Emmeline rose with more grace than he had ever seen.
“You are right,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Rowan’s chest tightened. “Emmeline.”
She looked at Aaron instead of him, and the softness that came into her face for the boy made Rowan feel flayed. “Forgive me. I find I have lost my appetite.”
Aaron’s eyes filled at once. “I d-did not mean?—”
“No.” Emmeline stepped around the table quickly, bending just enough to touch her fingers lightly to his shoulder. Her touch was brief, but Aaron leaned toward it. “No, darling. You did nothing wrong.”
Rowan’s fingers curled against the table edge.
Emmeline straightened, and for one second her eyes met Rowan’s. There was no anger in them, but he wished there had been. Anger would have given him something to answer.
This was worse.
She turned and left the dining room.
The servants stood frozen.
Aaron looked down at his plate, his small shoulders curved inward. Biscuit woke beneath the side table, lifted his head, and whined softly, as if even the dog understood that something had been broken.
Rowan remained standing at the head of his own table, every inch of him locked in place.
He had wanted silence. He had it now.
Chapter Nineteen
“London appears determined to look as cheerful as possible,” Emmeline said to Aaron as they stepped down from the carriage, her gaze moving over the gray streets and the damp stone.
London had received them with all the warmth of a closed door.
Since that awful dinner three nights ago, Rowan had given her nothing but civility: polite good mornings, brief inquiries after her comfort, instructions delivered to servants rather than explanations offered to her, and a distance so exact it felt less like indifference than punishment.
He had not apologized. He had only watched her now and then with that dark, unreadable restraint that made her body remember his nearness even when her pride still burned from his cruelty.
Ironford House rose before them, grand and polished, imposing without warmth. Yet by the time they crossed the threshold, with Aaron carrying Biscuit carefully against his chest, the solemn entrance hall had already begun to lose some of its severity.
Biscuit lifted his head, spotted a marble bust upon its pedestal, and barked with complete conviction.
“Biscuit,” Aaron said, tugging at the ribbon tied loosely around the puppy’s neck. “That is not a man.”
Biscuit kept barking at the bust.
Rowan handed his hat to the butler. “His judgment remains poor.”
Aaron laughed softly.
Emmeline watched the sound land on Rowan. His head turned slightly, and for one fleeting second something moved behind his eyes. Then it was gone, locked away, as always.
Only a few hours later, Margaret arrived before luncheon with a violet bonnet, bright eyes, and absolutely no intention of pretending she had called only out of politeness.
“My dearest Duchess,” she declared, kissing Emmeline’s cheek before stepping back to inspect her. “You look too composed, which means I am immediately suspicious.”
Emmeline’s lips curved despite herself. “And you look intrusive, which means nothing has changed.”
“Thank heaven. I should hate to become dull.” Margaret’s gaze flicked beyond her toward the garden doors, where Aaron was attempting to teach Biscuit to fetch a short stick while the puppy proudly chased his own tail instead. “Is that the famous puppy?”
