Rowan blinked. He felt a sudden heat rise up his neck. "I beg your pardon?"
"Attraction," Delaney repeated calmly. "It is a vital component of marriage. Or at least, it helps prevent you from strangling each other by the third week."
She dipped her quill in the ink pot.
"So," she asked again, "what attracts you to a woman?"
Rowan shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat. He had a standard answer for this. He had used it a hundred tis in ballrooms and drawing rooms. It was the perfect answer that gave good results.
"Well," Rowan began, putting on his polite smile. "I admire a woman of good breeding. Soone who carries herself with dignity. A woman who is accomplished in the dostic arts and—"
"Stop," Delaney said.
She didn’t raise her voice. she just held up a hand.
"Do not give that speech," she said. "I am not a mother looking for a son-in-law. I am your employee. If you lie to , I cannot help you."
Rowan closed his mouth. He looked at her. She was waiting, her pen hovering over the paper. She looked entirely unimpressed by his "Golden Duke" routine.
He sighed. He dropped the polite smile.
"Fine," Rowan said. He ran a hand through his hair, ssing up the perfect combing. "You want the truth?"
"I insist on it," she said.
Rowan looked out the window. He watched the leaves of the oak tree rustle in the wind. He thought about the won he had t over the last five Seasons. They were all beautiful. They were all dignified. And they all bored him to tears.
"Intelligence," Rowan said quietly.
Delaney wrote it down.
"Go on," she prompted.
"I don’t an book learning," Rowan clarified. "I don’t care if she knows the Queen of France. I an... wit. I want a woman who understands a joke before I finish telling it. I want a woman who sees the world clearly."
He paused. He thought about the balcony three years ago. He thought about the woman who had cursed when she realized she was trapped.
"And languages," Rowan added suddenly.
Delaney paused. She looked up. "Languages?"
"Yes," Rowan said. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "French, specifically. There is sothing about... the passion of it. English is a very sensible language. It is good for business and for everyday conversations. But French..."
He trailed off. He rembered the sound of the word rde whispered in the darkness. It hadn’t sounded vulgar. It had sounded alive.
"I like a woman who can speak French," Rowan finished. "It shows she has a mind for sothing beyond just... embroidery."
Delaney stared at him. Her heart gave a strange little thump. She looked at his face. He looked serious. He just looked thoughtful.
"Intelligence," Delaney repeated, just to be sure she heard it well. "And French. A woman who is sharp and cultured."
Rowan nodded.
She wrote it down quickly.
Subject A desires wit and linguistic skills.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"Is that not enough?" Rowan asked with a dry chuckle. "You asked for the truth, Miss Kingsley. I fear a woman like that is hard to find in London. Most debutantes are taught to hide their intelligence, not show it."
"We will find her," Delaney said.
She closed her notebook with a sharp snap that echoed in the room.
"Very well," she announced. "We have the criteria. The Quiet Sausage Eater. The Intelligent Conversationalist. The French Speaker."
She stood up. She picked up her bag.
"The interviews begin tomorrow," she stated.
Rowan choked on his coffee. "Tomorrow?"
He set the cup down hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim onto the saucer.
"So quick?" Rowan shouted. "I thought we were... researching! I thought we were planning!"
Delaney looked at him calmly. She began to tick points off on her gloved fingers.
"Your Grace, you gave two months," she reminded him. " We have used two days already. That leaves us with roughly fifty-eight days."
Rowan stared at her. "Fifty-eight days is a long ti!"
"It is a blink of an eye," Delaney corrected. "We need to up the schedule. Think about the logistics, Your Grace."
She started counting on her fingers again.
"One week for interviews," she listed. "Two weeks for courting—flowers, pronades, the usual nonsense. One week for the proposal and the engagent announcent. That leaves four weeks for the banns to be read and the wedding preparations."
She looked at him gravely.
"And then," she finished, pointing at him, "to the altar."
Rowan felt the blood drain from his face. Put like that, it sounded like a military march toward an execution.
"But..." Rowan stamred. He stood up. "But I have estate matters! I have the wool harvest! I cannot just... start dating tomorrow!"
Delaney didn’t flinch. She picked up her notebook.
"The wool harvest can wait," she said. "Your future cannot."
She smoothed her gray skirt. She grabbed the edges of her dress and sank into a perfect, professional curtsy.
"That will be all, Your Grace," she said.
Rowan opened his mouth to argue. He wanted to tell her to slow down. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t ready.
But Delaney was already moving. She turned on her heel and marched toward the door.
"Be ready at tea ti tomorrow," she called over her shoulder. "And wear the blue coat. It makes you look trustworthy."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Rowan stood alone in the dinning room. The silence rushed back in.
He looked at the empty chair where she had been sitting. He looked at the coffee stain on his saucer.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
He felt a sudden urge to run. He could go to France. He could go to Arica.
But then he rembered the sixty thousand pounds. He rembered his aunt. If this doesn’t work out, she would bring soone worse than Delaney.
Rowan groaned. He sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
"Why is this happening to ?" he muttered.
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