her through a turn. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

She lifted an eyebrow, unconvinced but willing to let it go. That, too, was a kind of gift. Her quiet patience. She never pushed for answers he wasn’t ready to give, never demanded more than he could offer.

As they moved across the floor, Rowan became aware of the glances they drew. Heads turned. Conversations paused. The shift in their relationship had not gone unnoticed.

Their altered relationship hadn’t gone unnoticed by society. The Duke and Duchess of Aldermere, once the subject of speculation over their hasty marriage, were now viewed as an unexpected love match.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. They had indeed begun as a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience for mutual benefit.

When had that changed? The night of the Harrington ball? Their day at Somerset House? Or had the seeds been planted even earlier, when he had first seen her at Penderwick’s engagement party, proud and defiant despite her circumstances?

“You’re thinking too hard,” Selina chided gently. “People will wonder what troubles the duke tonight.”

“Nothing troubles me,” he assured her, pulling her fractionally closer than propriety allowed. “Not when I’m holding you.”

Color rose in Selina’s cheeks at his unexpected candor, her eyes bright with something close to joy. The waltz carried them in slow circles beneath the glittering chandeliers, weaving past other couples and along the edge of the ballroom.

As they turned near one of the columns, Rowan caught sight of Lady Winsley watching them.

Her blue eyes tracked their every step, her expression unreadable but edged with something cold. When she saw him looking, she lifted her glass in a mock toast, the curve of her lips more warning than welcome.

The sight of his father’s former mistress sent an unexpected chill through him. Annette had been more than a passing fancy for the old duke—she had expected to become the next Duchess of Aldermere, right up until his father’s untimely death.

“Rowan?” Selina’s concerned voice brought him back to the present. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he assured her, deliberately turning so his back was to Lady Winsley. “Just someone I’d rather not see.”

“Lady Winsley,” Selina guessed, her perceptiveness catching him off guard. “She was watching us earlier. There’s something unsettling about that woman.”

“My father’s former mistress,” Rowan confirmed. “Best avoided.”

“Gladly.”

The music ended, and Rowan led Selina from the floor before Lady Winsley could approach them.

They spent the rest of the evening together, moving through the crowd with the ease of a couple long accustomed to each other’s rhythms.

There was nothing hesitant or strained in their interactions now—only comfort, quiet smiles, and a shared understanding that needed no words.

A quieter, steadier pull now resided within him. Not toward vengeance, but toward a future he hadn’t imagined possible.

A life with Selina. A chance to build something lasting, not from duty or survival, but from choice.

Edward Bentern still required answering, but perhaps not with the all-consuming urgency he had once believed. Perhaps there was room in his life for both justice and joy, for both the past and the future.

Rowan made a silent promise to himself—and to her. He would solve the mystery of his abduction, but not at the expense of what they were creating together.

Some pursuits, he was discovering, were far more rewarding than revenge.