The carriage ride ho from Farrington House was quiet. It was not the comfortable silence of the library, where the only sound was the scratching of quills and the turning of pages. It was not the companionable silence of a shared breakfast, where the lack of words felt like a mutual understanding.
This silence was heavy. It was suffocating. It pressed against the windows like the dark, damp London fog, isolating them from the rest of the world.
The interior of the Hamilton carriage was upholstered in plush, dark velvet, designed for comfort and luxury. But tonight, to Delaney, it felt like a cage. The air was thick with tension, slling of old leather, the fading scent of her own jasmine perfu, and the sharp, cold anger radiating from the man sitting across from her.
Rowan sat on the opposite bench. His body was turned away from the interior, his shoulder pressed against the padded wall. He stared out the window into the pitch-black night, watching the sparse streetlamps blur past like shooting stars. His jaw was set so tight that a muscle feathered in his cheek. His hands rested on his knees, but they were not relaxed.
His fists were clenched so hard that the fine white leather of his gloves stretched taut, threatening to split at the seams.
Delaney sat with her spine rigid. The corset, which had been a nuisance earlier in the evening, now felt like a vice grip around her ribs. It made every breath shallow and difficult. The teal silk dress, which had felt magical on the staircase, now felt like a costu she was desperate to shed. She felt exposed in the darkness, stripped of her gray armor, stripped of her professional distance.
She watched Rowan. She couldn’t help it.
She watched the way the intermittent flashes of light cast shadows across his face. He looked angry. No, it was deeper than anger. He looked tornted.
He had danced with Lady Celine. He had smiled at Lady Celine. He had admitted, in the privacy of the balcony, that Lady Celine was perfect. She was the woman he had envisioned. She was the list co to life.
Delaney should be celebrating. She should be ntally calculating her commission. She should be planning the wedding breakfast and drafting the engagent announcent. She should be relieved that her job was almost done, that the sixty thousand pounds were almost within her grasp.
Instead, she felt a hollow, aching void in her chest. It was a cold pain that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with the man sitting across from her.
Do your job, Delaney, she told herself fiercely. Her mind sounded like a strict governess. You are Mada Coeur. Finish the transaction. Secure the future.
She took a deep breath. The air in the carriage was cool, but it did nothing to cool the heat of her anxiety. She needed to seal this. She needed to make sure he didn’t back out.
"You will call on her tomorrow," Delaney said.
Her voice cut through the silence like a knife through silk. It was calm, authoritative, and completely devoid of the chaotic emotion churning inside her.
Rowan didn’t move at first. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. Then, his head snapped around with imdiate effect. The motion was sharp, almost violent. He looked at her as if she had just slapped him across the face.
"What?" he said.
His voice was low, rough, and dangerous. It wasn’t the polished voice of the Duke. It was the voice of a man who had reached his limit.
Delaney nodded, keeping her expression neutral, though her heart was hamring against her ribs. She reached for her lace fan, needing sothing to do with her hands to stop them from trembling.
"Lady Celine," Delaney clarified, forcing herself to say the na that tasted like ash in her mouth. "You must call on her tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock is the appropriate ti. It is not too early to appear desperate, but not too late to appear indifferent. It shows respect."
Rowan stared at her. His eyes were dark pools in the shadows of the carriage. He looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language he couldn’t comprehend.
"Tomorrow?" Rowan repeated. He sounded incredulous. "We just left the woman ten minutes ago, Miss Kingsley. I have barely washed the scent of her rose perfu off my coat. I can still hear the music in my ears. And you want to go back?"
"That is irrelevant," Delaney said, her voice hardening. "The rules of engagent are clear. After the first waltz, especially one as public as that, a morning call is mandatory. If you do not go, it is an insult. It tells the ton that you found her lacking."
Rowan let out a short, harsh scoff. He turned back to the window, unable to look at her.
"Isn’t it too early?" he muttered to the glass. "I have estate business. I have etings with my steward. I have the wool harvest to review. I cannot spend my morning drinking weak tea and talking about the weather again. I have a life, Miss Kingsley."
"It is not too early," Delaney pressed. She leaned forward slightly, the silk of her dress rustling loudly in the quiet space. "She is the Diamond of the Season, Your Grace. Do you understand what that ans?"
Rowan didn’t answer. He just watched the city fly by, his reflection in the glass looking ghostly and pale.
"It ans you are not the only wolf in the forest," Delaney continued, her voice gaining intensity. "By tomorrow morning, every eligible young man in London—every Earl who needs money, every Viscount who wants a trophy, every fortune hunter with a decent coat—will be at her door. They will bring flowers. They will bring poetry. They will bring their mothers to plead their case."
She gripped her fan tighter, the ivory digging into her palm.
"The earlier you catch her attention, the better," she stated. "You have the advantage of the first waltz. You have the advantage of your title. You must press that advantage before soone else does. You cannot afford to be passive."
Rowan rolled his eyes. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated frustration. He turned to face her fully. The polite Duke was gone. The "Golden Duke" was gone. The man in the carriage was raw, irritated, and real.
"Can you just stop doing this?" he asked.
The question wasn’t a request. It was a plea. It was a demand.
Delaney blinked, taken aback by his tone. "Stop doing what?"
"Stop managing ," Rowan snapped. "Stop treating like a prize horse you are trying to sell at the market. ’Go here. Stand there. Smile now. Call tomorrow.’ Do you have a script for what I should say to her, too? Shall I ask you for permission before I breathe?"
He ran a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling of the night. A lock of golden hair fell onto his forehead, making him look wild.
"I am tired, Miss Kingsley," he said. "I am tired of the ga. I am tired of the rules."
"It is not a ga!" Delaney argued. Her own temper began to flare, fed by her own heartbreak. "It is a contract! It is a business arrangent! You hired to find you a wife. I found her. She is perfect. She is exactly what you asked for!"
"I know she is perfect!" Rowan shouted.
His voice filled the small carriage, bouncing off the velvet walls.
"I know!" he repeated, quieter but with more intensity. "She is beautiful. She is smart. She speaks French like a native. She reads political theory. She is everything."
"Then why?" Delaney demanded. "Why are you hesitating?"
She threw her hands up, the white gloves flashing in the dark.
"She is right there, Your Grace! She is waiting for you. Why are you stalling? Why are you trying to find excuses not to see her? Is she too short? Is her French too Parisian? Does she blink too loudly? Tell !"
Rowan glared at her. His chest was heaving. "I am not stalling. I am being prudent. Marriage is forever. I am allowed to take a morning to think!"
"You are being a coward," Delaney accused.
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