Page 49 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Gabriel stood beside them, absently turning the pages of a travel journal while Rosalind kept one gloved hand resting upon a folded letter.

She looked up as William approached.

For the briefest instant, he forgot the mysterious message that had brought him to Hatchard's.

He saw only Rosalind.

The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He had spent the better part of the afternoon wondering why she wished to see him again, only to discover that some part of him had simply been looking forward to seeing her.

It was a dangerous distinction.

Only yesterday he had been grateful for the opportunity to speak with her at the exhibition. Now, scarcely a day later, he found himself welcoming these unexpected meetings far more than he ought.

Every conversation between them was born of the same unhappy circumstance. Edmund Carlisle remained missing, and Rosalind still regarded William with the careful reserve of a woman who could not decide whether she stood before an ally... or the last man to see her father alive.

The knowledge tempered whatever foolish satisfaction he had taken in seeing her again.

“Lord William.”

“Lady Rosalind. Miss Hartwell. Mr. Frost, I am surprised to see you here.”

Gabriel smiled at his friend, “As am I. I was aimlessly wandering the streets when I was rescued by these ladies and asked to join them.”

After the briefest exchange of greetings, Rosalind glanced around the shop.

“I fear I have asked you here for something rather unusual.”

William's expression sobered. “You have discovered something.”

“I believe so.”

Without another word, she withdrew the folded letter from her reticule.

“This was hidden amongst Father's account books.”

William accepted it carefully.

As she placed it in his hand, her gloved fingers brushed his own.

The contact lasted no more than a heartbeat before she withdrew.

It should have meant nothing.

Instead, he found himself oddly reluctant to unfold the letter, as though doing so would require him to relinquish the brief warmth of her touch.

The thought was so absurd he immediately dismissed it.

He turned his attention to the page. Edmund's handwriting remained unmistakably neat, every stroke deliberate.

His eyes settled upon the single line.

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

He frowned. “It reads like a farewell.”

“That was my thought as well,” Rosalind admitted. “Yet if Father intended to disappear willingly…”