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“A fine musicale, Wycliffe,” he praised. “Your aunt had outdone herself!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Thomas replied, with a genuine smile. “We are honored that you could come and see it.”

The Duke then turned his eyes to Rosamund, showing a cool, polite interest. “How about you, Lady Rosamund? Has your evening been more than satisfactory?”

“Immensely, Your Grace,” Rosamund lied, lifting her chin. “The musicale is a delight, and I am glad that Mr. Wycliffe had invited me to it.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” the Duke replied smoothly.

Rosamund was intensely irritated, although she did not know why. She just felt inexplicably insulted.

“Have I done something wrong again,” Lady Rosamund?” he asked, his brows furrowed, stepping closer.

“Oh, nothing at all,” she snapped, her irritation quite clear.

“Usually, when you say something like that, it means that I am in immense danger,” the Duke said thoughtfully.

“You are too cheerful tonight,” Rosamund found herself saying. She was shocked at the words that came from her mouth, but they spoke the truth. She was annoyed that he seemed quite pleased.

“I was unaware that cheerfulness is now deemed as a crime,” the Duke said, chuckling.

“It can be,” she countered, “when you do it deliberately.”

Then, she felt someone watching them. It was just now that she realized that Thomas had moved away. She wondered how she did not even notice it. There, he stood, a few feet away, the smile on his face faltering slightly as if an understanding had come over him. He did not call to her, nor did he speak from where he stood. Rosamund felt a strange loss when he turned around to mingle with other guests.

Later that night, Rosamund felt suffocated not only by the crowd but the feelings that came over her. Alone, she stepped through the French doors onto the terrace. The night air was crisp and cool, and somewhat soothing on her hot skin. She placed her hands on the stone balustrade, closing her eyes and inhaling.

Soon, she heard the sound of approaching boots. She exhaled in exasperation. Why could she not be left alone for a moment?

“Should it not be too chilly for someone without a wrap to be outside here?” a familiar voice asked.

It was the Duke, and he was walking closer to her. A part of her was screaming that she should tell him to leave, or that she should leave. It was inappropriate to be alone with a man.

“I needed air,” she replied.

“Mm,” the Duke said. Then, after a pause, he said, “Wycliffe seems to be a good man. He is kind and honorable.”

“Are you trying to recommend a husband for me, Your Grace?” Rosamund asked, turning to her side to look at him.

The Duke’s smile faded, as he replied simply, “No.”

“Do you think I should marry Mr. Wycliffe?” she asked, curiously.

“What I think is irrelevant,” he muttered.

“I did not ask whether it was relevant,” Rosamund reminded him, even as her heart started to pound in her chest. “I asked what you think.”

The Duke hesitated. It was quite something seeing him do it. He was grace and control. He was pure confidence. Seeing him hesitate was quite a different experience.

“I think,” he began, after a pause, “that Wycliffe would treat you very well. He will provide you a safe life, free of turmoil…and scandal.”

“And?” she pressed.

“And,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly, as if his throat was raw. “I think the idea of another man being allowed to make you laugh every morning for the rest of your life is becoming increasingly intolerable.”

The raw admission was followed by silence. Rosamund’s chest suddenly felt a little tight.

“Though I suppose jealousy is evidently another unpleasant symptom of spending too much time in the countryside,” the Duke said, chuckling nervously.