The duke nodded at the footman to pour the wine, but Rose placed her fingers lightly on the rim of her glass, declining.
Her mother pounced. “Is this a religious thing now, Rose?”
Rose smiled without showing her teeth. “No, Mother. I’m only trying to keep my head clear.”
“Ah.” Her mother’s lips curled, as if this answer confirmed every suspicion she had brought with her. “That would be wise, given the, ah,circumstances.”
The first course passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of silver and the echo of her father’s sniff when the duke attempted polite conversation. Rose fixed her gaze on the patterns in the table linen, memorizing the path of the stitching to distract herself.
It was only when the oxtail soup arrived that her father finally broke the standoff.
“So,” he said, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. “You intend to make an honest woman of our Rose.”
Rose stiffened. The duke set down his spoon and regarded Lord Whiteridge, Rose’s father, with a composure that bordered on predatory stillness.
“Lord Whiteridge, there is nothing dishonest about Lady Rose,” he said. “But yes, I intend to marry her at the earliest opportunity. It is my hope that you will give your blessing.”
Her mother made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “It’s a little late for blessings, is it not?” She leaned forward, fixing Rose with a look so sharp it nearly drew blood. “After the letters we’ve received, the talk among our friends, the way you left in the middle of the Season?—”
“Mother.” Rose’s voice came out quiet but hard. “Yousent me to the convent.”
“It was for your own good. You were always too headstrong. Even as a child.”
“You embarrassed us,” her father said, folding his hands.
The duke spoke before Rose could respond. “Lady Rose has done nothing to merit censure since St. Clement’s. I suggest you choose your words more carefully in my presence.”
The air in the room changed, as if the fire had gone out.
Her mother gave her a brittle smile. “Of course, Your Grace. We meant no offense. We are only concerned for her…” She paused,as if searching for the right word, and finished weakly, “Her prospects.”
Rose looked down at her hands, wishing she could shrink them to nothing. The sleeves of the dress pooled at her wrists, emphasizing every bone.
The duke reached over and covered her hand with his own. The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. A jolt returned her to the present.
“My decision is made,” he said. “If you would like to discuss settlements, now would be the appropriate time.”
Her father’s expression shifted, thoughts engaging, evident behind his eyes. “Given the, erm, circumstances, I would have expected you to demand a substantial dowry, Your Grace.”
“I require nothing,” the duke replied, shaking his head. “The Carden estate is self-sustaining. And I suspect Lady Rose would rather not feel beholden to anyone.”
“She should feel grateful for this match,” Rose’s mother said, looking straight at Rose with the steady certainty of a judge already expecting a verdict, watching for the instant she would bow her head and supply the gratitude on cue.
“She does,” Felix replied. “And I am grateful to have her.” He let the words hang heavy with intent.
There was a lull as the main course arrived. The roast pheasant smelled rich and flavorful, crisp-skinned in the candlelight. Rose watched her father carve his meat with the efficiency of an executioner; each slice was a small act of violence.
“Perhaps you could tell us how you two met,” her mother tried again. “In detail.”
The duke was ready. “I had reason to visit St. Clement’s as a charitable patron. Lady Rose impressed me with her wit, her discipline, and her capacity for compassion. I admired her from our first conversation.”
“Odd,” her father chimed in. “Given she never showed those qualities at home.”
A silence followed, broken only by the baby’s sudden wail from somewhere beyond the door.
Lizzie.
Rose stood up, but Felix gestured for her to remain. Her parents turned their heads toward the sound.
