Page 134 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“Women hear things. Servants hear more. If the truth is somewhere in this city, we will find it.”

William looked at her helplessly. “And what am I supposed to do?”

Rosalind met his eyes.

For the first time since he had known her, there was a distance in them he did not know how to cross.

“Nothing.”

Then she turned away.

Nelly followed, leaving William beneath the trees as they crossed the lawn toward his mother.

He heard Rosalind apologizing as she reached them.

“I am afraid I must go home, Your Grace. I still feel rather unwell.”

His mother rose at once. “Of course, my dear. You should never have remained in the sun so long.”

“I suspect it was only a little sunstroke.”

William almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

A little sunstroke.

Perfectly reasonable. Entirely harmless. An explanation that had nothing whatsoever to do with Algernon’s carriage, Augusta’s false rumor, or the fact that Rosalind had just ended their courtship.

Their false courtship.

William discovered the distinction offered remarkably little comfort.

His mother fussed over Rosalind while Lady Whitcombe called for someone to bring water for the journey. Even Lady Sophronia offered a sympathetic word, but William scarcely heard any of it.

Only minutes ago, Rosalind had been laughing with him beneath the afternoon sun. Now she was leaving because his brother’s carriage might have been the last place her father was seen, and because William himself could no longer be trusted to know what was happening within his own family.

That was the part he could not escape.

For the second time in less than a day, William found himself wondering how many things could happen beneath his own family’s roof without him knowing anything about them.

His mother glanced toward him as Rosalind and Nelly disappeared into the house. William recognized the concern in her expression a moment before she excused herself from Lady Whitcombe and started across the lawn toward him.

He looked away.

He could not do this.

Not here. Not surrounded by guests while Lady Whitcombe drank lemonade, Lady Sophronia watched from beneath the trees, and his mother attempted to determine why the woman William was supposedly courting had awakened from a faint and immediately decided to flee his company.

William turned toward the house.

“William.”

He kept walking.

“William Sinclair.”

That stopped him.

He turned to find his mother approaching, her expression caught somewhere between concern and maternal authority.