Page 25 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“My brother agreed there was no reason to prevent your attendance.” A faint smile touched William’s lips. “My mother thought the original decision had been quite unjust.”

Rosalind lowered her gaze to the letter.

The explanation was perfectly reasonable, though it also omitted one rather obvious detail.

Algernon Sinclair had scarcely acknowledged her existence when they were children. He had tolerated her because William insisted upon dragging her into whatever adventure they had devised that day, but she could not remember him ever seeking her company of his own accord.

William had always been different.

She knew exactly whose idea this had been.

He had carried her concerns to his family, persuaded them to intervene, and then presented the restored invitation as though he had merely happened to be passing when the matter was resolved.

She looked up again. “Thank you.”

His expression barely altered. “It was the proper thing to do.”

“It was also your doing.”

For the first time since they had met outside the club, something flickered across his face. Surprise, perhaps. Or the faint discomfort of a man whose efforts had been discovered when he had not expected them to be.

“My brother possesses rather more influence than I.”

“That was not what I said.”

A corner of his mouth threatened to lift before discipline reclaimed it. “No,” he admitted. “It was not.”

Rosalind held his gaze for another moment.

Yesterday she had questioned his motives. Today she remembered the boy who had never hesitated to stand beside her.

She had almost forgotten how easy it was to trust him.

It seemed she had not been mistaken after all.

“I shall thank His Grace when next I see him,” she said. “But I wished to thank the correct gentleman first.”

A flicker of warmth crossed his features before the familiar composure settled over them once more.

It was the sort of expression she would never have noticed had she not known him for so long.

He inclined his head. “You are welcome.”

A burst of laughter carried across the path, drawing Rosalind's attention away from the letter. Several paces distant, Gabriel and Isabella had drifted toward a nearby bench beneath an elm, where Gabriel appeared to be explaining something with an enthusiasm entirely disproportionate to the subject.

“I maintain,” he declared with complete seriousness, “that geese are among the most vindictive creatures in England.”

Isabella regarded him for a long moment. “Geese?”

“Without question.”

“And how have you arrived at this conclusion?”

“Experience,” Gabriel replied gravely. “I have been chased on no fewer than three occasions.”

Isabella's lips twitched despite herself. “Has it occurred to you that the common denominator in those encounters may not have been the geese?”

Gabriel pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Miss Hartwell, I fear you have wounded me.”