The heavy oak doors of Hamilton House closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the London streets. The foyer was cool, slling of beeswax and lilies. It was a sanctuary of silence, usually a relief after the chaos of the city.
Today, however, the silence felt less like a sanctuary and more like a graveyard.
Rowan Hamilton handed his hat to Mr. Simmons. He pulled off his white gloves, finger by finger, with a slow, deliberate motion. He looked at Delaney.
She was standing near the console table, already rummaging through her bag. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at the grand staircase. She was looking at a small silver pocket watch she had pulled from her reticule.
"Twelve o’clock," Delaney announced. Her voice was brisk, stripped of any inflection. "You have exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before you must depart for the park. The drive to the Serpentine will take fifteen minutes in the phaeton if the traffic is light. I won’t be following you this ti."
Rowan stared at the top of her head. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until the woman who had fallen into his arms last night reappeared.
"Miss Kingsley," he said.
"Lunch," she interrupted, snapping the watch closed. "You need to eat. You barely touched the tea and biscuits at Farrington House. A hungry suitor is an irritable suitor. We cannot have irritability."
She turned to Simmons.
"Simmons, please have a light luncheon served in the library. Cold cuts, fruit, perhaps so cheese. Nothing heavy. We do not want the Duke falling asleep during his drive."
"Very good, Miss Kingsley," Simmons bowed and retreated.
Delaney turned back to the stairs. She gathered her cornflower blue skirts in one hand.
"I will go up and review the notes on Lady Celine’s interests," she said. "I will et you in the library in ten minutes to brief you on conversation topics for the drive."
She started to climb.
"Conversation topics?" Rowan called after her.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. He felt a desperate, clawing sensation in his chest.
"I just spent an thirty minutes talking to her," Rowan said. "Do I really need a script again?"
Delaney stopped on the landing. She didn’t turn around. Her knuckles were white on the banister.
"You are driving a high-perch phaeton, Your Grace," she said to the wall. "You will be focusing on the horses. You will need simple, engaging topics that do not require eye contact. It is a safety precaution."
"Safety," Rowan repeated bitterly. "Of course."
"Ten minutes," she said.
And she was gone.
~ ••••• ~
Rowan sat at the small round table near the library window. A plate of untouched ham and cheese sat before him. He held a fork, pushing a grape around the porcelain plate in endless circles.
Delaney sat across from him. She was not eating. She had her notebook open.
"Topic One," Delaney read, her eyes scanning the page. "The Serpentine. You ntioned ducks. Lady Celine seed fond of them. You can remark on the waterfowl population."
Rowan dropped his fork. It clattered loudly against the china.
"Ducks," Rowan said flatly. "You want to talk about ducks."
"It is a neutral subject," Delaney said, not looking up. "It avoids politics, which might bore her, and it avoids poetry, which might confuse her."
"She reads political theory," Rowan argued. "She told last night."
"She reads it," Delaney corrected. "That does not an she wishes to discuss the Corn Laws while clinging to a carriage railing in the wind. Keep it light. Duck conversations are light."
Rowan leaned back in his chair. He looked at her.
The sunlight from the window caught the side of her face. She looked tired. There was a tightness around her mouth that hadn’t been there a week ago. Her blue dress, so similar to Celine’s but so different in spirit, looked stiff.
"Miss Kingsley," Rowan said softly.
"Topic Two," she continued, raising her voice slightly. "The season. You can ask who she is looking forward to seeing at the Almack’s assembly on Wednesday."
"Look at ," Rowan commanded.
It wasn’t a request. It was the voice of the Duke.
Delaney froze. Her quill hovered over the paper. Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head.
Her hazel eyes t his. They were guarded. A fortress wall had been erected behind her irises.
"Yes, Your Grace?" she asked.
"Stop," Rowan said. "Just... stop for a mont. Put the pen down."
Delaney hesitated, then slowly lowered the quill to the table.
"I am trying to help you," she said defenselessly.
"You are freezing out," Rowan countered. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Since last night... since the carriage... you have been different. You are acting like a machine."
"I am acting like a professional," Delaney corrected. Her voice wavered slightly, but she steadied it. "I am acting like the woman who wants to earn her commission and leave."
Rowan felt the sting of those words. Leave.
"Is it really just about the money?" Rowan asked. He searched her face, looking for a crack in the armor. "Is that all this is to you now? A transaction? Were you really serious last night?"
Delaney looked at him.
"Yes," She said. "It is a transaction. I have things to settle and I can only pay it with gold."
Rowan stared at her. He saw the desperation in her eyes, deep down.
"You are lying," he whispered.
"I am practical," she shot back. She picked up her pen again. It was her shield. "Now. Topic Three. Horses. Lady Celine ntioned she rides side-saddle. You can complint her... equestrianship."
Rowan let out a harsh laugh. He stood up, scraping his chair back violently.
"Fine," he said. "Ducks. Almack’s. Horses. I will morize the script."
He walked to the window and looked out at the garden. He felt caged. He felt like he was suffocating in his own ho.
"I thought we were friends," Rowan said to the glass. "For a mont, I thought we were actually... partners."
Behind him, Delaney’s hand trembled. A drop of ink fell from her quill, staining the page like a black tear.
"We are partners," she whispered to the empty room. "That is why I am doing this."
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