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“I cannot think of a single one,” he admitted, looking slightly bewildered.

A smile curved in Rosamund’s lips.

“Does that please you, then?” he asked.

“Enormously,” she whispered.

The Duke’s eyes darkened as he watched her even more closely. She realized that the two of them had stopped walking for some time now. Slowly, he raised his hand as if to touch her face. His hand hovered, but did not touch.

Rosamund did not pull away from the intense interaction. Instead, she reached out to touch the inside of his wrist with her gloved hand. The Duke leaned closer o her, his eyes sliding to her lips.

This time, there were no interruptions. Alice was not present, nor were any servants. The space between them was shrinking and his breath was warm against her mouth. However, just as his lips were about to touch her own, Rosamund pulled back.

It was not panic or disgust that made her pull away It was not because she did not want him. The opposite was true. She wanted him far too much. Even though the Duke did not ask the question, she could see it in her eyes.

“I cannot yet separate what I feel for you from everything that happened to my family. It still does not feel right,” she agonized, as she stepped back.

“I will not ask you to do that,” he said softly.

Rosamund stared at him. His gentle restraint, setting her peace above his own desires, felt more intimate than any kiss could have been.

Twenty-Seven

“You are in love with Lord Westbourne,” Alice said, even while her hand still fiddled with her latest embroidery.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rosamund was so startled by her friend’s declaration that she almost spilled her tea all over the tablecloth.

“Oh, you heard me perfectly well,” Alice said, straightening her back and meeting her friend’s gaze. “I said you are in love with the Duke of Westbourne.”

“That is ridiculous!” Rosamund protested, setting her teacup down. “The Duke and I were once enemies. Now, we are allies of some sort. The partnership is not quite settled yet, but somehow it is there, out of necessity.”

“I did not ask whether you intend to marry him, Rosamund,” Alice said, a smile curving her lips. “I said you love him.”

Rosamund opened her mouth to protest, but the words died before they came out. She sighed and watched the dust motes dance in the air through the light entering Rosewood Cottage’s windows.

“I do not know when it happened,” Rosamund admitted softly. “Perhaps it was when I discovered that he let me hate him for years, rather than destroy Henry’s memory. Or, perhaps, it was when I saw how he kept the nursery at Ashbourne untouched. It almost felt like a shrine, as if Henry would still return any time. It was many things, Alice. It could be because he admitted he was jealous of Thomas Wycliffe, and finally when he apologized, without asking to be forgiven. All these details came together and made him a complex human being, leaving me confused.”

“Love rarely announces the exact moment of its arrival,” Alice said softly, her face softening with affection. “It simply settles in and lives within you.”

Rosamund swallowed hard. She had finally said aloud the thing that she could not even admit to herself before. “It feels disloyal, Alice. Like a betrayal.”

“Disloyal to whom?” Alice asked, tilting her head to one side.

“To my father,” Rosamund whispered, all the things she had learned about her father rushing back to her.

“Do you believe that Henry would think so?” Alice prodded gently.

Rosamund could not answer. She merely stared at a distance.

In the weeks that followed, the Duke stopped making flimsy excuses to visit Rosewood Cottage. He just appeared whenever he seemed like he needed to.

The four o’clock afternoon tea was no longer the only thing he was there for. One morning, he just came and joined Rosamund and Alice for breakfast, saying that he was near the area after an early meeting. He simply walked through the gardens, sat with them in the drawing room, and conversed with them as if he was a part of Rosamund’s daily mundane life. He did it with so much ease that neither young woman could even question it.

One afternoon, Rosamund found him by the lower terrace with his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“What in God’s name are you doing with that, Your Grace?” she asked, upon seeing that he was holding a wooden mallet.