ONE O’ CLOCK.
The Dressing Room...
This was usually Henderson’s domain. The valet was present, hovering in the corner with a brush, but Delaney had insisted on supervising the "Transformation to Sportsman."
Rowan stood in front of the full-length mirror. He had stripped off his blue morning coat. He was in his shirt and waistcoat.
Delaney stood by the wardrobe, holding a coat of rich, tobacco-brown wool.
"This one," Delaney said. "It is rugged but sophisticated. It says ’I can handle a team of horses’ but also ’I own half the county’."
"It’s brown," Rowan muttered. "I hate brown. It makes look like a tree trunk."
"It brings out the gold in your eyes," Delaney said automatically. Then she caught herself. She bit her lip. "It is fashionable. Viscount Weston wears brown."
"Weston is a dandy," Rowan scoffed. "He wears yellow pantaloons."
He turned to Henderson. "Henderson, give the navy driving coat."
"The navy is too severe," Delaney interjected. She walked forward, holding the brown coat. "Lady Celine is wearing light blue. If you wear navy, you will look like a bruise standing next to her. Brown is warr. It complents her palette."
Rowan looked at her.
"Her palette," he repeated. "We are matching my clothes to her dress now? Am I an accessory?"
"You are a couple," Delaney said firmly. "Visually, you must make sense. Put on the coat, Your Grace."
Rowan sighed. He held out his arms.
Delaney stepped forward to help him into the coat.
It was a mistake.
She had to get close. Too close.
She slid the heavy wool up his arms. She moved behind him to settle the fabric across his broad shoulders. Her hands lingered for a second on the solid muscle of his back. She could feel the heat of him through the layers of cloth.
Rowan went still. He could feel her hands. He could feel her standing right behind him.
He looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was looking down, concentrating on smoothing a wrinkle in the collar. She was biting her lower lip in concentration.
"Miss Kingsley," he said softly.
She looked up. Her eyes t his in the glass.
For a mont, the room disappeared. Henderson disappeared. The brown coat disappeared.
There was just the two of them, trapped in the silver reflection.
Rowan turned around slowly.
Delaney didn’t step back. She couldn’t. She was hemd in between the Duke and the wardrobe.
She reached up to button the coat. Her fingers fumbled with the top button. Her hands were shaking.
"You are nervous," Rowan noted. His voice was low, a rumble in his chest that she could feel.
"I am not," Delaney whispered. "The button is... stiff."
"My hands are shaking too," Rowan confessed.
He lifted his hand. He hesitated, then gently covered her gloved hands with his own.
He stopped her frantic fumbling. He held her hands against his chest, right over his heart.
"Miss Kingsley," he said. "Do you want to go?"
The question hung in the air. It was heavy. It was loaded.
Do you want to go to the park? Do you want to court her? Do you want to marry her?
Delaney looked up at him, then as if she was brought back to reality, she pulled her hands away from his chest. The loss of warmth was imdiate and painful.
"It does not matter what I want," Delaney said. Her voice was cold, brittle ice. "It is in the contract. You go to the park. You drive the phaeton. You secure the bride."
She finished buttoning the coat with a sharp, efficient movent. She smoothed the lapel. She patted his chest—a dismissal, not a caress.
"You look perfect," she said. "She will love you."
Rowan stared at her. His eyes went dull. The light that had flickered there a mont ago extinguished.
"Right," he said hollowly. " You are right."
He stepped back. He turned to the valet.
"My hat, Henderson."
Henderson handed him the tall beaver hat and the driving gloves. Rowan pulled them on. He looked like the perfect gentleman. He looked like a stranger.
"I will see you at dinner," Rowan said to Delaney. He didn’t look at her. "Unless, of course, you have a schedule for how I should chew my food."
He walked out of the dressing room. His boots struck the floor hard.
Delaney stood alone in the center of the room. She listened to his footsteps fading down the hallway.
She waited until she heard the distant sound of the front door opening and closing. She waited until she heard the carriage wheels crunching on the gravel, taking him away to the perfect woman in the blue dress.
Only then did she let the mask fall.
ONE FORTY-FIVE...
Rowan stood in the courtyard. The high-perch phaeton was waiting. It was a magnificent vehicle, painted a gleaming black with yellow wheels, drawn by four matching bay horses. It was a showpiece. A vehicle designed to be looked at.
The groom, a young man nad Jem, held the leaders’ heads.
"Ready, Your Grace?" Jem asked.
Rowan looked at the carriage. He looked at the empty seat beside the driver’s bench.
He had asked her to co. He had practically begged her last night. Co with . I don’t trust myself.
But she had refused. She had stayed inside, safe in her fortress of lists and schedules.
Rowan climbed up. He took the reins. The leather felt cold in his hands. He felt high up, exposed to the world.
"Let go," Rowan ordered.
Jem released the horses.
Rowan flicked the whip. The team surged forward.
As the carriage rolled out of the gates and turned toward Hyde Park, Rowan didn’t look back at the house. He couldn’t.
He kept his eyes forward, toward the Serpentine, toward duty, toward Celine.
"Ducks," he muttered to himself. "She wants to talk about bloody ducks."
He felt a hollow ache in his chest, a yearning that no amount of brown wool or perfect blue muslin could fill.
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