Emmeline’s pulse leapt. “He watches everyone.”
“No,” Margaret said. “He observes everyone. He watches you.”
Before she could answer, Aaron came running toward them with Biscuit hopping at his heels.
“Your Grace,” he called, breathless but smiling. “Biscuit fetched it. The wrong way, but he fetched.”
Emmeline’s face softened at once. “Then we must praise his effort.”
Aaron nodded solemnly. Then he glanced toward Margaret. “He is improving.”
“So are you, my lord,” Margaret said gently.
Aaron blushed and looked down, but he did not retreat.
Behind him, through the glass, Rowan still watched.
Margaret followed Emmeline’s gaze for one brief moment, then looked away with a small, knowing breath.
“You know,” she said lightly, though her eyes were far too sharp, “if society has any sense of timing at all, you and His Grace will be invited somewhere insufferably public very soon.”
Emmeline turned back to her. “Must you sound so pleased by the prospect?”
“I am not pleased,” Margaret said, with absolutely no sincerity. “I am merely prepared. Lord and Lady Wetherby are holding a ball this week, and if they do not invite the newly returned Duke and Duchess of Ironford, I shall assume they have lost all instinct for scandal.”
Emmeline’s stomach tightened despite herself. “How comforting.”
“Wear something devastating,” Margaret advised. “It is the only proper response.”
“There they are,” Miss Bexley whispered near the doorway.
“The new Duchess,” Lady Winthrop replied, her gaze slipping over Emmeline’s gown with open curiosity.
“And his sister still absent, I hear,” Lady Milborne said, lowering her voice only enough to pretend discretion.
“Poor Wellfield,” Lord Pike muttered from somewhere near the refreshment table.
“Poor Wellfield?” Mr. Vane returned softly. “Poor girl, perhaps.”
Emmeline heard enough.
The ballroom was already alive when they arrived, bright with chandeliers, silk, jewels, and all the ruthless curiosity London could fit beneath one painted ceiling. Conversation shifted the moment they entered, bending toward them like flowers toward the sun.
Rowan’s hand settled at the small of her back.
The contact was brief, proper, and devastating. Heat moved through the silk of her gown into her skin, and she hated that her body softened toward it before pride could intervene. His hand simply remained there, steady and possessive, guiding her forward through the whispers.
“Your Grace,” Lord Penhurst said, bowing with a little too much eagerness. “London is relieved to have you among us again.”
“London is kind to concern itself,” Rowan replied.
The gentleman’s smile faltered. “Of course. Quite.”
Lady Cresswell stepped forward, her eyes moving from Rowan to Emmeline with a sweetness sharp enough to cut. “And Your Grace must be finding married life quite changed from the country.”
“Changed, yes,” Emmeline said, smiling. “Though I find London has a talent for making every change feel small when you return.”
The lady’s fan paused.
