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“ S he’s nothing but a charity case, if you ask me,” a voice drifted from the laundry room as Selina passed in the corridor. “The Duke could’ve had any young lady in London, but he chose her out of pity.”

Selina froze mid-step, her hand gripping the banister.

“Hush, Mary. That’s unkind,” another servant replied. “Her Grace seems a proper lady.”

“A proper lady with no fortune and a tarnished reputation,” the first maid insisted. “The Duke is showing remarkable generosity by taking her in. My cousin works for Lady Jersey, and she says the ton was shocked when he pursued her after abandoning her the first time.”

“Still, to speak of Her Grace this way?—”

“What? It’s just us here.”

Selina backed away quietly, her cheeks burning. She ought to be accustomed to such gossip by now. She had endured worse in London drawing rooms, but hearing it from her own household staff cut deeper than expected.

Charity case . The description echoed in her mind as she climbed the stairs, her steps quickening each moment.

Was that truly how everyone saw her? A pitiful creature rescued by the magnanimous duke?

Without a conscious decision, her feet carried her toward the library. Books had always been her refuge. Perhaps they would bring comfort now.

The Aldermere library was magnificent. It had two stories of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, comfortable chairs positioned near tall windows, and a massive oak desk dominating one end. The scent of paper and binding glue wrapped around her like an embrace as she entered.

Selina moved through the room, trailing her fingers along spines. Philosophy. History. Classical literature. She paused at the poetry section, finding volumes she recognized. Her hands selected a slim volume of Byron’s works.

Opening it, she was surprised to find a small, neat notation in the margin beside “She Walks in Beauty.” The handwriting was delicate, feminine.

For my beloved Catherine, whose beauty outshines even Byron’s finest verses. You hold my heart eternally, G.

And beneath it, in a different, more delicate hand:

So like your eyes, my dearest G. May our son one day know the joy we’ve found in each other. With all my love, Catherine

Selina stared at the words, her heart squeezing. A glimpse of tenderness between Rowan’s parents that she hadn’t expected, given Rowan’s evident hatred for his father’s memory.

Curious now, she replaced the Byron and continued exploring. In the fiction section, she discovered an illustrated collection of fairy tales. The book fell open naturally to “Beauty and the Beast,” where Selina spotted another marginal note:

For my Rowan—Remember, darling boy, that true beauty lies within. Look past appearances to find the goodness in others, as I see the goodness in you.

All my love, Mother.

The note was dated, showing Rowan would have been about eight years old when his mother wrote it. Selina traced the words gently. The Duchess had clearly adored her son.

What had created the cold, guarded man Rowan had become?

“What are you doing?”

Selina started, nearly dropping the book. Rowan stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous.

“I was simply browsing the library,” she said, recovering her composure. “It’s quite impressive.”

Rowan entered, his movements stiff. “I need to consult some estate records. I’ll leave you to your reading.”

He moved toward the desk, pointedly not looking at her. Selina returned to the fairy tale book, flipping through more pages. Several stories contained similar loving notes from mother to son.

Rowan glanced up as he passed behind her, his gaze falling on the open book in her hands. His face paled.

“Put that away,” he commanded, his voice sharp.

Selina looked up in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“That book. Return it to the shelf immediately.”

She closed it slowly, studying his rigid posture and tight jawline. “I am sorry. I didn’t know the books would contain personal notes. Though, I confess they are quite lovely. Your mother clearly treasured you greatly.”

“That’s none of your concern.” Rowan’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the back of a chair. “Those books are private.”

“I meant no intrusion,” Selina said softly. “Again, I am sorry. I simply found them interesting. Your mother seems to have been a remarkable woman.” She hesitated, then opened the Byron book to the page with the inscription. “This note… your parents seem to have shared something quite special.”

Rowan’s eyes fell on the handwritten words. His face paled, jaw tightening as he read the exchange between his parents.

“I resent having to repeat myself, Duchess,” Rowan said shortly. “But as I said before, these remnants of my mother are not for casual perusal.”

Hurt bloomed in Selina’s chest at his coldness, but she forced herself to nod. “I understand. I apologize for overstepping.”

She returned the book to its place on the shelf, her movements deliberate. “There. Undisturbed once more.”

Rowan said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Selina said, moving toward the door.

Rowan did not reply as she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

The following morning found Selina in the morning room, writing a letter to Isabella. She had promised to correspond regularly, though she struggled to describe her new life at Aldermere.

How could she explain that her husband alternately ignored and rebuffed her?

A commotion in the entrance hall interrupted her thoughts. She set aside her pen and moved to investigate.

A middle-aged man in rough clothes stood arguing with Simmons. His weathered face was creased with worry, his cap twisted between calloused hands.

“The Duke must be informed immediately,” the man insisted. “The situation grows worse by the hour!”

“His Grace is not receiving visitors this morning,” Simmons replied firmly. “I shall pass along your concerns when he returns from his ride.”

“But the flood waters are rising! The mill dam won’t hold much longer, and half the village could be underwater by nightfall!”

Selina stepped forward. “What’s happened?”

Both men turned. The visitor bowed awkwardly. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I’m Thomas Johnson, the village miller. The heavy rains have swelled the river beyond bearing. Our dam is cracking, and if it breaks, the lower village will flood.”

“That sounds serious indeed,” Selina said. “Simmons, has a message been sent to His Grace?”

“A footman was dispatched to find him, Your Grace, but the Duke rode out toward the north pastures. It may be some time before?—”

“I’m here,” the Duke’s voice came from the doorway. He strode in, still in his riding clothes, his expression grim. “Mr. Johnson. Tell me the situation.”

The miller repeated his news, detailing previous repair attempts and the families most at risk.

“I’ll come immediately,” the Duke said. “Have my horse brought around, Simmons, and send word to gather every able-bodied man from the estate.”

“I’ll come with you,” Selina said.

The Duke frowned. “That’s unnecessary. This is no place for?—”

“For the Duchess?” she finished. “On the contrary. If our tenants are in danger, my place is beside you, offering whatever assistance I can.”

Mr. Johnson cleared his throat. “If I might say, Your Grace… the village has been eager to meet the new Duchess. Not the best circumstances, true, but they’d be heartened by your presence.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, but after a moment, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. Have the carriage prepared for Her Grace. We leave in ten minutes.”

The village of Aldermere was nestled in a valley bisected by a normally placid river. Today, however, the water churned brown and angry, straining against a stone dam that protected the lower portion of the settlement.

A crowd had gathered at the millpond, where the dam showed visible cracks. Men worked frantically, piling sandbags against the weakening structure.

Rowan wasted no time. He removed his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and waded into the shallow edge to better assess the damage. Within minutes, he organized the villagers into teams, his deep voice cutting through the chaos.

“Wilson, take six men and reinforce the eastern section. Jem, your group start digging a diversion channel along the path we marked last spring. The rest of you, follow Johnson’s lead with the sandbags.”

Selina watched with growing admiration. This was a side of her husband she hadn’t seen before—decisive, capable, respected by his tenants. The village men responded to his commands without question, moving with renewed purpose.

A woman approached Selina, bobbing a curtsy. “Your Grace. I’m Martha Hobbs, the midwife. Some women and children have gathered at the church on higher ground. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable there?”

Selina smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hobbs, but I’d prefer to help if possible.”

“Help?” The midwife looked startled. “But, Your Grace, your fine dress…”

“Can be replaced,” Selina finished. She surveyed the scene, noting several women organizing supplies near a cart. “Perhaps I could assist with the provisions? The men will need food and drink if they’re to work through the day.”

Mrs. Hobbs brightened. “That would be most welcome, Your Grace. This way.”

For the next several hours, Selina worked alongside the village women, preparing food, distributing water to the laborers, and even helping to fill smaller sandbags when extra hands were needed. Her silk gown was soon muddied and damp, but she barely noticed.

At one point, she overheard a crucial exchange between the Duke and Mr. Johnson.

“The pressure is too great here,” Johnson said, pointing to a bulging section of the dam. “If we reinforce this area alone, the water will simply find another weak point.”

The Duke nodded grimly. “Then we need to release some pressure in a controlled manner.”

“But how? Opening the sluice gates now would flood the lower millpond.”