Something inside her recoiled. Her lips parted, but if she spoke, she feared the hurt would come out too plainly. She would not give him that. Not after he had already seen too much.
“Of course,” she said. Her voice was thin, but steady enough.
Rowan’s jaw flexed. “Emmeline?—”
“No.” She looked at him then, letting him see only the part of her that could still stand. “You have been quite clear, Your Grace.”
He flinched at the title.
She turned before that small victory could undo her.
Chapter Thirteen
“Damn it,” the word came out under his breath the moment Rowan’s eyes opened, as if waking itself had dragged the memory back with it.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above his bed, the pale morning light cutting across the carved wood in sharp, unforgiving lines.
He had slept, but not well. Every time he had drifted, he had felt it all over again: the press of her body, the softness of her mouth on his, the startled sound she had made when he pulled her close.
He pushed himself upright.
The movement was abrupt, almost violent, his body needing something to anchor itself to that was not the memory of her in his arms. His shirt had been discarded at some point in the night. He dragged a hand over his face, then through his hair,exhaling slowly as if breath alone could settle the unrest coiled in his chest.
He felt her lips against his once again and his hand curled into a fist against his thigh.
Fool.
He had lost control. For a moment he had forgotten why he had drawn the line in the first place. Forgotten that letting himself take what he wanted would not end with one kiss.
Rowan swung his legs off the bed and stood.
The cold floor under his feet grounded him, just enough to pull his thoughts back into order. He crossed the room and splashed water over his face, the chill biting into his skin, forcing his body to wake fully.
It is done.
He had sent her away.Whatever had nearly happened had been stopped.Hehad stopped it. He had drawn the line where it needed to be drawn.Then why did it not feel like victory?
Rowan braced both hands against the edge of the basin, his head bowed for a moment.
She had looked at him like he was something she might actually want. Like she had expected something from him beyond duty. And he had seen it break.
His jaw clenched harder.
Better it breaks now than later. Better she understands at once what this marriage was, and what it would never become.
He straightened, reaching for his clothes with swift, efficient movements. Shirt. Breeches. Boots. Every motion was precise, controlled.
He could not touch her again. He had no right to take what he had no intention of keeping. Aaron did not need more chaos. The house did not need more ghosts. And Rowan did not need another reason to fail someone who depended on him.
He dragged on his coat, ignoring the faint, lingering scent of her that still clung to the fabric at his shoulder.
Rowan strode out into the corridor, his pace already too fast, too sharp, hoping distance might dull the memory. Servants bowed as he passed, their greetings barely registering. The house was too quiet.
She was somewhere within it, and that knowledge drove him down the stairs, across the hall, and through the front doors into the cool morning air. The bite of it hit his lungs, cleanand bracing, and for the first time since waking, he drew a full breath.
The stable boy hurried forward at once. “Your Grace, the horse is ready?—”
“Good.” His voice came out clipped.
