Page 214 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“I shall bear that in mind should the situation arise again.”

“It had better not.”

That coaxed a laugh from him, and some of the emotion in the room eased.

Rosalind’s gaze wandered toward the pianoforte across the room. The sight of it brought back quieter evenings at home, her mother reading near the fire while Papa pretended not to listen whenever Rosalind played something she had not practiced nearly enough.

“Would you like some music?”

Her father followed her gaze. “Very much.”

Rosalind crossed to the instrument and lifted the fallboard. It was slightly out of tune, but she chose a familiar piece and began anyway.

Her fingers remembered what her mind did not need to think about. The melody filled the room, soft and familiar, carrying with it memories of evenings before forged letters and secret carriages, before Bryn Hir and all the terrible truths they had uncovered.

Yet it did not make Rosalind wish to return to the person she had been then.

Too much had changed. Perhaps she had too.

When the final notes faded, Rosalind let her hands rest on the keys for a moment before turning toward her father.

He was discreetly wiping beneath one eye.

She smiled. “Are you crying?”

“Certainly not. There is dust.”

“In both eyes?”

“A particularly aggressive sort.”

Rosalind laughed and rose from the bench, but before she could cross the room, her father cleared his throat.

“There is one more thing.”

The note in his voice made her pause. “Why do I suspect this is the ominous part?”

“Come sit down and find out.”

She returned to the chair beside him, regarding him suspiciously until he finally took pity on her.

“William spoke to me this morning.”

Her heart gave a peculiar little leap. “About what?”

“You.”

That leap became something considerably more unruly.

Her father watched her for another moment before continuing. “He asked my permission to propose to you.”

For once, Rosalind had absolutely nothing to say.

Of course he had. That impossible man had apparently found time between recovering from a gunshot wound and becoming suspiciously acquainted with walls to arrange a conversation with her father.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I could not give it.”