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“Mrs. Wilson,” he said sharply. “Have that portrait moved to the attic at once.”

Both women turned, startled by his sudden appearance. Mrs. Wilson curtseyed. “Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”

“Why would you put it away?” Selina asked, her brow furrowing. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“It’s an eyesore,” Rowan replied.

Mrs. Wilson, sensing conflict, quickly excused herself. “I’ll send for James and Thomas to move the portrait, Your Grace.”

When she had gone, Selina turned to Rowan, her expression troubled. “I don’t understand. Why hide away a memory of your father?”

“Not all memories deserve preservation.” Rowan moved to stand beside her, gazing up at the portrait with undisguised distaste.

“He was still your father,” Selina said. “Surely, there must be some good memories?—”

“I have no desire to discuss him, Duchess. Particularly with you,” Rowan interrupted.

Hurt flashed across her face. “With me specifically? Do you wish to attack me after merely wanting to know about you?”

“The past is the past,” Rowan said firmly. “It has no bearing on the present.”

Selina let out a disbelieving breath. “How convenient that philosophy must be for you. The past has no bearing, but you use it to claim a bride you abandoned. Yet, at the same time, you refuse to explain your disappearance. Which is it, Your Grace? Does the past matter only when it serves your purposes?”

Her words struck too close to home. Rowan’s temper flared. “Do not presume to judge me based on a single portrait and village gossip.”

“I make these judgements because you’re determined to avoid me,” Selina shot back. “You keep me at arm’s length, then bristle when I ask the simplest questions. What do you expect me to make of this?”

“That there’s nothing to know about me,” Rowan said coldly. “We married only to serve our shared interests.”

“From what I can see, Your Grace, we share nothing but mutual resentment.”

Her words cut deep, mostly because they contained more truth than he cared to admit. Part of him wanted to explain, to tell her everything. The press-gang, the year at sea, the hunt for whoever had orchestrated his disappearance. But revealing those details would only put her at risk.

“If you find me so unbearable,” he said coolly, “perhaps you’d do better to focus your energy on managing the household, rather than complaining about its master.”

Selina recoiled as though the words themselves hurt. “Of course,” she finally said, her voice clipped. “Have a good day, Your Grace.”

She turned sharply, skirts whispering against the marble floor as she walked away. He told himself it was for the best—yet the hollow in his chest argued otherwise.

Rowan remained, staring up at the portrait he had avoided for years. His father gazed back with cold, arrogant eyes. The same eyes that had looked at Rowan with disappointment and blame throughout his childhood.

The late Duke had mastered presenting one face to the world and another in private.

Respected peer, secret gambler, and drunkard. Bereaved widower, bitter father.

His double life had eventually killed him, though few knew the truth of his death.

Rowan had vowed never to become like him. Yet here he stood, hiding secrets, pushing away anyone who tried to get close, just as his father had done.

The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Is this your mourning face, or do you simply greet all your friends like a disappointed vicar?” Felix remarked as Rowan slid into the seat across from him at the Bull and Crown.

“You’d best stop before I rearrange your face for you, Halston,” Rowan grunted.

Felix winced, “Oh dear. What’s the matter, friend? Marriage not agreeing with you?”

Rowan signaled the barmaid for whiskey. “I am not here to discuss my marriage.”

“No?” Felix grinned. “Then why the thundercloud expression? Problems with the estate? Tenants revolting? Or is it simply that you’ve remembered what terrible company you are?”

“I am focused on duchy matters,” Rowan growled, accepting the glass placed before him. “Not all of us have the luxury of idling our days away in pleasure.”

Felix clutched his chest in mock injury.

“You wound me, Your Grace. I’ll have you know I’ve been extremely productive lately.

Just last week I won a hundred pounds at faro, danced with three eligible young ladies at the Merriweathers’ ball, and commissioned a new waistcoat that will be the envy of London. ”

Despite himself, Rowan’s mouth twitched. Felix had always lightened his darkest moods.

“A busy schedule indeed,” he said dryly. “My sincerest apologies for underestimating your industry.”

“Apology accepted.” Felix leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “Now, tell me what’s really troubling you. Is it the continuation of your investigation? Or problems with your lovely new duchess?”

Rowan drained his whiskey. “Both. Neither. I don’t know.”

“Eloquent, as always,” Felix signaled for another round. “Let me guess. You’re keeping the duchess at a distance to ‘protect’ her from whatever plot led to your abduction, but in doing so, you’re making her thoroughly miserable. And yourself as well, judging by your delightful countenance.”

“It’s not that simple,” Rowan muttered, though Felix had come uncomfortably close to the truth.

“It rarely is with you,” Felix said, studying him for a moment. “Have you considered that the duchess might be an ally rather than a liability? She strikes me as a woman of considerable intelligence and discretion.”

“She doesn’t need to be burdened with my problems.”

“Ah, yes. Much better to leave her wondering why her husband treats her like an unwanted houseguest,” Felix shook his head. “Trust is the foundation of any partnership, even one begun under unusual circumstances.”

“Trust gets people killed,” Rowan said flatly. “I’ve learned that lesson well enough.”

Felix sighed and leaned in, his voice lower as he spoke, “You’re back home, my friend. You are safe. And your wife is not some unreliable criminal. She deserves better than half-truths and cold shoulders.”

Rowan said nothing, turning his glass slowly between his fingers. He knew Felix was right, but admitting it meant confronting truths he wasn’t prepared to face.

“Well, since you refuse to discuss your marriage,” Felix said, changing tack, “perhaps you’ll tell me about your progress regarding our mutual investigation. Anything new?”

“Nothing concrete,” Rowan admitted. “The trail grows colder with each passing day.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to focus on the life before you rather than the year behind,” Felix suggested gently. “You have a wife, an estate, responsibilities. The past can wait.”

“No,” Rowan said firmly. “Not until I find the person responsible.”

Felix studied him for a long moment. “And when you do? What then? Will you finally allow yourself to live again?”

Rowan had no answer. The truth was, he didn’t know who he was anymore—not the carefree youth he’d been before his father’s death, nor the hardened sailor he’d become aboard the Intrepid.

He was caught between worlds, between selves.

And Selina, with her direct gaze and uncomfortable questions, threatened to unravel what little control he had managed to maintain.

“Another whiskey,” he told the serving girl, ignoring Felix’s knowing look. “Make it a double.”