Page 51 of Courting the Wrong Duke

The laughter that followed was brief, but welcome. For a few precious moments the weight of the letter seemed to lift, until William glanced down at the folded page still resting in Rosalind's hands. The single line upon it seemed somehow heavier now that it had been given both an author and a meaning.

At length, the church bells nearby marked the passing hour.

Rosalind glanced toward the windows.

“We should return home. If we are late, Mother will never forgive us.”

They left Hatchard's together, stepping onto the bustle of Piccadilly. Carriages rattled past, gentlemen hurried along the pavement, and a newspaper boy called out the afternoon's headlines.

Gabriel paused beside the curb. “I ought to retrieve my carriage.”

“As should we,” Isabella agreed.

William found himself speaking almost without thought. “If nothing else, Byron is hardly uncommon reading.”

Rosalind looked toward him. “I suppose not.”

“The only true devotee I have ever known, save Miss Hartwell, was my brother.”

Isabella smiled. “Your brother enjoys Byron?”

“He has for years.” William returned the smile. “My father despaired of it. Edmund encouraged it. They spent countless afternoons discussing Byron together while Father insisted there were more practical authors worthy of a young gentleman's attention.”

The words had scarcely left his mouth before he noticed Rosalind's expression change.

She had gone perfectly still.

“Lady Rosalind?”

“My father mentioned tutoring Lord Aldermere,” she said slowly. “But never what they studied.”

William felt the smile leave his own face.

A long silence settled between them.

“If Algernon knew Byron well enough to recognize those lines…”

She did not finish the thought. She did not need to.

William understood the moment their eyes met.

“...then he must be considered alongside you.”

The words struck him harder than he expected. His first instinct was to reject them outright. Algernon was his brother. He had known him his entire life.

Yet that instinct had no place in an honest investigation.

Rosalind was doing exactly what he had begged her to do from the very beginning.

She was following the evidence rather than her feelings.

If he demanded that honesty when suspicion rested upon him, he could hardly resent it now that it had reached his own family.

She closed her eyes briefly before opening them again. “I am sorry.”

William searched her face. He found no accusation there, only reluctance.

“I do not say this because I wish it to be true.”