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“ I hope the brandy is to your liking, Your Grace,” Selina said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since the soup course. “It was a wedding gift from the Duke and Duchess of Emberford. They are dear friends of mine.”

Rowan glanced up from his plate, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “It’s excellent. Thirty years old, if I’m not mistaken.”

The dining room felt cavernous around them. Candlelight gleamed off polished silver and crystal, creating a warm glow that belied the coldness between them.

The Duke had returned from the tenant farms just before dinner, his mind still filled with the problems he’d encountered.

Fields neglected. Repairs ignored. His year-long absence had taken its toll on the estate.

“The Duchess also sent a collection of poetry for me,” Selina continued, cutting her roast beef into precise, tiny pieces. “She wrote she regrets missing our wedding.”

“Kind of her,” Rowan replied, taking another sip of the brandy.

Silence fell once more. Rowan could feel his wife’s discomfort from across the table. She’d donned a gown of deep green silk that complemented her sunlit hair and warm eyes. Despite himself, he found his gaze drawn to the elegant line of her neck, the soft curve of her lips.

“How were the tenant farms today?” Selina asked, her fork poised halfway to her mouth.

“Adequate.”

Her jaw tightened. “I see. And the tenants themselves? In good health, I hope?”

“Well enough,” Rowan signaled the footman for more wine.

“Did you encounter any specific problems that require attention?”

Rowan set down his glass with more force than necessary. “That’s my business.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Selina’s eyes flashed.

“Your business,” she repeated. “I see. Is this how our marriage is to proceed? You handling ‘your business’ while I remain ignorant of everything beyond the household accounts?”

“That was the arrangement,” Rowan said coldly. “A marriage of convenience. I handle the estate matters. You manage the household.”

“So, we are to live as strangers under the same roof?” Selina set down her cutlery.

Rowan’s hand clenched around his wine glass. “I don’t recall agreeing to share every detail of estate management with you.”

“And I don’t recall agreeing to be treated as nothing more than a decorative ornament,” Selina countered. “Is that why you chose me originally? A quiet widow who would stay in her place and make no demands?”

“I chose you because our arrangement was mutually beneficial.”

“Was it? Because from where I stand, the benefits seem rather one-sided.” Selina’s voice rose slightly.

“You abandoned me at the altar without explanation, disappeared for an entire year, then stormed into my engagement party, publicly humiliating me. Now you’ve forced me into marriage, yet you refuse even basic conversation across the dinner table.

Tell me, Your Grace, how exactly have I benefited from this arrangement? ”

The footmen exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable with the rising tension. Rowan dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When the last servant had withdrawn, he turned back to his wife.

“What would you have me say, Duchess? That the north field requires drainage? That Wilkins has a sick cow? That the granary roof leaks? Would these details enliven your evening?”

“They would at least suggest you view me as a partner rather than an acquisition,” she replied, her cheeks flushing. “Why did you even marry me, Your Grace? You clearly have no desire for my company or my… physical presence. You could have spare me the humiliation of ruining my engagement.”

The reference to their wedding night hung between them, sharp as a blade.

“I married you because we had an agreement,” he said stiffly. “One that circumstances prevented me from honoring at the appointed time.”

Selina leaned forward. “What circumstances were those, precisely? Why didn’t you appear at our wedding last year?”

The question he had been dreading. Rowan looked away, unwilling to see the accusation in her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“You’ve said this before. Yet you offer no explanation.” Selina’s voice trembled with suppressed emotion. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Standing at the altar, watching the minutes tick by, hearing the whispers? The humiliation of returning home alone in my wedding gown?”

“I couldn’t inform you of my situation,” Rowan said, his voice tight with restraint. “There were circumstances that prevented any communication.”

“Circumstances!” Selina scoffed. “How very vague. And I suppose that is what kept you silent for an entire year while my reputation crumbled?”

Rowan’s face hardened. “Yes. And that’s where this discussion ends.”

Selina rose as well, throwing her napkin onto the table. “Then this conversation is over. Good night, Your Grace.”

She moved toward the door, her back straight, her head high. Before she could reach it, Rowan strode across the room and blocked her path.

“You’re my wife,” he said, his voice low and rough. “We have responsibilities to each other, whether we like it or not.”

“Responsibilities?” Selina looked up at him, her olive-toned eyes stormy. “You mean your responsibility to explain yourself? Or mine to accept your silent presence in my life without question?”

They stood too close. Rowan could smell the lavender in her hair, see the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. Her lips parted slightly as she drew a breath, and something hot and urgent coiled in his stomach.

“You know nothing,” he said, his voice low, rough.

“Then enlighten me, Your Grace.”

For a moment, he considered pulling her to him, silencing her questions with his mouth on hers. His hand actually lifted toward her face before he caught himself. He curled his fingers into a fist, breathing hard.

No .

His every muscle went taut with the effort of restraint. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not that night, maybe not ever.

That he’d been dragged from the docks like a common criminal, forced into a ship’s crew with shackles on his wrists and salt in his wounds. That he’d spent a year fighting to survive, not just storms and whips but the bitter taste of helplessness.

She would see it as weakness. Not to mention that he did. And worse, he could put her, an innocent, in danger, if she knew the truth.

He’d seen what those men were capable of. Ruthless, silent, and well-connected. They’d operated in the shadows, plucking men from the streets and docks with no consequences, no names, no faces.

Rowan had watched one sailor die simply for recognizing a voice. Another was beaten so badly he couldn’t walk again—just for asking questions. Rowan had kept his head down and learned the rules: speak nothing, trust no one, survive.

Now he was back. And those men still walked free.

He meant to change that.

He would find them. Hunt them. One by one, if he had to. But not until he knew Selina was safe. Not until he had locked this darkness away from her entirely. She didn’t belong anywhere near it—not with her kind eyes and proud spine.

If she knew the truth, she might ask questions. She might try to help.

And they would come for her.

Better she thinks him cold. Better she never knows.

Rowan stepped aside. “You can go.”

Confusion flickered across Selina’s face before her expression hardened again.

Without another word, she swept past him and out of the dining room, the rustle of her silk gown fading as she ascended the staircase.

Alone, Rowan returned to the table and poured another measure of the Emberford brandy.

That would be the only gift he would enjoy from his wedding.

The following week passed in an uncomfortable dance of avoidance. Rowan left the house early each morning, using estate matters as an excuse to escape the strained atmosphere. When circumstances forced them together at dinner, their conversation remained stilted and formal.

Servants noticed, of course. He caught their concerned glances, the way conversation ceased when he entered a room. Even Simmons, normally the model of discretion, had given him reproachful looks when serving breakfast.

On Friday afternoon, Rowan returned from the village earlier than usual. Rain had cut short his inspection of the western fields, leaving him restless and irritable.

As he crossed the entrance hall, the sound of voices from the nearby gallery caught his attention.

“…and this is the third Duchess of Aldermere,” Mrs. Wilson was saying. “She introduced the Italian gardens that Your Grace admired yesterday.”

“Her taste was impeccable,” came Selina’s voice. “And this portrait?”

Rowan moved closer, peering into the long gallery where generations of Blackmores gazed from gilt frames. At the far end, Selina and Mrs. Wilson stood before the largest painting—the family portrait commissioned for his tenth birthday.

His stomach clenched. He had forgotten about that damned painting.

“That would be the late Duke, His Grace’s father,” Mrs. Wilson replied, her voice noticeably cooler.

“And beside him, the young Duke at age ten, and His Grace’s mother.

Unfortunately, she had passed several years before the portrait was painted, but the late Duke demanded her to be included.

The artist copied her likeness from previous portraits. ”

Selina stepped closer to the canvas. “The artist captured a strong resemblance between father and son.”

The housekeeper made a noncommittal noise. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

“Was the late Duke much involved in estate matters?” Selina asked. “His Grace seems very dedicated to the tenants.”

Mrs. Wilson hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “The late Duke had many… interests that kept him away from Aldermere.”

“I see.” Selina studied the portrait again. “The Duke looks so serious for a child. Almost sad.”

“Indeed. He went—” Mrs. Wilson began, but Rowan had heard enough.

He strode into the gallery, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.